I don’t miss Italy. The dolce vita is a myth

Mention to most people that you have recently quit Italy for London and you become an instant object of sympathy. ‘Oh, poor you,’ they coo, ‘don’t you mind?’ Cue effusions about that darling trattoria in Lucca, those hidden della Francescas in Arezzo and enthusiastic reiterations of the word ‘bella’ as last seen in Gregory’s Girl. Anyone I speak to is anxious to impress with the authenticity of their Italy, their cognoscento’s rejection of Chiantishire for that enchanting, mythical country where the logge are eternally dappled in sunshine and dusky peasant girls roll out exquisite ravioli on mediaeval doorsteps. I can hardly bear to disabuse them, but after three years in Milan I feel obliged to inform that the dolce vita is looking about as convincing these days as Signor Berlusconi’s comb-over. Whenever I see another droolingly aspirational magazine spread about the latest perfect little corner of the bel paese I have an overpowering urge to shove it where the Tuscan sun doesn’t shine.

I’m not mourning my exile from the land of blossoming mercati and natty little espadrilles. I rejoice in the bounty of Waitrose, the fact that I can go to the bank at lunchtime and the thrill of buying a stamp in a post office. Italy at its best is a hologram, best saved for the annual fortnight in the Umbrian villa, because actually living there is rubbish. Even if you’re not in Naples.

For example, we received our Christmas cards in March. Apparently I was the only person who minded living without a postal service, as my attempts to complain to the concierge, my in-laws, anyone who would listen, were met with a resigned shrug and ‘E così’ (That’s how it is). Ditto politics, corrupt to the point where absolutely no one understands them, public services, or the casually appalling racism which frequently had me choking on my cappuccino.