by Gillian Nellis
Around the corner from the Trevi fountain, I’ve locked eyes with a woman sitting at a pavement restaurant. A waiter has plonked down what I can only describe as a plate of slop in front of her, and she has visibly recoiled.
I think it’s pasta, but it’s been so heavily submerged in grey gloop that it’s hard to be sure. I feel like telling her to just get up and leave, to free herself …
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