As you’re probably aware the Bidet features in a large portion of bathrooms in Europe. No matter how small the room, one of them will have managed to squeeze itself in. And there’s one in my tiny little studio in Monterosso. I’m rather fond of it.

You see, if your clever and smart like I am, you can fill them with sudsy water, pop the lid down on the adjoining loo, sit sideways and pop your feet in for a nice little soak to ease fatigue or prepare for pedicure. Handy. Heck you can even throw undies and socks in and do a little dance at the same time. I’ve been doing both. And then the real washing machine arrived.

After much gabble in speedy Italian the installer identified the outlet hose needed something extra to make it fit the actual outlet…meanwhile would the bidet do? Sure no probs said I! A demonstration later, looking good, pat on the back and off he went, two further washes proving this was indeed a reliable option. And that’s when the trouble started.

Yesterday, while I was busy willing breath into the dead PC, clutched in my lap on the bed; battery out, fingers buried in its inner workings according to google suggestions for rebooting, the washing machine and the bidet were busy too. Conspiring.

In an effort to seek tissues to staunch the tears of frustration dripping into the computer’s nether regions, threw the damn thing on the bed, swung my feet to the floor and… Splot! Sneaky water quietly slinking out of the bidet from the latest wash had turned my little home into one massive great bloody lake! Shit!

Quickly grabbed mop and bucket and, while proceeding to push the water all around the room in a desperate attempt to prevent it from seeping under the front door where the owner would most certainly see disaster and up the rent, another earthquake occurred. The water shimmied and danced, that’s how I knew.

Well accustomed to earthquakes by now, pointed my snivelling nose to the sky and screamed in defiance ‘Yeah bring it on Louie!’ My downstairs neighbour, on whose head I’d recently released a cluster of his very own peaches, was back on his terrace. I know this because I heard a very loud mutter, ‘Pazzo Cagna’! ‘Crazy Bitch’ I know this too because I typed his words into my trusty Translate. Perhaps his name is Louie.

Finally averting disaster on all fronts, popped down to the village to get a few essentials including a fresh box of tissues. Packed with tourists being a Sunday, I couldn’t help overhearing a number of folk snickering behind me. Was it my hair? Did I have gum in it? A nest? Perhaps they’re just humouring my poor command on Italian? No. Three long white tags stitched to the back seam of my gym pants were fluttering gaily in my breezy wake, glaringly obvious, slap dab in the middle of my butt. I had my pants on inside out.

I think my neighbour has a point.

Meanwhile, enjoy my latest photo. It has nothing to do with this story