The preamble around the Place dei Campo was done and dusted the imagined roar of the crowd as the horses thundered dangerously three times around the hysterical baying locals faded and lunch was sought...The tourist trap restaurants selling beer and table wine and not offering a lot of choice in the food stakes; we sloped off to the little place in the square opposite the church.
A service was in full swing, at least the incense was; the singing of the choir filled the dome and as more people piled into the huge space, they momentarily dropped and crossed themselves while others left, and turned and crossed, dipped a knee towards the altar and the mother.
An elderly woman in her fragile later years, almost tripped as she turned and, finally on level ground her hand came up and her left thumb pressed the 'on' button of her mobile phone which lit, played a tune and told her she was in touch.
Meanwhile across the square a man was waiting outside the restaurant we had chosen. His choice of shirt & pants could not have contrasted more severely with the bunch that gradually assembled in their bored but safe selection of mid-range greys and something else...
Italian style....
Compare that to Mr Gerrard here... English style; no style. 
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