"Room to rent: would suit holistic therapist"

I picked up my pizza and was walking home, when I walked passed a sign that struck me as being slightly humorous:

"Room to rent: would suit holistic therapist"

It took me a while to work that one out.

Anyway, let's go back in time a little. Back to before I picked the pizza up...

- - - - -

I was in the pizza joint, waiting for my dinner. I was starving and I started drifting off...

I found myself at the pizza joint in Palermo that was just down the road from where I lived. Glory days! A pizza joint about 30 seconds from my front door! I thought about how, here in Wimbledon, I phone up to order, and they say: "yes mate, 15 minutes!" and it ends up taking them 25 minutes, while in Palermo I'd just rock on in there and order, and I'd have something delicious within 7 minutes at most.

I used to pass the time with my little black book. It was a different little black book to the one I have now, of course, but it was still a little black book. The happy fat man asked me one day:

- Ma stai sempre scrivendo... Che scrivi?
- Ehi, scrivo molte cose... Scrivo su di te, caro amico!
- Scrivi su di me? Come mai?
- Perché sei l'amore della mia vita!
- Ma che c'entra l'amore?!?!
- Tu sei l'uomo chi mi fa tante belle pizze, allora tu devi essere l'amore della mia vita!
- Bah!

And he turned and continued with his pizza making. What a happy fat man. And there was I, a terribly unhappy thin boy, capable of being cheered up only by eating pizza every evening, scribbling inconsequential words down in my little black book to pass the time.

I really did eat pizza every evening out there. I rotated the pizzerias, so that they didn't get suspicious of my behaviour. There was another one, my second favourite, a little bit further from my flat. Real good. Another happy fat man cooked the pizza - he was the original happy fat man out there. It was the way he'd say to me: "origano?" as if it were something truly dirty and forbidden. And I'd get excited. But not quite as excited as I'd get if I said "pepperoncino!" They served the most amazing delicata there - the cherry tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella were to die for... He used to give me a knowing smile as he boxed up the pizza, as if to say: "This is the closest to magic you'll ever get." I'll never forget the day he pulled out the pizza and I just said "BUONA!" and he looked very proud indeed. He was all: "Allora, ti piace la pizza?!"

Happy fat man number three was the least happy of them all. I never formed any sort of relationship with him, or his pizza, the base of which was terribly tough. You really would hurt your fingers trying to cut it. He wasn't even happy. Just a fat man. No stories to tell here.

Of course, then there was the happy fat girl. She had a smile to die for. She was like a playful little cat. She really was a happy girl, but I didn't rate her pizza much either. This girl would cook the pizzas when their resident happy fat man was away (he was the happy ugly fat man, and he rarely said a word). You've never seen tits like hers - I mean, I don't think I have, anyway. They were quite possibly the biggest on the island, which is saying something. Her name? Giusy! Yes, that's pronounced "juicy." When she told me that, I almost laughed out loud. Maybe I did. I often felt bad for not going there very often, because she was always happy to see my flatmates and me if any of us ever passed her by.

I can't remember the names of any of these pizza joints, which makes me slightly sad. Of course, for the restaurant where "l'amore della mia vita" worked, I translated the menu. They rewarded me with a free pizza. One day, I shall return...