4
That Monday, they crossed the border into Italy at Grimaldi and about an hour later, early evening, drew to a halt in San Remo. They had to find food and some rest. They were running on empty, mentally and physically, and from first impressions the town seemed dirty and seedy and run down and not at all the place to lift the spirits after hard-nosing the highway.
'Diamine! This place is unbelievable!' said Kevin. 'According to the guide, '…San Remo is Italy's wannabe Monte Carlo, a sun-dappled Mediterranean resort with a casino, a clutch of ostentatious villas and lashings of Riviera-style grandeur. During the summer there are jazz and song festivals, firework displays and water sports…' not to mention the hugely admired Friday pizzas which are sold along the seafront of the new town, and is a cause of major traffic congestion and shop-lifting.'
It did occur to them that their first impressions might be based on tiredness or their sombre mood so they started up again and pushed on a few more miles and as soon as a road sign announced Albenga as the next turnoff, Kevin slapped the dash board and said in his throaty, Mr. Spok voice, 'OK! That's enough. Let's park it here.'
A little while later, drained and dirty, the Zorbus found at a campsite, pulled up, switched off and sighed. Kevin and Ben sat where they were and looked at the dashboard. They were downcast. Albenga seemed as leery as San Remo although that might have been them. The first thing to do was park somewhere close to the camping office, make themselves handsome, secure the van, toddle into town and find a little relaxation and fun.
But search as they may, they just couldn't find any. They trundled through its naked streets with all the joy of a defeated army. They crossed boulevards, vias, regiones and stradas. They roamed what seemed like miles of forlorn streets lit only by occasional lamps and though they saw countless ice-cream parlours, the galateria, they saw no people. By nine in the evening, Albenga of the tidy, empty, leafy lanes, showed not one news stand, nor laundrette, no litter, nor dogs, children nor any other sign of life. It was cold and empty, silent and soulless.
'I'm saying nothing 'cept it's just like a huge abandoned film set,' said Kevin.
Then shining like a lifeboat came a drifting Pizzeria and well within easy reach. They fired off rescue flares, waved and called for help until it edged close enough for them to climb aboard and collapse out of downright desperation. To their dinner they showed no mercy. It was a massacre. Their pizzas offered sham resistance and were soon reduced to crumbs and smears, aided by the sweeping flavours from a generous bottle of fruity juicy, Rossese di Albenga. They called out for another bottle, had a little flirtatious fun with their flirty signora waitresses until it was time to swim back to the Villa and drop anchor.
Next morning, feeling stronger, they turned into the leg of Italy proper on the A10 skirting Genoa.
'A well-stretched city seemingly comfortable with age and experience, and compatible with growing - and yet still learning,' said Kevin with a dirty laugh. 'I'm thinking of writing my own guide but with more frustration and innuendo.'
The drive was frustrating. It seemed to be all third gear winding, twisting up, up, up towards the cloudy sky and rolling and turning down, down, down across the Appennini Mountains and all the while conscious of a trail of around fifteen cars and lorries tailing behind with most unable to pass. By late-afternoon Ben was wondering if Alexander would have been so great when conquering the Persian Empire if, each time he weighed up the situation in his rear view mirror, he realised he was a figure of hate. The tailback would just have to be patient. With a narrow road and no lay-bys or turn-offs there was nothing he could do for them. This continued from eleven in the morning until about five that afternoon, long after his cut-off time, and just when he began the droop into weariness, nature showed life-saving compassion and kindness.
From the crest of that gruelling mountain range they could clearly see far below, a distant fishing commune lounging in innocence, stretched along a sandy shoreline streaked with sunshine and embracing the shallows of the Ligurian Sea. It was Sestri Levante laying there before them, alluring, reclined, enticing, and they could only gaze in silent wonder and surrender to her smile.
Kevin grabbed his guidebook and began to quote, 'Sestri sits at the top of Italy's thigh just below its Genoas and is embraced by a cove and a cluster of mountains.'
'Too suggestive, Kevin.'
'Well it's better than the book.'
Eventually the Villa rolled down the long and winding road and pulled to a halt on the promenade of the Baia delle Favole, its wheels only inches from the sea. At her bow lay the Golfo di Genoa and to starboard that punishing Appenini Range standing high, mighty and sneering. They could only sit amid confused feelings of reverence, respect, dread, and wonder of where they had been and of the day they'd left behind.
Then came the calm. They settled back, enchanted by the light and fancy of this ancient fishing town.
'OK. That's enough. Let's park it here,' sighed an empty Kevin.
After a large, nondescript ratatouille they took a short stroll towards the interior to see what they might make of the town before crawling inside their sleeping bags and bagging that much-needed sleep.
Along the seafront loomed several large buildings that from a distance appeared to be those typical Renaissance-style hotels you see in every travelogue and brochure on Italy with balconied windows and recesses containing Romanesque urns and architraves presenting stylish elegance and flourish.
However, upon closer inspection Kevin was first to realise all that detail was just an ingenious optical illusion, a ploy created in paint and plaster to disguise what was otherwise just several featureless yet practical storehouses doing nothing to enhance the seafront and which may even appear depressing to the average visitor. Nevertheless, the overall effect was mind-blowing, if not hallucinogenic.
Spoilt for choice when it came to choosing a bar for a nightcap, they dropped into the first one on the front, 'Da Bruno'. Above the entrance was a large letter 'J', the image of a beer jag and an espresso cup with real drifting steam. It felt good to just sit in there and enjoy the gentle but remarkable, Luna Rossa birra before wandering back to the van for that priceless sleep.
Out loud, Kevin was dreaming, 'We all know of times when our bodies have no resistance to the psychological demand for reduced, or even absent, consciousness. A relatively suspended sensory activity known and loved as being happily knackered.'
They scrambled into their bags, Ben's nutty chum wishing him, 'Goodnight,' before adding drowsily, 'and thanks for coming to see me,' as though he was in an asylum.
Wednesday morning their day began to an orange sun pouring over the distant Maritime Alps and straight into the Villa turning the steam from the kettle into a dazzling orange cloud. It was just after six. Ben took his tea outside and sat on the low stone wall bordering Baia delle Favole or Bay of Fables and ate the last two juicy Satsumas he brought from Liverpool over two weeks ago.
'Crikey! Fourteen days driving already. Time doesn't waste a second.'
He sat there watching Sestri Levante slowly rouse itself. In fact Italy was a little like a horse. It starts early and walks until it breaks into an easy trot around seven when it gathers momentum until around half past eight, easing into a steady canter until around eleven when it gallops into life until just before twelve thirty when it slows again, shakes itself, snorts, eats and yawns into the calm of the early afternoon siesta. This peaceful break lasts until around four in the afternoon when it bursts into life again and races on with bells and shouts and music and traffic until about eight in the evening when once gain everything calms down for food. Over the next few hours it prepares for bed, leaving stragglers and strangers like Kevin and Ben to wander and wonder, and this is why Ben was awake and Kevin still slept.
Sometimes Ben liked an orange with his first cup of tea.
It felt good to be on the road, able to park where they liked and not having to pay a mint just to sleep. There in Sestri they began to feel regenerated after their summer obligations and were in no hurry to leave the bosom of this motherly bay and fatherly Ligurian Sea.
The Fodor told of several specimens of sperm whales, rorquals and dolphins who make those waters their natural habitat and live safely in the area known as the Sanctuary of Cetaceans, a true natural legacy of expansive woods with centuries-old trees, an honourable alternative to temporary city treasures. It told of how immersion into the region's natural environments allows people to get to know and see the places where the human, with love and dedication, has managed to cultivate the best possible fruits from this land. Places full of history, culture and traditions, which have witnessed the passage of ancient peoples coming from the sea.
'You know, the longer we stay out of the game, the more I realise how much we have been moulded by politics, tradition, Hollywood and the media. As we grow, we accept all we are told as fact because everyone else accepts it. Now I see another way.' said Ben.
'I agree. It's completely up to us. You only have to stop reading newspapers and watching TV to realise it.'
'We humans presume we are more intelligent than all other species because we've evolved so much. We are needy. Need invented the wheel, computers, wars, greed, science, chemicals, all because of ambition and our appetite for more. Other species lead such basic simple lives but that doesn't mean they are inferior? Perhaps between us they are the most evolved species because they have no predominant needs except those that keep them alive. Humans aren't very happy being humans whereas animals quite like being animals.'
'We assume dominance over nature and in doing so we are destroying our environment. One day nature is going to get really pissed off and flick away humanity like we flick away flies.'
In Sestri they would promenade to the fish market not ten feet from their Villa, or wallow in a night club or take an early morning swim or, best of all, sit in silent contentment. They were welcomed in a fascinating variety of caffes, gelateria, locandas and osteria, not to mention pizzeria and bars for a taste of real cappuccino, caffe espresso, those paninio toasts, or even a brush of the teeth, a hot soapy wash or to make use of the luxurious Waterloos. In fact, they were able to cater almost independently for themselves out of their lovely old bus in this lovely old town, and it was even more liberating because it was totally spontaneous.
Ben noticed his fingernails looked as though he'd been gardening and instantly he thought of Bee. 'I love the road,' Bee once told Ben, 'but always you have to keep your fingernails clean because they can carry all kinds of disease if you're not careful.' Ben stood and walked over to the tap where they filled their water bottles, and there he cleaned his nails, 'Thanks Bee. Thanks for the tips.'
That afternoon they swam and slept in the shade of friendly, happy trees lining a tiny cove. The sun went down in an apricot stew and left a tomato sauce blush in the sky with a gigantic evening star to top it all off.
Ben noticed he was losing weight, and he could afford to, so for dinner they enjoyed two delicious sea bass, gently grilled Ligurian style with sliced garlic and basil served on some left-overs from last night's ratatouille mixed with fine Gallo rice. Ben added a sliced courgette fried in garlic butter then tossed in a pan of simmering tomato puree. Delizioso! Their gratitude had to go to their outstanding guests of honour, the sea bass, even though they didn't catch their names.
Afterwards they sat back in the moody red dusk and raised a glass of French Rose from Les Vignerons de Contignac to Barbara and the vintagers back in Les Issambres. Time was their own. They talked about the contrasts between the towns and the villages they'd passed through. How at one stage on the by-pass, a black dot had appeared from nowhere in the rear-view mirror and Ben had drawn Kevin's attention to it coming up fast and gaining at a truly incredible rate. But before he could turn to look, it had overtaken them and the black dot was, in a flash, way, way ahead.
'Well the Ferrari factory is located in Bologna, around a hundred miles from where we were and probably the pilot of the dot was late for work again,' sighed Kevin draining his glass and smiling to himself.
'Kevin, there's a very thin line between wit and half-wit,' warned Ben.
Strange, delightful moths flitted about the van and right down to the water's edge. It was a world of peace with one solitary cricket for a serenade.
'Those moths are a bit loopy, aren't they Kevin?'
'Can't stand the damn things, I hate moths. Make me nervous and you know I'm not the nervous type. But if I'm in a room at night and one comes in flapping its wings and flitting around the light, I have to leave the room or kill the thing. It's just something I have to do. When I was a kid I remember a horde of them flitting around the lamp outside our house and being by myself, they completely terrified me. To me, there were thousands of them. I closed all the windows, drew the curtains and watched telly with an insect spray in my hand. So if you see me suddenly leap out of the van, you'll know why. Just hope it doesn't happen on the motor way.'
Ben wondered if Pierre loved moths.
As the evening drifted on, Kevin suggested that since it was Friday maybe they should stay, take it easy for the weekend, get a slow tan by the sea and simply enjoy it all. It was such a magical spot, even if no English went there. And that was a slight problem because without English visitors it could be hard to find casual work because neither could speak Italian. Work was not a main priority but it might become one if they ran short of cash and besides, to motor over the weekend is to motor to a standstill. And thirdly, and most significantly, there had been posters almost all the way en route advertising the soft-eyed face and generous bosom of an enchanting songstress who just happened to be appearing in a swish disco along the promenade not two hundred metres from where they had their Villa. She was known as Fanny, and two of these posters had been exhibited within sight of the van. But they weren't there long. One found its way onto the roof above their sleeping bags and the other would be sent to a chum in Falmouth. It was just a matter of deciding which chum was most worthy.
The schoolboy jokes started towards the end of the bottle, 'Perbacco! There's Fanny advertised all over Italy,' enthused Kevin.
'And in the Zorbus every night,' giggled Ben.
'Nearest we've been to fanny all trip!'
'Let's send one to Dick's restaurant.'
'.... or Derek!'
'Let's go to the show wearing WE LOVE FANNY T-shirts!'
They fell quiet.
'An hour to dusk now and the rose, reds, cinnamons, whites, greens and gold of those sturdy old three and four-floored buildings really do seem to glow like magic. On the other hand the three glasses of wine we've just had might be accountable,' mused Kevin.
'Well, I'm off to bed. Sweet dreams.'
'Goodnight. Oh, by the way, can you bring me grapes next time?'
A peal of bells from the cathedral of St. Maria de Nazareth was their alarm next morning at eight.
Kevin winced through window to keep out the light. A dog barked somewhere on the edge of town across the silvery blue waters and the softness of a new clear day began its hanky-panky, and they began theirs.
One day they had been strolling through the back streets and alleyways taking in some of the details and differences when they came across a genuine professional gents barber shop, a Barbiere. It was genuine because inside they could see a real Theo A. Kochs barber chair standing in front of a huge mirror, and genuine because they were in Italy. Now Ben had nursed a secret ambition to sit in one of those chairs and have his beard shaved off by a genuine Italiano barber ever since he had watched one of those creepy Cosa Nostra epics when he was a kid. His mind was made up. Ben was in the moment.
The sign above the shop read, 'Leonardo Spietzia ~ Barbiere'. The Kochs chairs were made in Chicago and featured in every single Mafia movie and seem to have a fan club all of their own. Nickel plated, bound in maroon leather to hide any spillage, padded head, foot and arm rests to secure the victim and all complete with pumpable booster seat for more intricate pruning.
These chairs have stood in thousands of barber shops right across America from the twenties onward and it's said they may even have inspired NASA in their pilot seat designs. Ben loved them. He looked around the room and saw some shelving bearing trophies from Tour de France Cycling Marathons and several pictures showing a man in the bosom of his family. There were others showing the same man in the company of various celebrities and receiving awards. Next to the Kochs was a marble table upon which was assembled an equally majestic array of stainless steel operational implements and in the background, very faintly, he could hear the dark and sonorous sounds of a violin. His eyes drift up to the striped barber pole, down to the doorway and squarely into the face of a smiling, robust-looking gentleman wearing white surgical scrubs.
'Buongiorno,' the man breathed hoarsely. 'Forgive me if I startled you.'
The shock of seeing him standing so close makes Ben gasp. 'Buongiorno,' he breathes. Ben's mouth is a desert.
The barber shows him inside and at once he remembers Kevin's advice about asking the price before sitting down, but too late, his memory has deserted him. The barber indicates the chair and Ben climbs on board, easing back until his head is resting on the padded head rest, his concentration focussed on the space above the barber's head while counting his breathing and trying not to crush the bones of his interlocked fingers. The executioner studies a flashing selection of steel blades at his fingertips. He does something with his foot and with what sounds like a gratified sigh, the chair very slowly reclines and lowers until Ben's head and feet are level with the barber's crotch. Ben smiles with all the aplomb of a victim visiting Sweeney Todd.
The music is gentle and soothing. Ben is convinced it is, 'Love Theme' from The Godfather. Leonardo softly sings along as he rearranges his porcelain containers on the shelf above the pale blue sink. Ben doesn't understand a word so nervously points to his chin waving his hand in what he hopes is an avant-garde fashion and mumbles, 'La barba, per favore.' Leonardo's eyebrows shoot skyward and, as though to confirm the instructions, he produces a cut-throat razor. Decision time. Ben nods with about as about much nonchalance as he can muster, in the manner of hunters when one of their feet is caught in the jaws of the bear trap and they're handed the Bowie knife. The barber does not offer Ben a bullet to bite either. Ben's had a full beard for twenty years, except for one loony moment on a trip to Naxos with a couple of friends when he shaved it off just leaving a very happy-go-lucky and embarrassing moustache. He wasn't prepared for all the sumptuous care lavished upon this vulnerable face in an Italian back-street barber shop.
Leonardo smiles, reviewing the beard and taking his time in filling a bowl with hot, steamy water; humming and whistling along to the violin concerto, now very full sounding and mellow and coming from a back room. Standing back, scratching his chin and pulling at his nose, he wipes his fingers, smiles again, nods, and washes his hands.
Without further ado he begins, firmly massaging Ben's jaw with his wet, plump, fingers and strangely, Ben relaxes and falls completely under his spell. From time to time instead of staring at the ceiling, Ben steals a glance the face of Leonardo. The narrowed eyes, the dancing eyebrows, the occasional licking of his lips, the faint drift of garlic, and all the while the constant inhaling and exhaling mingled with the occasional snort through nasal hairs. Ben imagines Da Vinci, the great artist, approaching his 'Mona Lisa'. Is the barber Leonardo reborn? He takes up shiny scissors and delicately snips away at the thickened growth. It doesn't take long to reduce it to undergrowth. With a satisfied sniff, Leonardo stands back and makes a precursory inspection tilting his head from side to side as he reviews his sculpt. He hums as he unscrews the lid from a wooden bowl of creamy glycerine-scented soap which he smears into the stubble with his fingers and once again, stands back before taking up the brush which has been patiently standing, waiting, in the hot water. On the wooden handle is the outline of a badger. The barber begins whipping the cream into a rich, thick lather. His eyes have a double-glazed absorption, consumed as he is in his art, he stops only to study the chin from near and far. He selects a blade, having first noisily and meaningfully honed it on an ancient leather strop, possibly a trophy from his swashbuckling adventures with the Mona Lisa, and polishes it on the starched white surgeon's scrub draped across his formidable body. More soap, a flourish with an even finer blade and judging by the strands of hair now straggling his forehead, he is completely gone. He has become the barbering. Ben no longer exists. He has become the beard, and one that must be removed in order to see the face beneath, and yes, Leonard is the sculptor.
Finally, a gentle rinse in the form of warm mist from a spray gun, gently dabbed dry until he can powder and pat away at Ben's reborn nudity. Leonardo offers what feels like an exceptionally delicate towel then presents the bill on a little wooden saucer. The amount is negligible compared to the performance. And when Ben tries to include a reasonable tip, graciously Leonardo declines.
On the way back to the bus, a leathery-faced stranger warily stared back at Ben from every shop window he passed until he came eye to eye with one reflection that settled it. He liked the new image, gone the grey chin. He felt more confident although there was a little more of a resemblance to his grandmother. Later his face, or rather his chin, felt warm and sensitive and soft, another forgotten effect of nudity. And there had been nothing to worry about after all, not even the slightest nick. Beyond any doubt, Leonardo was an artist.
In ambling, drifting along the coastal paths, prowling through the town, roving down lanes and passageways, wandering and watching the place and its people, Sestri showed them the obvious respect enjoyed by villagers for each other. Kevin and Ben began to see less and less of the competitive lifestyles they were used to and more of the compassionate and considerate kind. And it brought them some contentment.
Kevin had mellowed and had grown fascinated by a cat he'd noticed early each day as it sloped past the van along towards the fish market just at the time the boats offloaded their catch. Once the cat became aware of him, it would stop, and stare at him over its shoulder with extreme calm, and for a moment or two they would continue staring at each other in silence. The cat would blink very slowly before strolling on its way. It seemed to like its new fan, and if the truth be known, though he'd never admit it, the fan quite liked the cat. After a few moments eye contact, Kevin would mutter, 'Weirdo!' and carry on with whatever he was doing. But on the morning they prepared to leave it never showed up and Ben could tell Kevin was a little put out although nothing was said.
The Friday fish market supplied a wide variety to mobile fishmongers who then delivered by car to outlying settlers. Sestri is much larger than she looks, spreading backwards from the old traditional character of the buildings and houses forming a graceful waterfront into a sophisticated and cultured community out in the surrounding countryside. Her streets are furnished with tastefully classy shops, an asset in any modern city let alone a fishing town now come of age and set on a quietly successful future. They liked it there and knew it would be hard to leave when the time came.
Mid-afternoon. Silent heat. Nothing moved. Ben sat and thought it might be time for a little campervan maintenance. He knew very little about mechanics, or technology, or anything really. In the obligatory metal tool box there was a screwdriver big, a screwdriver small, a stowaway wrench belonging to his father, and some string, definitely tempting the wrath of the gods in anyone's faith. Neither did he have any idea of the recommended tyre pressures. During the last spurt from Albenga his list of curious noises included a 'bed-spring boinging' when changing into first from neutral, an almost indiscernible bass beat after a long haul when idling in neutral and a staccato ploppy, cloppy, phutt, phutt when freewheeling downhill. He had an inkling that the points might need checking but before doing anything, he promised himself he'd consult the oracle, a gift from their technologically minded close friend Patrick. It was called The VW Idiot's Guide. But one look told him he was more than an idiot and someone needing more than a guide. Fortunately, even in the shade it was far too hot to study so he put down the book and lay down in the bay with a damp t-shirt over his face and dozed away the afternoon.
In the evenings, if they sat inside to eat, strollers often looked in at them with mixed reactions and one trio even tapped on a window and smiling with, 'Evening all.
Well, at last! An accent we can understand!' The group turned down their offer of a glass of wine but happily stood at the door for a quick chat.
One of them was Peggy and she was obviously very excited, 'Finally! I'm making a decision I should have made years ago. I love Greece and I've been going there for holidays every year. This year I won't be going back. At last I have the courage to realise my dream. I'm moving to the island of Symi. I've actually bought a home on a Greek island. I'm about to become Shirley Valentine!'
Everyone cheered and she became quite tearful so Ben slopped wine into cups and they toasted her happiness. She even left her address and made them promise to call in if ever they sailed into Symi harbour.
Until their drive to the sun, Ben had never really considered whether or not he was content or not. Apart from travelling trips, he had simply lived his life and took what opportunities came his way. He had never really took a chance and changed direction intent on satisfying a passion but after meeting Peggy in balmy Sestri her courage made him realise his dreams may not just be dreams after all. Perhaps the best was yet to come.
'Within her left hand, Sestri Levante harbour holds two fresh water taps though the water might not be drinkable. One she holds down by the harbour wall near the Maritime Office and about thirty centimetres above ground level, and the other she holds behind the fish market marquee about four feet up the wall. You make your choice depending on how many of you are available to share the weight of a full container,' Kevin had started making these notes for his forthcoming guide book. 'Oh yes, in the town there are plenty of fruit stalls, fish stalls, and bread and cake shops to help satisfy your appetites.'
Ben's face was a sun-dried tomato by the time he sat inside on the long seat at the table. Just above his head a bunch of two dozen dried roses hung and once more he raised his glass to Barbara. The colours had become a deep, dusty burgundy, buckskin orange and a variegated cream and pink, so he raised his glass to nature. Mother of Zeus! Life was good! A glass of wine and a van ringing with Talkin' 'Eads and The Cowboy Junkies – paradiso!
To ensure a pleasant night's sleep it became their custom to end each day with a shot of Jack Daniels and a card game, usually Chase the Ace. That night they were highly aware of a yellow lorry parked about fifty feet from the Zorbus setting the air ablaze with country rock. In the cab could be seen the trucker, almost bald, black droopy moustache, white T-shirt and white socked feet a-restin' on the dashboard. Out of his nodding head jutted a long white stick of wacky-baccy. Before lights out, they gave him the thumbs up and he flashed his lights in reply.
'Goodnight, Kevin.'
'Goodnight, Ben. Oh, and by the way, can you bring me a few magazines, next time? Cheers.'
Sunday was green, blue and good. Ben sat staring mindlessly at the horizon,
Kevin coughed and nodded in the direction of the lorry. Its trucker had climbed out of the cab and was casually peeing against his offside tyre in his bare feet.
'Must be deeply meaningful,' said Kevin, appraising their present situation.
'Christ Ben, what a life! Sweet! We shit caviar, piss champagne and walk on rose petals. And as for the ladies! Momma Mia! Any faint hearted, red-blooded male would do well to avoid Italy if he is single. Every female we've seen, any age, is feminine and attractive, and make my imagination spin and we've only been gone a couple of weeks! We're now so relaxed and cool I think we should really be choosing preferred coffee houses for our early ablutions. Because it won't be long before it'll be, 'Oh, hi Francesco. Dooez cappuccinos and some Aquafresh on me toothbrush please and if you haven't any, a crème de menthe will do.'' He picked up his book, Life of Leonardo Da Vinci, and settled down to read, chuckling to himself.
The sky at night showed a fabulous purple sunset with the promise of another golden day. They were like kids on a never-ending summer holiday. Ben thought of Diane, another close friend back in Falmouth, and how she used to say she'd been on holiday all her life. Her usual evening prayer was, 'Please gods, creation, whatever, keep us safe and let us have a successful trip. Please take care of us all on this life's journey.' Maybe she had a clue after all, before she lost it altogether.
'Goodnight Ben, thanks for talking to me again.'
'Goodnight Kevin. I'll come and see you again next week.'
'Take care now. Oh, and by the way, bring your own jokes next time.'
Monday dayspring and driving always meant porridge for breakfa