Hot date

It was hot at 33c for lunch, the aforementioned chicken with spuds and sweet corn and french beans from the garden. Chilled red wine.

Today was the fortieth anniversary of the Bologna station bombing. A day of searing heat. I heard the bomb go off and rushed downstairs to the entrance to our building. The porter said they were saying it was the boiler under the bar that had blown up. ‘Boiler my arse’ he said and drew a finger across his neck. Already the streets were filled with ambulances. They went on all day.

Days later a million people gathered in the boiling Bologna summer to stand in the main square, aghast at what had been done to their city and their country. I watched from a corner for hours as they filed past from every corner of the country.

I marched with the hotheads up Via Independenza past a cordon of riot police to scream ‘ assassini’ at what was left of the station.

85 died in what was a gratuitous and despicable blow at the heart of Italian democracy. The neo-fascists failed.

Ora e sempre resistenza.