Meeting the Italian Mr Cappuccino

Thursday, January 30 09

Mrs Bennet was stunned. She was fortunate to be in the country that smelt of rich strong coffee, but Mr Cappuccino didn’t exist after 6 o’clock. He was obviously very passionate and needed his beauty sleep. What Mrs Bennet hadn’t realised was the night shift belonged to Mr Expresso, who being slightly more resilient, could last longer. Although that didn’t make sense to Mrs Bennet because he was only dolls cup size. She’s learnt all this in a quaint Italian restaurant.
She was in Italy, a country full of noise, hand gestures, romance and chat. Here for just 24 hours, as she had tagged along with Mr Bennet who was needed for a business meeting in Milan. Here because she was no longer the cow feeding a calf or two, here because she had the opportunity to fly without a babe in arms, here because she had the opportunity to go somewhere. Mr Bennet flew all over the world: Malaysia, Canada, Spain, Dubai and Egypt, and sometimes did so without much warning, leaving her with the five Bennet girls and on occasion with a packed-up boiler, stomach bugs, diggers and foundation specialists. But the first time in 10 years, thanks to very accommodating set of parents, Mrs Bennet was able to go as the extra luggage, for good behaviour. She felt guilty leaving her mum and dad with the new extended Bennet family of plasterers, electricians and the original Darcys in the Dirt - the builders - but not guilty enough to refuse such an invitation. Just to fly away was an adventure and the thought of spending time with Italian Mr Lattes and Cappuccinos was thrilling; that and having some mental space of her own. She knew Mr Bennet would leave her to her own devices most of the time, and as the hotel was in the middle of a built up industrial site, Giotto and Giovanni would be spared a visit from Mrs Bennet, who did so appreciate a bit of culture.
Bristol Airport was unbelievably quiet: no queuing, no buzzing of people whizzing off to various countries and no delays. It was nothing like her previous life of flying. Procedures had changed, and staff appeared a lot more serious. It brought out her mischievous side and she could see exactly why Mr Bean had pretended his hand was a gun when queuing up to get his holiday luggage checked in. What was it about airports and security staff which instantly made you feel guilty? Perhaps she looked it.
“That guard followed you with his eyes until you were out of sight,” observed Mr Bennet.
“I smiled at him, is that so wrong?!” Mrs Bennet questioned.
“And how come I set the alarms off and you walk through that radar arch and nothing! I’m not sure I liked being frisked by a woman,” she added.
The buckles on her boots and jeans belt had set the alarm off. Mrs Bennet was immediately accosted by a stern looking woman, asked to remove both items and hold her arms out in surrender position, while she endured being frisked. It was not a pleasant experience. It could have least been a dishy Italian. And anyway, her belt held her jeans up, and with that now removed, she felt the waist slipping down. What can you do but allow the humiliation to increase. With arms outstretched she watched helplessly as her black jeans started to slide downwards. Thankfully the frisking stopped in time for her to reclaim what dignity she had left. She made a mental note to strip before walking through the arch on her homeward journey. Sadly it prevented a dishy Italian getting his hands on her.