Ten years ago I visited Sicily for a wedding, and accidentally fell in love with one of the groom’s three hundred cousins.
I plucked up the courage to leave my family and friends in London, give up my job, sell my house, car and collection of seventies disco albums, and move to a fishing village in northern Sicily with a population of about two hundred people (several of whom do still have their own teeth).
Everyone, Sicilians included, keeps asking me how I could do it.
I really have no idea, so I started this blog to try to figure out the answer.
Pretend Sicilian Housewife.
A fishing village on the north coast of Sicily. We have two schools, one doctor, a post office full of marauding old people and dozens of fishermen who sell fresh fish on the beach.
They have my husband’s number on speed dial and phone him from the sea when they catch something he really likes. He waits for them on the beach (smacking his lips) when they come ashore.
Cooking pasta for 30 people at a time to impress my mother-in-law, aka The Godmother.
Putting laundry away QUICKLY before anyone realises I haven’t ironed it.
Avoiding sunburn by smothering myself in SPF 100 till I look like a Geisha.
Travelling around Sicily by car.