After a car horn/scooter symphony which lasted into the wee small hours, Verbania post-World Cup what-the-hell-was-Zidane-thinking-and-in-any-case-if-you're-going-to-headbutt-someone-and-get-sent-off-you-might-as-well-hurt-them-not-just-knock-them-over-victory was in something of a subdued mood. The streets were barren, as if the whole town had gone on holiday a month early, with only the occasional Italian flag draped over a balcony to suggest a more likely state of events. My worst fears of an Italy so hungover that all practical infrastructure would be sacrificed in exchange for another couple of hours in bed were not realised, however, and bus, train and metro were safely negotiated with such efficiency that I found myself back in sweaty Milan by late morning.
The building over the road from that of my collaborators' had been divested of rather a large quantity of glass overnight, most of which had seemingly been redeposited on the pavement in front. "You see the consequence of the victory of Italy," said Alfio quietly with a wry smile as I walked up the stairs into a muted office.
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