So.

So it's supper time.

I'm making pizza.

Well, you can't go wrong with Jon's pizza,

(The best pizzas in the world according to Joe!)

I like doing pizza.

I like the smell of that wine red sauce

bubbling on the stove

Rendering down into poetry.

I like working the dough

Till it's as springy and

soft as an adolescent earlobe.

So

I grate the cheese,

I oil the tins,

And I'm reaching for my rolling pin

When it happens…

An image flashes into my head!

It's me, Giovanni

Italian maestro,

Caressing the dough

With my long expert

Fingers

Using my expert Italian hands

to shape

And flatten

And throw!

The way I do it!

The way I lift each piece

Casually

By the edges

And spin it up into the air!

The way it curls back

Into my

Beautiful floury hands,

Bellissimo!

Hmm…I'm thinking

Maybe I don't need a rolling pin?

After all, I've done so many pizzas

They would probably stretch

From Llandovery to Milano.

There must be olive oil in my blood

And mozzerella in my brain

(And I certainly know my pesto

From my oregano!)

So

I prepare for action.

I flour dust my fingers,

Testing them like a pianist before a concert.

Such long slim fingers!

I pick up the dough,

Stroke it with my fingertips,

Stretch it,

Until it's round and soft

and ready

to go.

A quick slap!

A deft flick of the wrist

And up it spins,

Soaring in a graceful arc

Over the table.

It's like the beginning of 2001:

That first pizza

Soaring high into the air

Twisting and

Turning

In beautiful slow mo.

And then it starts to fall back

Curving

curling

towards my

Out-Stretching

Up-Reaching

Welcoming hands.

But suddenly the fingers panic!

They remember who they belong to!

They start flapping,

Clawing at the air like nervous birds,

So

The dough lands

Thud!

Onto the table.

It sits there,

Looking at me,

All springy and squat and smug

Because it knows

I come from Llandovery

And I'm clumsy

So

I haven't got olive oil in my blood

I've got potatoes

and mud…