Who will my wife marry next?

00:00 06:14

Nicholas Farrell has narrated this article for you to listen to.

Since I had a brush with death a couple of years ago, I have often wondered who my far younger wife, Carla, might marry after she has buried me.

When I was out for the count in intensive care in Ravenna, the hospital’s duty priest, an Argentinian, even administered the last rites. ‘They do it just in case these days,’ Carla told me, as if it had all been a bit of a laugh, which I suppose it may well be if you believe, like her, that death is the prelude to eternal life.

The other day, a herd of donkeys came charging into our garden out of the blue and I soon put two and two together They belonged to our nearest neighbour, Gianni, a farmer. Though rather on the short side for a cowboy, Gianni does look and behave like one, with his Stetson hat and red handkerchief tied around his throat.

The five donkeys made a beeline for our donkey, Peppa, who – poor thing – lives all alone. Just like Gianni. Even though separated from her unexpected guests by an electric fence, Peppa was as happy as Larry, swishing her tail and fluttering her eyelashes.

Soon Gianni arrived in his white Suzuki Samurai jeep and jumped out to swagger about with a halter and rope and demonstrate his coralling skills. ‘Someone must have let them out,’ he said. ‘Who might that have been?’ I asked. ‘I have no idea.’

Within minutes he had the halter on the boss donkey and off he went with the other four obediently following. He would be back later for the jeep. Call me paranoid but I believe he let his donkeys out knowing very well that they would end up paying Peppa a visit and he could ride to the rescue.