On the way down Varinja Street towards home a three-generation family are hurrying to one of the many churches, the youngest clearly knowing where they are going and not willing to go there without a fight. The child's mother has on tottering heels and struggles to win the fight. The grandmother offers what appears to be unwanted advice and the father and grandfather stand silently on the wings, hands in pockets, probably thinking about the Juventus match that's on in a few hours, and the beer and pastizzi that awaits them at the bar after church. It all seems to resolve itself fairly quickly and as I pass I exchange nods with the two men.
I enter my house, feed the dog, step into the yard and look out on the citrus trees bursting with colour. A plastic statue of Mary stares back at me from a recess in the wall. I don't think I've done anything too bad today and I smile and go back inside.
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