There is nothing quite so claustrophobic as being up a mountain in the middle of winter with your family. I arrived with my brother after a trying journey through Standsted and a two hour drive from Pisa to the house whereby we were met by a delighted mother, champagne cocktails, a large collection of brand new DVD’s and a decadent amount of ‘nibbles.’ It took four films, two bottles of cava and a packet of Palma ham before abject boredom took up residency.

Christmas day was dire, spent swimming about in gin cocktails and champagne trying to shield myself from a Turkey carcass bigger than my own torso. Boxing day was spent in a laughable attempt at dieting before The Musician arrived the next day. Obviously that one day of avoiding the blinis and bilinis made a huge difference to the waistline that had spent a whole month behaving like an aristocrat with Gout.

The day finally arrived, four became six with my brothers girlfriend joining us also. I love her, I can’t recall her opening her mouth once the entirety of the holiday, and on top of this is most curiously beautiful – she became the only suitable ornament in the house that wouldn’t have World of Interiors up in arms.  

Mother was overly enthusiastic at the prospect of more mouths to feed, and had convinced herself The Musician shared her Trivial Pursuit fetish – she is convinced anyone with a degree is desperate to test their worth and fiddle about with plastic pie pieces.

The trip passed in the most pleasant manner possible, it was sunny and with guests present we were required to show them around the area and thus eat out more, enabling me to breathe a little and stock up on Marlborough Lights. The Musician was as polite, engaging and delightful as always – managing to entertain the family whilst simultaneously confusing my mother as to why he’d ended up dating her daughter. I couldn’t answer, but told her that her faith in me was as inspiring as ever.

The sex we had knocked me sidewise, and I now understand exactly the real purpose of holidays. Bugger all this “spend time with the family, meet with old friends, relax” ect. It’s quite clearly all geared toward sublime, uninterrupted fucking.

The Musician and I left the mountains. He, convinced that my mother was a borderline alcoholic with colourful psychotic tendencies and I, two stone heavier and accompanied by another chin.

But we are better than ever. We have matching mugs.