Bad Genes.

We further embarrassed ourselves later that night at the Chiltern Firehouse when Nigel reached into his new denims for a 'note' to say "ta very much mate" for that excellent service. Without looking he handed the fella the tenner only to be met with a very black look. We both looked down and realised he'd given him the receipt for the jeans instead. He gave us the once over and realised we must be Australian.

Putting on the Ritz.

Our first night in London and we suffered the absolute ignominy of being thrown out of the Ritz bar for not having 'proper' shoes on. I was wearing my new metallic Golden Goose shoes. You pay an arm and a leg for these to look like you've been wearing them for 25 years while you've cleaned chimney's for a living - we're talking seriously distressed. Nigel was even more so when he realised they weren't joking and we really did have to leave. "But these cost 2 'undred pand" - he spluttered in his best Cockney accent. Unfortunately for us the Ritz butler didn't give a raspberry tart.

Cheers.

Just time to ruin one last table cloth before we leave Rome. 

Tread carefully.

On the 13th June 2007, a man who'd had several Chiantis tried to drive his Toyota Celica down the Spanish steps. He didn't hurt anyone but several of the 200 year old steps were chipped and scuffed. Steps have now been taken to make sure it doesn't happen again.

Roman Holiday.

Waiting for Gregory Peck to turn up. 

Nigelangelo.

Definitely no photography allowed in the Sistine Chapel.

Cardinal sin.

At the Vatican we became mightily interested in the purchase of a bust of Julius Caesar when we realised it was going for the lowly price of 245 yourOhs. The lady of the Vatican shop and her mate Antonio were strangely doubtful of the sale and put many obstacles in our way. Their first offer was for us to order one online, when we didn't immediately bite at that. They said, we'd never get it in a suitcase - to which we said - we'd take it as hand luggage - Nigel is used to carrying heavy foreign bodies through customs (usually his own after a very long holiday) but this suggestion was also met with narrowed eyed suspicion by the Italians. There then ensued a stream of conversation between them, two or three telephone calls and many dark looks thrown at us until it became clear to us that the 'busts' for sale were not actually kept in the shop. To be fair this only became clear when a fella the size of a house came running in, swearing and sweating bullets with Julius in a crate on his shoulder. We both took one look at the size of the crate and realised we'd never get that on board - Dreamliner or no Dreamliner. As we ran shame faced down the Vatican exit plug hole, we saw Julius being unceremoniously carted back to the Vatican dungeons. Our guilt and disappointment was short lived as we emerged into the sunshine to see if we could find a really good Caesar salad instead.