Or so claims the graffiti I spotted this afternoon on the wall of Exeter College Gardens, in Brasenose Lane, Oxford. I was on my way back from the hairdresser, where I'd been having my roots (complete with distressing grey hairs) retinted their customary shade of extremely bright red. And also some shocking pink and orange highlights put in, just for fun. My hairdresser is not cheap but makes me feel a million dollars, or possibly euros, and so for me is worth it. Besides, as I like to tell myself, you wear your hair every single day, no? It's not a rash extravagance like an evening dress, or a pair of fancy shoes.
Ah yes, shoes. The red patent shoes of my heart's desire have finally wormed their way from the icy palace of far-off worship into my warm and loving grasp. That is, they were reduced to £15 in the sale, and the last pair in the shop happened to be in my size. Woop woop, as my brother mendaciously asserts that the cool kids are saying nowadays. Capitalism, though boring, does provide such joys as shoe shops and hairdressers and I wonder whether in the socialist Utopia we would all have bad hair? I do hope not, but thus shallowly am I to be bought.
As you may have realised, I'm taking advantage of AS Roma playing two consecutive league games away (two miserable though deserved 1-1 draws, at Messina and at Livorno) to visit the land of my birth. Though I fear, superstitiously, that if Totti behaves like he did on Sunday every time I leave the country, I shall have to bite the bullet and find an Italian hairdresser who can get my colour right, a hitherto fruitless and frustrating quest. Just like the fruitless and frustrating quest to get our France' to grow out of petty and vindictive acts of violence on the pitch. Following the red card - a needless retaliation against a late and nasty challenge by Livorno defender Galante - he left the pitch in such a rage that when his personal trainer and lifelong friend Vito Scala approached him and laid a hand on his arm in a friendly and consoling fashion, Totti pushed him to the ground and stalked away. Which is indefensible. How you make our life hard, France', those of us who seek to defend you.
My presence in the UK is not, of course, solely for the purposes of getting my hair done. Far from it. I also came over to go to a birthday party (karaoke!) and catch up with a nice boy. Who is just a friend, but a friend of the kind you have seriously good sex with. Which is cool. I have no idea whether if we lived in the same country we might see whether it could be anything more; it would, I suppose, be a possibility. As it is there's no way it really could be anything more than friendship even if either of us wanted it too. It is, however, a confusing situation for other people to comprehend. In the end you have to give up trying to explain to people who just want a simple label. Where you have trust, affection, physical attraction and shared interests, and you enjoy spending time together both in and out of bed, but don't have romantic feelings for one another, it tends to confuse people. I guess - looking at it in black and white - it is kind of odd. I don't pretend to understand how it happens to be that way, I just know that it does. I shall enjoy it while it lasts, whatever it is.