Having gotten all whimsical about Croatia, we then pissed off elsewhere. Not by choice though.

For months I’d been stressing at every turn about my impending bankruptcy, flogging the little jam sachets from cafes and staving off scurvy by living on frozen bananas and soluble vitamins.

Kylie, on the other hand, my travelling companion who was based in L’Aquila, Italy, for the year – and who could charitably be described as vague at best – suddenly felt it prudent to mention casually over breakfast one morning, ‘Oh, what do you know – I only have 376.42 euros left in the bank.’

‘When’s that til then? Next week? Mid-August?’ I ask hopefully, though my better judgement tells me otherwise.
‘End of Feb next year,’ she replies, not looking concerned in the least.
‘It’s no problem,’ she shrugs. ‘I’ve already worked out an action plan. I’m going to loiter in the main piazza around lunch time and rescue all the rotten produce they throw out when the markets close.’
‘You could busk, I suppose,’ I suggested charitably. ‘You could have the folks send over a gum leaf to play. It’d be a novelty.’
‘I could join an orchestra. They give you cash for that.’
‘You can’t play an instrument. And the triangle doesn’t really play a pivotal role in symphonies.’
‘Well, I could join the chorus in the local theatre.’
‘L’Aquila doesn’t have a local theatre. And the last time you sang was on the ferry from Ancona and six children started crying.’
‘I could be a garbage man – I mean, girl. I could be in charge of recycling.’
‘Kylz, L’Aquila doesn’t DO recycling. Remember, it’s fifty years behind the rest of the developed world.’
‘I could work in catering.’
‘You can’t cook.’
‘What about public relations then?’
‘You don’t like people.’
‘I could be a nanny.’
‘The last kid you babysat almost got hit by a truck.’
‘I could work in a bar.’
‘You’d drink more than you’d sell. Bit counterproductive.’
‘I could beg outside the church.’
‘They might recognise you from when we stole that crucifix at Easter.’
‘But I could take communion every day – who needs more than bread and wine to function?’
‘You’re not even Catholic! You’d have to go to confession straight after and admit to fraudulent behaviour and theft.’
Here she pauses for a moment, twisting a brown curl around her index finger.
‘I’m royally screwed, aren’t I?’
‘Little bit, yes.’