Ruben is late. He should have been back from lunch an hour ago and my rumbling stomach is complaining about having to hang on for so long. We made the decision together at the start of this tourist season, to keep the shop open and take turns for lunch, rather than close up for an hour and a half as a lot of the smaller businesses do here. We're keen to make the most of this year's foreign custom, the financial situation in Italy has not really bounced back from the crash and we have a sneaking suspicion that someone along the line is reaping the benefits of maintaining it so.

He finally arrives, flustered and rosy cheeked, out of breath from the walk up the hill.

"Have you seen the papers?" He wheezes, crossing the shop to me at the till, waving a copy of a British newspaper.

I gather my bag and phone, ready for the off, "No, what's got you all hot and bothered?"

"They've only gone and done it!"

"What? Who?"

"Your countrymen have voted to leave Europe, it's actually going to happen, can you believe it?"

Then, leaning on his elbows on the cash desk, he regards me in an enquiring yet cheeky manner. "How am I going to pay you now that you're 'extra-comunitaro?' 'Straniera?' A complete non-European?"

"What are you going on about?"

My media information of the world further than Bergamo hasn't expanded beyond cartoons and musical films since Charlie's first birthday. Princesses being her - and consequently my - only digital knowledge.

"The Brexit vote. England said yes. You voted by post, didn't you?"

"Not that I remember. This is the first time I've heard about it. "Looking quizzically at my phone, I wonder, "Why didn't Mum say something?"

"Well, that's it, Jilly, no more salami or parmesan for your family."

I give him a cross stare and go to the door, my hungry belly dictating my bad mood as much as the current events. He smiles, looking straight past me to the door and exclaims to a customer on the doorstep, his eyes gleaming.

"Buongiorno."

Our mystery man, this time dressed in what can only be described as a khaki African explorers outfit of matching shorts and shirt, enters and returns the smile to Ruben. Proceeding to actually browse through the clothes rails for the first time ever, he removes his sunglasses and bites the end of one of the earpieces as he concentrates. He must have felt us watching him.

We are caught in a catatonic state, observing his unfamiliarly normal behaviour. As if to put us at our ease he doesn't disappoint us and flashing his handsome blue eyes he puts his hands in the air and starts waving and bopping along with a beat-box rhythm that's playing from some kind of gadget hidden in his clothes. Looking like a rejected safari guide with popstar ambitions, he starts a little freestyle.

"I miss the green grass,
I miss the cold weather,
but there's something they can do
that Italian's can't do better..."

From the corner of my eye, I can see Ruben bouncing and nodding his head along with the crazy man. He's as bonkers as this guy! A grin is sneaking its way onto my face, the absurdity of this handsome man getting the better of me. His serious expression is ridiculous, it's like being in the middle of a Monty Python skit.

"Becoming Britannia once again, does anybody else know
where this is gonna end?
Tripping on my tongue,
the words I gotta say,
England oh England,
hell, you are gonna pay."

Still doing his gangster moves, the crazy guy leaves us standing and dances out of the shop.

"What the fuuu...?" Is Ruben's comment. Then, seeing my expression he laughs at me. I'm way to shell-shocked to respond right now, so I just raise an eyebrow and go for lunch.

It's all anyone can talk about, in the café, supermarket, at the school gates, the only thing I ever get asked about is 'Wow, what's your opinion? Did you vote to stay or go?' And an even stranger reaction from my personal point of view is; 'It's so brave, Italy should do the same, let's have Italexit, let's get the lira back, cut off the south and keep the money we make here in the north to ourselves.'

Politics is not something Jack and I have much interest in. But at this particular stage in European history, we feel closer to the effects of political decisions that could well affect our lives.

"I think it's a wonderful idea." Is the opinion expressed by Harry the aviator during one of my weekly video calls to England. "It will make our economy stronger, and we'll cut out all the money we lose to pay for the rest of the slackers in Europe. Greece and the rest of them will have to do without our help and sort themselves out for once."

Mum's ideas are still at the formation stage, and she cautiously disagrees with her friend.

"I can't see it going through, to be honest. I'm pretty sure that there'll be another referendum. Scotland isn't in agreement, and England won't want to lose a grip on all that North Sea oil up there."

My life situation dictates my standing on Brexit. "I can't believe that people fell for it! How does Gran feel about it? They were all lying about the money being taken from the NHS, the only thing the 'go' voters did it for was to get rid of as many immigrants as possible. Who do they think are going to do all the jobs that they don't want to do now? The new generation want to go to university and turn their noses up at anything less than eight pounds an hour."

Gran's viewpoint is a lot more personal. "It's a big mistake, if you ask me. I remember when we joined Europe in the seventies, we aren't anything on our own. My Bertie fought in the war for us to be a part of something new. To stop the divisions happening ever again. Now look at us, it's stepping back in the wrong direction."

********
At the beginning of autumn, we take a trip as a family to Simon's favourite place in the world and trek round the zoo, pushchair ready and fully loaded with a picnic, jackets and toddler supplies in tow.

It's a bit of a cloudy Saturday morning, but the skies aren't threatening to let go of the rain for a few hours yet. It's my birthday today though I'm not feeling in much of a party mood. Thirty-one is the worst. Turning thirty last year was bad enough, but this time round, I could have cried at the thought of being on the wrong side of a third of the way through my life.

Jack thinks it's hilarious. He's already had to deal with it himself a couple of years ago and loves to rub it in. He's doing it right now, laughing and pointing at the chimpanzees with Simon egging him on. The pair of them bonding together over my misery,

"Look, Dad! That one reminds me of my math's teacher. And that one looks like Mum!"

Oh my God, you're right, Simi. She's got the same grey streaks round her face and saggy old belly. Hey, she's even got the same old lady's moustache!"

"Piss off, Jack." I continue walking away from them, pushing the stroller one handed and keeping a grip of little Charlie's hand with the other. She breaks away from me to tap and squeal on the plastic sides of the meerkat enclosure. These are Simon's favourites, and he's not far behind her.

Rushing up next to his sister, he points out to her all the different markings and postures of the funny little animals. Explaining to his captive audience about the communal structure of the creature's world.

Jack, however, has moved onto the next set of enclosures and here is where I discover his Brexit point of view.

One of the gibbons, a small, old, light brown male, is sulking on the grass, alone at the bottom of the large cage. The other primates, all of a darker colour, are happily chuntering away together on a wooden perch high above. As they play and eat fruit, they pause every now and then pelt down the pieces of fruit at the lonesome gibbon. Then one larger male starts to tip up their water container, raining it down on the outcast.

Pointing at the sorry little monkey, Jack says. "He must have voted to leave."

********
Christmas comes around once more, and this year's celebrations are building up to be a bigger event than usual. We have offered our home and our Christmas dinner to not just Zio Alberto, but Angelica and Ruben too. It's going to be a very long, noisy day. Everyone has agreed to prepare and bring some food and drink (which they have to sympathetically keep away from the temptation of Jack) and basically be prepared for a non-traditional Italian celebration.

I'm cooking turkey.

Simon is really excited, jumping from room to room still in his elf-design pyjamas, high on the happiness of all the presents he tore open with his sister at six o'clock this morning.

Jack's in charge of greeting the guests and containing any possible injuries to the children running around. I'm in the kitchen, my saucy-themed apron on over my new red dress, getting my hands well and truly dirty with the turkey.

Angelica's laugh reaches me from the hallway, and I put the meat in the oven, praying that nothing goes wrong. I'm still sleepy from the late night before and the kid's rude awakening this morning. Jack and I had spent Christmas Eve tiring the children out by walking them up and down the streets of Alta, Sissy panting along to keep up.

The shop fronts had been lit with twinkling fairylights, dappled around the sale items and displays. Over our heads, the community's decorative street lights swung from silver strings, crossing the gap between the two sides of buildings. Shaped like miniature lanterns with static false candles glowing inside.

The smell of the customary Christmas Eve fish dinners were encroaching on the tempting aroma of cakes and cinnamon as the inhabitants of this traditional, yet complex collection of northern Italian families, readied themselves for the big day.

Multiple church bells had begun to ring, calling the faithful (and once yearly faithful) to the pews. We were looking in one of the posher window displays when we were joined by a couple, not much older than ourselves.

"Do you live here?" The woman asked us. I supposed that they must have overheard us talking in English, so I said, "Um, yes, are you here on holiday?"

The woman unwrapped her tartan scarf from covering the lower part of her face and continued in her southern English accent. Being on holiday always made the Brits feel more at ease with opening up conversations with strangers. "Yes, it's the first time we've heard of this place. It's a bit like a magical castle with all the old walls and lights. Is it always lit-up this way? No, silly me, it's only for Christmas, right?"

Her partner, slightly shorter than herself, pulled a face at Jack, expressing his boredom of probably hearing the same thing over again."I bet it's busy here all year round, love. Pretty little place like this."

"Where are you from?" I asked the lady, the Christmas cheer, taking a hold of me.

"Essex. And you? How long have you lived here?"

"Oh, I'm from Yorkshire and Jack's originally from here."

"What made you move?" Then, looking slightly embarrassed at her own question, the tall woman suggested, "Was it for you, Jack?"

We all laughed good-naturedly,

"Not really, we got a great opportunity and thought it would be a good change for our future."

"Don't you miss England?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"What do you miss the most?"

"Family, I guess. And the way everything official is done for you, from taxes down to doctor's records, here you have to organise everything and cart your documents around yourself. Back home, good old Auntie Blighty takes care of that stuff."

The man addressed Jack rather than me. "But I should think the weather's better, ey?"

His partner answered for him, frowning at his words. "Of course. That goes without saying. What do you make of Brexit? We can't wait for it to get going. It's about time England got herself back on her feet and thought of herself for once. Don't you agree?"

That's subject again. What a surprise. I chose my words carefully, not wanting to spoil the winter wonderland evening. "I agree with you that England needs to change for the better, and maybe this could help its local businesses more. I'm not so sure about the larger ones though, they'll have to deal with harder competition from being outside the European group. What do you think?"

Quick- pass the buck back.

"We think it's going to be worth it. It's exciting to think that we're starting a new episode of history. Do you think you'll stay here in Italy?"

I looked at Jack, my children, and Sissy, their faces lit by theChristmas lights. "Well, I'm definitely English, but I'm not going anywhere."