Ecco tua figlia!’ I exclaim as my Mum picks up the phone on the other end of the line. She doesn’t speak a word of Italian, bless her, but hopefully it won’t take her too long to work out that it’s me, her long lost daughter, calling at last. ‘Sweetheart, how are you? We haven’t heard from you for ages.’ Oh no, here come the hidden, read-between-the lines reprimands. I’ve had a lifetime of interpreting Mum’s real meaning when she says something, so I’m used to it. I have only called home twice since I’ve been here, but I’ve sent loads of texts & emails, so it’s not as though I’d disappeared off the face of the earth completely. ‘I’m good thanks,’ I reply. ‘Course is going well, I’ve made some great friends, and this place is amazing!’ I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of telling her about the dreams – I’m not completely stupid. Mum would be over here before you could say ‘Uffizi Gallery,’ whisking me back to the safety of the UK, away from all this, where she could keep a close eye on me.
