Italy Day 2: Sunshine, Angels & Demons & Free Hairclips

After a wonderfully long and restful sleep in my alcove, I awoke to find sunshine illuminating the stone apartment. A lazy morning included some of the best juice I've ever had (it seems the Italians do everything better, including breakfast juice, Arancia Rossa...mmmm) and laughing at the awful DVD of Angels & Demons. (The apartment came with a great film collection which we worked our way through during the stay.)

My favourite bit of Angels & Demons came from the really obvious dumbing down for the American audience. At one point, an Italian in the film says to Tom Hanks,

"we see you, as, how you say... [with thick Italian accent]... formidable,"

Tom Hanks: "you see me as... formidable?"

Brilliant.

During the film, I get things out for breakfast, including something The Blonde picked up, thinking it was butter. Little packages of something labelled as being useful for panne & pasta - we naturally concluded it was butter.

The Blonde: "Give that butter a squidge love, it will have gone hard in the fridge."

I dutifully squidged the packet then opened it. It was clear that this was not butter, but some grainy, beige yeasty substance for baking bread and cakes.

"Um, Blonde, I think this isn't butter...."

"No, I think it's yeast...." [gag]

Well done us. We hastily learn the Italian for butter for next time we go shopping.

We decide to take advantage of the lack of rain and have a wander round the delightful little city with it's grand but crumbling buildings and marble squares. The Blonde gets beeped at by over-zealous Italian men on a constant basis. By the end of the holiday, it's starting to grate.

Out of season Ostuni is a very quiet place. There's literally no one around and very little open during the afternoons. We managed to locate the internet cafe recommended by the apartment owners and try and get drinks and lunch, Gran Caffe Tito Schipa, run by two friendly Italian sisters Rosa and Annamaria.

It's strange inside - half gelataria, half the living and dining rooms of an old-fashioned Italian house. We ask Rosa if we can have some drinks on the terrace outside (she pours extremely strong G&Ts!) and enquire about lunch - she says in broken English,

"No restaurant, we are cafe - I make sandwich?" We agree that this would be fine, but then after she's run some enquiries with her sister, she announces we can have tortellini - perfect.

The terrace at the back of the cafe overlooks the whole city, down to the valley where a huge white church dominates the background of deep green olive groves, and up to the hill where the Cattedralle sits. One thing that will always remind me now of Ostuni is the smell of wood-burning stoves - the city smelled like bonfires the whole time, and we had a very pleasant break with the intoxicating smell of wood and the sunshine twinkling over the magnificent view.

Soon Rosa comes out and presents us with amazing homecooked tortellini in a creamy sauce with prosciutto, and local white wine which was a straw yellow and tasted more like vermouth. Benissimo!

On the way back to L'Alcova, The Blonde is accosted from across the square by a man who knew Christiano and Augusto the night before. He was also called Angelo. I think most people on Ostuni are called Angelo. We bid a hasty retreat up the hill back to the apartment.

Back in the apartment, I was disproportionately happy to find that the well stocked kitchen included a cat-shaped icecube tray. The Blonde was happy because she had a free hairclip in her packet of Italian kids' crisps. Simple pleasures.

Quote of the day was The Blonde topping her "I love clouds" comment the day before, with apropos of nothing, announcing that she "loved meat" while we enjoyed some more antipasti later that day.

We spent another fun evening in Il Gatto Rosso (we didn't really explore the range of restaurants in Ostuni, we decided to make this one our local as the menu was broad and really inexpensive, and with two euro for a glass of Prosecco, we didn't need to go anywhere else.)

I had a lasagne which I am not sure was completely authentic but still, it was tasty. We were alos delighted by the dolce which was a frozen ball of vanilla ice cream covered in little bits of crisp sugar, with strong coffee ice cream in the middle. Amazing.

We then enjoyed the absolutely brilliant British drama State of Play - possibly one of the best series I've ever seen, and an early night for some more glorious, switched off sleeping.

"Now drink up and f*ck off"

I don't know what it is about me that invites hilarious Eastend-types to try it on. The sort of person who ends every sentence with "innit" and sports dubious jewellery.

Last night I'd gone to meet an old friend, A, for a catch up and some dinner. We'd gone to a local- type pub that A recommended, just outside the trendy bubble of Hoxton. It was a good mix of flock wallpaper, edgy haircuts and old locals propping up the bar. The wine list consists of red, white or rose. At the bargainous price of £11 a bottle, we weren't complaining. I pay double that for the bar house white in the City.

We'd arrived at this pub on the premise of there being a roof terrace, what a charming little gem in the midst of East London. It's shabby but with quirky features like giant plant pots that glow neon after dark, and we managed to get a table both times which is a rarity on a Friday evening in achingly hip Shoreditch/ Haggerston/ Hoxton.

A also recommended what is now my new favourite restaurant: Song Que. No frills, minimal customer service, but the best Vietnamese food I've ever had. On the Kingsland Rd which is wall to wall Vietnamese cafes, this place is apparently one of the older eateries with a long standing customer base. We arrived about 8 and it was jam packed with City types, families, couples; generating a buzzy and lively atmosphere. The tables are in pretty close proximity to each other but it's a pleasant experience. We shared the mixed starter with spicy squid, crispy seaweed and tasty spring rolls. For mains there was sumptuous beef with thick black bean sauce and a real fresh chilli kick, and A ordered monk fish stir fried with lemongrass and chilli. We also ordered some yummy garlic greens on the side - everything was bursting with flavour and generously portioned. We were also delighted to see the house white was under a tenner. The waiter service is no nonsense but the food arrived pretty rapidly so we could enjoy it within our alloted time space. This is not a venue for languishing round the table, rounding everything off with dessert, coffee and liquers.

One thing I'd suggest is that ladies should venture downstairs to the bathroom approximately 15 minutes before you think you might need to go. The loos are downstairs, I was confused to stumble into what's essentially a massive storeroom packed with sacks of rice and crates of beer, with some shabbily partioned-off toilets in the corner. One ladies' loo, eight girls queuing. Not fun.

After settling up the very reasonable bill, we decided to avoid the Hoxton crowd and head back to the roof terrace for smoking and chattering. It's quite a surreal experience climbing up to the terrace, since it's about four flights of narrow wooden stairs, with uneven undulating floors (total headf*ck if you're drunk, I would have thought) and inexplicably, flashing overhead lights that change through a spectrum of colours in a slightly sinister way and make you feel a bit like you're ascending to a climactic scene in a David Lynch film.

While we waxed lyrical about families, mutual friends and randomly, A's latest book passion, whaling (fascinating and inspired me to read Moby Dick today); we could overhear a local loudmouth arguing the toss about being asked to go downstairs with his drink. With an "'Allo darlin'", he started chatting to us and was clearly slightly worse for wear, but friendly and entertaining. So, formally introduced to Spencer (he very much looked like Gary from East Enders but slightly scarier and more on the ball), we sat downstairs with him and his mates who were all of a similar ilk.

Which is where my first paragraph comes in. A young guy, wearing sportswear and a chain, with a London street accent takes a shine to me and starts asking about what I do. I ask him the same out of vague amused interest.

"I work for Bloomberg, like, innit"

"Oh really, what exactly do you do?"

"Closing deals, innit."

"Riiiiight....[looking suitably impressed] What sort of deals?"

"Big ones, yeah? Like 10k and shit." At this point he's doing that emphatic nodding thing to really show me how cool that was. I was thinking it was pretty unlikely he had GNVQs, but he was trying very hard.

"You look well nice, what you drinking, like?" [asked while looking aproximately 12 inches below my eye line]

"White wine."

"Ah right, Chardonnay innit?"

"Um, no."

I've also been accosted at a bus stop by a local guy dripping in bling who's opening line was "You smell nice, innit" - cause of much hilarity at work and new catch phrases. Perhaps I give off some unknown beacon to blokes who listen to R n B and wear bandanas at jaunty angles.

At this point, Spencer, who's stood at the bar, announces loudly to the remaining drinkers, "Time at the bar - now DRINK UP AND F*CK OFF!" A and I take this as our cue to leave the London men to their own devices, not before we're invited to 'Spencer's gaff' to carry on the drinking with them. (The conversation about what to do next included one of them suggesting the bar across the road, but another vetoing it, "I'm barred from there, innit".)

With much unnecessary hugging and cheek kissing from Spencer and crew (all very polite and European), A and I trot off towards our respective houses, laughing at the randomness.

I'm thinking I'll take No'rn I'ron to Song Que for dinner again this eve, since I can't be arsed to cook. Perhaps avoid the local pub though....