Sometimes on weekend mornings, we read at the breakfast table (you can throw your hands in the air if you have to but I promise you the world doesn’t even wobble on its axis). Often, Boy reads to us in Italian. We help him with the pronunciation and, where necessary, put our heads together to come up with the most appropriate translation (mine is often more general than Dr B’s, as it’s not my mother tongue, after all, but occasionally that’s beneficial because I will go for the wider meaning rather than the every-word translation). It’s usually fun and we have a good time while helping Boy with what definitely comes under the heading of homework.
This morning, Boy first picked a short story that was brimful of tenses and lengthy asides that we were all too tired to struggle with (too southern for Dr B, too foreign for me!). At our suggestion, he willingly picked another that turned out to be about a cyclist, Mario Soldati‘s Il Campione (The Champion). That was a good choice despite its tricky language: even if he wasn’t always able to work out the words, he could work out the sense of what was being said because, being a cyclist himself, he could visualise what was intended.
I, needless to say but I’ll say it anyway, continued to knit Boy’s beanie all the while.