two Boxing Day vignettes: my father eating his lunch (peeled fruit, a few chunks of cheese) as he writes an email (my mother resting upstairs; me baking chocolate chip cookies for tea; Alice on her way over from our hotel); and a wall from Cannizaro Park, behind the hotel - sodden in a dank early morning mist, but, as ever, somewhere I've known for many many many decades, having been pushed round it in a pram. And this had me wondering today (tiered gardens, balustrades, etc) whether this induced some kind of liking for Italianate gardens and architecture, way before I could have been aware that such things existed.
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