“My girlfriend has left me. After four years together, she has left me. It happens, I know. It happens to us all, and my turn has come. This time however I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to throw everything out and start afresh. My second-hand life is for sale; I’m starting a new one. Come and buy. I’m selling up to free myself of all ties.”. (Matteo Caccia)

I break an unwritten rule, presenting something in Italian. It’s worth it.

Vendo Tutto (Everything for Sale): a radio program written and hosted by Matteo Caccia on Radio 24.

You can listen the podcast and the archive of the previous episodes. The sale, real, was on Ebay.
The signature tune is: Ten Millions Slaves by Otis Taylor.

Above: Matteo Caccia, photo from his page on Ebay, detail.

Here, the English summary of: L’orologio da parete (The wall clock, © Il Sole 24 Ore)

The wall clock

“The first time I went to dinner with Giulia’s parents was a very awkward evening.

They had both graduated in philosophy and were both teachers.
They inherited a fortune and never touched a penny of it.
From the little Giulia had told me, I realized that in their youth they had been a couple of hippies.

One Tuesday, Giulia said it was her mother’s birthday and it was about time we met.
I hadn’t done anything all day other than wait for that single most important of events: the Champions League match between Valencia and Inter Milan.

Giulia had to repeat herself three times for her words to sink in.
The third time wasn’t exactly in the politest of terms.
I tried to find an excuse, and found none.

So I got up, pulled on a jumper, a pair of jeans, my old pair of Nike trainers and shouted:
“Let’s go!”

Giulia gave me that look only she could master, and said:
“No way are you going dressed like that.”

She cursed my ex-girlfriends and chose instead a light-blue shirt, a dark blue pair of trousers and a velvet jacket.
I had to admit, I didn’t look half bad.

Giulia’s mother exuded radiance. She was clearly one of life’s enthusiasts.
I gave her my wishes and she said Giulia never told her anything, she knew precisely nothing about me other than that I worked in the world of cinema.
She then took me by the arm and said:
“Come, I’ll introduce you to the cook.”

We went into the kitchen; and I was about to graciously greet the father of the woman I loved when the guy turned round and, stood in front of me, was a dark-skinned man of indeterminate age.

The various possibilities whirled round my mind: a second husband, a white daughter born of a mixed marriage, a lover. She then said:
“This is Anaoura, he’s from Sri Lanka and a fabulous cook.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, partly because now I understood his role, but also because I noticed Anaoura had the television on and tuned in to the match.

In the dining room, I finally met Giulia’s father.
Unlike her mother, he did everything in his power to make me feel ill at ease.
I tried to ignore him, though I had the feeling that, somehow, he was taking the mick.

The dinner was agony though Anaoura’s food was delicious.

While Giulia’s mother was telling us how she yearned to take a course in drama, I excused myself to go to the bathroom; I stood up and as soon as I was round the corner, I made a beeline for the kitchen. Anaoura was watching the screen with his mouth hanging open.

I went in and asked:
“Inter?”
He shook his head and said:
“They’re out.”

Back at the table, Giulia was on her feet and bidding her father farewell.
He then did the oddest of things. He faced the wall and took down the clock. He turned round and handed it to me. For a moment, time stood still. I wasn’t sure if this was a joke, or what. He held the clock out at arm’s length, saying:
“Take it, Matteo. This is yours now.”

In the car, I didn’t trust myself to speak, but a question kept going round and round my mind: what the hell was the meaning of that clock?”