I look out of our room with a view. My mother signals wildly to the driver to put our suitcases in the taxi. They lie in a heap; brimming with souvenirs. Botticelli reproductions, Michelangelo figurines, a new “Bridge” handbag and numerous gallery guides. Our money has all been spent. But we have forgotten something. Like every true holidaymaker we have left the most important site until the last minute.
We have forgotten to fulfil local superstition and pay homage to the benevolent “Porcellino” in order to return to the city. Time is short, our plane leaves in three hours, panic is setting in. We hurtle through the terracotta coloured streets, past Renaissance palaces and the murky city river. As we swing round one final corner, there, basking in the market place, lies the great piglet himself - his proud nose glittering in the sunlight.
