Crazy like a fool

Phil's in bed trying to ward off a sore throat. I'm drinking €3.50 plastic cups of campari spritz in the sun at Bar San Calisto, and alternating between the new Sally Rooney, writing in the Notes app of my phone, and watching an old man dance to Funky Town and Daddy Cool and Desperado.

He has two wing men. One is wearing a bandana and a shirt unbuttoned to just above his tummy button, and does nothing other than sit slumped on a stool, tapping his foot in time with the music. The other wing man is wearing several chains and a sideways Ferrari cap and is drinking a big bottle of Peroni while a cigarette hangs out the left hand side of his mouth. He wouldn't even know there is music playing.

I lie. As soon as Michael Jackson came on the boom box, Ferrari was up dancing.