Quaking in my boots

So anyway, I took the easy way out. Popped into the Europa for a pizza. Saves making a real decision.

I know Romeo will plonk a Peroni in front of me, and warn me about the chilli oil, and Helga will find me another stunning pud I didn't notice on the menu. Since you ask, she produced a hunk of limoncello tiramisu. I know! Still reeling!

Obviously it was raining. I'm Mancunian - you'd think I'd hardly notice, but it's been raining in Bristol continuously for 4 months now. Not sure how that happened. Some mix-up at the Met Office, presumably. Or the rainmaker had the map upside down. Anyway. Rain. Again. Loads of it.

So I washed up smelling like a wet dog, and plonked my (ever so suave) wet cap on the table beside me to watch it gently steam as I wandered idly through the familiar leather-bound menu.

No idea why I bothered with the menu, by the way. I'd decided as I walked past the kebab and pizza joints on Baldwin Street that nothing would keep me from a Pizza Piccante at Pietro & Theresa's place. But it's nice to appear coy, as if my mind wasn't made up already.

As usual, I hung my coat on the seat beside me and merrily troughed my way through my pizza, which I'd liberally doused with chill oil to make the experience suitably challenging.

I prodded away at my phone, following a lead on Twitter to investigate Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting prequal, set in, and against, Thatcher's rapacious prime. A few prods later I was smiling privately as I settled in to his familiar biting vernacular via the Kindle app. Think what you like of what became of his reputation, he writes like an easy genius. But I'm biased. He's my white middle-class mentor. He lets me pretend I can be anti-establishment as I devour his fortune-making skill. Escapist in every sense.

I remained pretty much cocooned in a bookreader's trance for most of the meal, save the odd moment when a nod at my empty glass elicited another top-up.

I did briefly raise my head when an older couple at the next table asked Romeo about the large cityscape covering the wall beside me. He confirmed it was Florence. I pointed out that I'd had a similar conversation with him a few weeks back, when I'd been unable to identify the place. My other half had been outraged - how dare I not recognise those Tuscan rooftops!

As the couple made to leave a while later, they engaged me in conversation.

Pointing to my coat, "I like your white poppy!"

"Thank you. I get a lot of stick for it!"

"I know how you feel. We're Quakers and we've worn white poppies for years. In fact, 30-odd years ago, we were wearing them as we protested against the Falklands War, and a woman came at us furiously swearing - her husband was on the task force, and we were insulting her, she cried. I pointed out that my white poppy was precisely intended as a gesture of respect for men like her husband, and her fury turned to sobs! She ended up hugging us!"

http://www.ppu.org.uk/whitepoppy/index.html

http://www.europarestaurant.co.uk/