Umbria Funk

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David bought a copy of the Times from a news stand, to see the announcement of Tom's "Outstanding" result in the Bar Vocational Course. Walking along the Corso, he felt like the Complete British Tourist, in his shorts and hat, carrying yesterday's newspaper.

Rather than stand in a heaving, sweaty throng all evening, we decided to watch Prince from the relative comfort of the stepped terrace. This required us to be in the queue when the gates opened, two and a half hours before the scheduled start. We bought a picnic at the Coop: anchovies, artichoke hearts, pate, bread and cherries, with lots of water. In the event, we could have followed the example of the many locals who turned up at 915 pm and squeezed into every remaining inch of space; but that wouldn't have been British. We're a nation that resents people who get good seats without forming an orderly queue and sitting on concrete for three hours.

At the gate, notices warned us sternly that video recording and photography were strictly forbidden. On the first drum beat of the opening number, thousands of rectangular lights appeared above the silhouetted heads of the crowd, the screens of smart phones filming the gig.

The show filled three and a half hours. After a drink on the terrace of the Brufani with Marc and Vandy, we stopped off in the small local pizza bar next to the flat and bought slices of Margherita for a Euro each at 230 am.

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