WORKIN’ 9 TO 5 DOLLY PARTON STYLE

It sounds a bit weird to say that, but without my job, I would probably be dead by now. My work has been my life saviour when my mental illness reached its worst bit, and if I’m here typing this blog with my sanity (almost) fully intact, it is only because I had an office to go to 8 hours a day, 5 days a week.

work-e1534063287773.jpgI am an Executive Assistant, which is like a Personal Assistant on a higher level, or as I like to say it, I’m either a “glorified secretary” or a “babysitter for adults in the corporate world”. Jokes aside, my job is only one thing about me that I have always loved desperately, fiercely, and immensely.

I have always been a person full of hate for everything regarding myself: I hated my body, I hated my life, I hated my brain and all the mental stuff going on in there, I hated the way I look, the way I talk, the way I dress, I hated everything and anything and some more, but never, ever, EVER my job and the person I am once I close the office’s door behind my back.
Outside work I was a mental mess, weak, ugly, shy, insecure, with barely any self-esteem; at work, I transformed myself in a highly confident, strong, efficient, tireless, unstoppable Silvia, who can do whatever it’s requested and some more on the side.

My work has been instrumental in moulding the person I am today, and the reason is because I met amazing people who have coached me and helped me grow, both inside and outside the office.

I remember my first ever job as a guest assistant in Milan’s main business exhibition centre. For a shy person like me, who could barely look at people in the eye, let alone speak, it turned out to be a baptism of fire. Having said that, the buzz of wearing a uniform and be helpful made me feel on top of the world. When I stepped in my first office as a junior secretary aged 20, I was both terrified and fascinated at the same time. I got hired by this family-run company who traded in the production and supply of concrete materials for the building industry.
I knew absolutely shit nothing about it, and I was only supposed to be the pretty lady who opens the door of the show room to our customers, the one who brings the coffee to the boss and does very basic secretarial stuff (answering calls and emails, buying stationery and keeping everything tidy). My manager didn’t take long to see the potential I had and not only he gave me more and more responsibilities, but he also encouraged me to come up with my own ideas to improve things in the office: from re-arranging the showroom, to re-organising the way he kept track of all sales, together we revolutionised that small office and made it in a highly efficient one. My manager soon became my best friend and we had the greatest time ever. I loved working for that company to bits. Unfortunately, mismanagement and a though economic situation in Italy meant that the company had to cut costs, my office got sacrificed in the name of savings and I got made redundant.

I cried all my tears.

Thankfully I got hired pretty quickly by another company, this time a worldwide Certification Body (ever heard of 9001, 14001 and 18001 certifications? Me neither before that job). The best way to describe those two years is: hell on Earth. My manager was the most hideous, horrid and nasty piece of work I have ever encountered in my life. He hated me from day one, because I got hired by someone he hated (like it was my fault, right?) so in his eyes I was “the enemy”. Like I could have cared less to go at war with someone who pays my salary! He insulted and humiliated me very single day for whatever reason he could have thought of, whether work or non-work related. Anyway, this two years taught me a lot more than I’m happy to admit, and all for the wrong reasons: I became an ace at covering my back, at protecting myself against anything and everything thrown at me. I learned to mask my true feelings, to watch my back like a CIA spy, to solve any issue as soon as I became aware of them and before they landed on my manager’s desk, and to keep a straight, imperturbable face anytime I got yelled at (only to run and cry in the bathroom, or in my car). Gosh, I don’t wish that experience on my worst enemy. Two years of pure bullying. I prayed every day, whilst driving my car, to have an accident and end up in hospital for months. Thankfully it never happened.

My saving grace came when I decided that I had enough, and I wanted to change so badly that I was ready to go and work anywhere, for anyone, as long as I could get out of that shithole.
Every day, driving to my workplace, I could see the headquarters of this very famous American company. One day I told myself “why not checking their website. They must be hiring someone. Maybe I could send my CV there and then who knows, my commute would be parking there instead of here”

Me being me, I got all fired up, I started browsing their website and applying to every job I could without not even remotely caring about the actual location of it. Two days later I get an email back from the HR leader saying she was very interested in my profile and to give her a call to discuss the role and get to know each other. Her phone number started with 02, which is the same as Milan. AWESOME!
I call, and the number is not working.
Weird.
I check the email back. No, I typed the number correc… hold on a minute. I scroll the email to the bottom. I read her signature. I check her phone number. It is actually +4420something something.
Shit, it’s London.
Oh well, I’m sure that’s because this is a worldwide company, with offices all over the world, I bet they want to test my English level.
No. It didn’t take long before the HR leader asked me where in London am I living because the office was going to move from Mayfair to Hammersmith and she wanted to make sure my commute was not an issue…. And I had to tell her that actually, commute-wise, I had quite a journey since I lived in Italy! We liked each other though, and she told me she was coming to Italy for her holiday in the next couple of weeks and she would have loved to meet me.
We did, and it was love at first sight. However, I didn’t hear a single thing till a month after that meeting (and my hopes were already dead by then). She apologies profusely, asked me if I was still available and if so, if I was interested in relocating to London and join the company.
I think my heart stopped for what it felt like a lifetime.
I ran in my living room screaming like I was on fire. When I broke the news to my parents, my mum started crying and screaming “my baaaaaaabyyyyyyy going so far awaaaaay” (…..), whereas my dad tried to keep his cool and calm me down. I cried, I didn’t know what to do, but my dad talked me into accepting the offer and give it a go: a month, maybe six, at least a year…

8 years (and counting) later, I’m so grateful for having grabbed that awesome chance.

I moved to London as a young, fragile, ultra-shy girl, still traumatised from two years of bullying. I have been welcomed by a team of wonderful people, who took me under their wings and worked non-stop to re-build my self-esteem, to inspire me into trying new work1things to improve myself and, most importantly, they became my new family and they moulded me into this crazy, confident, no-shit taker and no fool suffering fierce woman. I remember the very first time my manager called me on stage after a two-days long convention I organised for him to praise me in front of a 100+ colleagues. As soon as everyone gave me a standing ovation, I burst into tears (and I’ve been inconsolable for a good half an hour afterwards!). I still cry whenever I get any gesture of appreciation. I’m a softie, what can I say!
When my mental health took a turn for the worse, it was my workplace who stepped in and saved me. I never told anyone what I was going through at the time, but the fact that I had things to do and people who trusted me to do them well turned out to be a massive help. Even though I felt more like wanting to (seriously) die than face my day, knowing that I was going somewhere safe and caring gave me that strength to get out of bed and keep going on.

I still work for that awesome American company, even though I had a three years stint at

xmas.jpg
Merry Xmas! Needles to say, my desk was the best

the BBC at some point. My office is made of crazy, funny, awesome people. We work really hard and we party even harder. I became famous for my acts of craziness. Everyone knows that when I go “I have an idea: how about….”, something totally bonkers is about to happen, like when I decided to not sleep one night to chat with my Chinese colleagues in order to get some documents one of colleagues desperately needed, or when at Christmas I started a “decorate your desk” challenge, and since very few decided to participate, I took the matter in my own hands and I wrapped every single desk like a Christmas present……
My boss is awesome. He is at the receiving end of my rants every Monday mornings. Seriously, he is a legend, and the team I work with is just fantastic, we love each other to bits and there is no better cure for my sadness than hanging out with them. The day I got dumped and I was unusually quiet, everyone rallied around me to cheer me up. Well, every time I’m too quiet they check on me, because it means that I’m either very sad or scheming something….

And when I’m plotting something, it is generally one thing: a proper prank.

nicholas
half-way through my prank

It started one day that a colleague pissed me off by not complying to my instructions, meaning that I ended up sorting a massive mess. I wanted to make him pay for what he did.
I made a mistake ordering stationery few days earlier and I found a way to sort that problem and avenge myself: I covered his desk in post-it.
I patiently peeled them one by one and covered the whole thing. Not a soul that day dared to stop me. I was mad! His face when he saw it the next day… PRICELESS!

Oh, the day the same colleague stole my spot at Wimbledon by convincing one of the managers to take him and not me!!! I was FURIOUS. I was hysterical. I slammed my fists at my desk and yelled “SHIT IS GOING DOWN TODAY!”.
I stormed to my colleague Marge’s desk, told her to get ready cause Wimbledon was coming to the office. She looked puzzled but let me get on with my madness.
It took me a good hour to get everything I needed whilst cursing and hissing, but in the need I turned his desk into a Wimbledon court. A work of art.

wimbly

wimbly1I’m still proud as fuck about it. It was so good that Marge and I went to Tesco, bought champagne, strawberries and cream (traditional of Wimbledon’s tournament) and had an office party there and then. We even sent the pictures to our colleague saying, “when we can’t come to Wimbledon, we make Wimbledon come to us”.

danielFor another colleague/friend who always had a massive breakfast at his desk every morning, I turned his desk into a breakfast heaven for his birthday. The look on his face when he saw it: his jaw dropped to the floor.

The very best? One of my managers resigned and I cried all my tears when he did. He is a Liverpool FC fan to the core, which I hated since my ex is a scouser and anything Liverpudlian makes me sick because of him. However, I loved my manager too much to let him go without a special present.
On the Monday of his last week, I printed everything I needed. Then, on the Tuesday, I woke up at 4am, got to the office at 5am, locked myself inside his office room and turned it into Anfield stadium, completed with football pitch with Chelsea FC (my team!) against Liverpool FC.

 


It was just magnificent.
He worked his remaining days without even moving a single picture because he loved it to bits.

To this day, I haven’t managed to make anything that special (yet), but something tells me I should start coming up with something soon….

TOMBOY IS AS TOMBOY DOES

As I said in a previous post, it has always been pretty clear that I never was your average, typical girlie-girl, all pink and dolls.
My dad couldn’t have cared the less, since he got the best deal ever with me: he had the daughter he so desperately wanted who was a total daddy’s girl, but his little girl behaved like a boy and, most importantly, liked boy-ish stuff. Not to brag, but I was the one who took my dad at San Siro Stadium for the first time ever in his life to see AC Milan playing (and then we ended up buying season tickets), just sayin’….

My mum, on the other hand…. Well…

baby
My mum and I. WTF was I wearing?

She has always been fine with me being who I was, don’t get me wrong, and whoever dared to say anything against my tomboy nature ended up regretting it big time. Having said that, she would have loved a slightly less tomboy daughter, and she has always tried to make me appreciate more feminine things. I think she hoped that, by forcing me into wearing girlie clothes, somehow, I’d become more of a girl by osmosis.
The problem is, my mum sense of style has always

dress
You can see it on my face that I was NOT happy

been quite… ehm…. Interesting. Ok, it was the 80s and we were quite flamboyant, ok, but… mum, what the hell! Oh, my goodness gracious me, she made me wear some hideous stuff when I was a little girl! For the record, she still stands by her choices and she still think I was sooooooo prettyyyyyyyyy (no mum, NO).

Unfortunately for her, I have always been a rebel at heart, so I’d (repeatedly) crush her hopes of appreciating less boy-ish stuff at any given occasion. I have been so ruthlessly destroying all her attempts, so much that when I now buy some very nice, female clothes (and some very daring ones too), or stiletto heels, or makeup (I have an addiction for lipsticks that I can’t or won’t fight) she asks me first if it is for some dress up party, then when I say “no mum (eyes rolling) it is to go to work / out / to this dinner (etc.)”, I can see in her eyes that she is about to shed a tear or two. To give you an example:

me
Wimbledon princess

A month ago I bought a white dress and a Panama Hat to go to Wimbledon. I took a very lady-like selfie. I looked really pretty. I sent it to my mum, hoping to fish some compliments AND to impress her. She texted me back asking me if I photoshopped myself in that dress.
Thank you very much mum!
In the end, I had to FaceTime her, whilst wearing that dress, to convince her that I actually owned it and that it was really me who was wearing it. I know….!
Back to my childhood though, It was not just the dresses and the toys that I didn’t like, it was… everything, really.

Oh my, I still remember my first (and last) Nativity play at school.
My mum bribed my teachers to allow me for once to play the role of the Holy Mary. My mum was (and still is) very catholic so it was a big deal for her. More so, it was one of the main characters, so I would have been a girl, in the role of the most important woman in Catholicism, and all the school would have seen me like this. Dreamland!
My mum had a cunning plan: she knew that, to make it appealing to me, my teachers had to make me think it was not something already decided: I would have had the chance at having a go at that role, but I would have had to fight tooth and nail for it; if I suspected my mum was behind the idea I would have refused for sure (I guess I have always been a bit of a looney).
I fought tooth and nail, yes, just not for what she hoped for. During the day teachers were assigning roles, my mum got a call. They informed her that her lovely, precious daughter ended up having a tantrum of biblical proportion (pardon my pun!) because at first, I was refusing to take part in the play. Like, over my dead body I am doing this shit and stand in front of my whole school. No way, Jose. The teachers then hoped to sweet talk me into giving me THE role every girl dreamed of, and apparently I said:
“Holy Mary? I don’t want to wear a light blue sheet and I want nothing to do with that creepy baby Jesus doll”.
They tried to find alternatives for me, but I stubbornly refused every single possible female role they came up with. When they were ready to give up, they simply asked me what the hell did I want to be. About time! I kindly and happily replied them that if I were to take part, the only role for me was being one of the Three Kings, either Melchior or Balthazar because they had the coolest names ever. They called to beg my mum to make me change my mind.
Aaaand this is the story of how I ended up being the first ever female Melchior in a nativity play in that school. Ohhhh I was so proud, carrying my frankincense! Oh, when I kneeled in front of baby Jesus, damn! I made quite the impression. Holy Mary may have had baby Jesus doll and the “central” role in the play, but I was the king and I was wearing a massive CROWN. In your face bitch! (I asked my parents to look for those pictures. If they find them, I’ll post them I swear!).

There was one time though where my mum didn’t try to make me do female things. I still laugh about it when I think of it.

add
The original add featured on a magazine back in those days

I think it was the end of the 80s or early 90s. My mum and I were having lunch and we were watching tv. The ads came on and BAM! To promote their jams, this Italian company made a contest for children to participate: in order to win one of the toys they had as a prize, children had to draw a picture of their favourite fruit (or fruits); it could have been a funny picture, a cool one, or simply a very nicely drawn one; they had to include a lovely letter saying, in case they were selected amongst “the lucky winners”, which toy they would have liked to win. They had to send everything in a letter by mail (those were the days) and then hope for the best.

Whatever, I thought. I rarely ate jam anyway, and definitely not of that brand.

Not long after that, I saw the very same add on a magazine I was reading. I had a look at the toys (the boys’ ones, of course). My heart stopped. One of the prizes was a massive Ninja Turtle action figure, and not just any Ninja Turtle, but MY FAVOURITE Ninja Turtle: Michelangelo (hey, come on, in the cartoons he ate pizza all the time, he was a bit goofy like me and was the funniest, sweetest turtle of the lot).
I wanted it.
Oh my god I wanted that toy so badly I would have done anything to get it.
I had a friend at school who I always played with (our mums were very good friends) who had Leonardo, and I asked my parents to buy me Michelangelo so that we could have played together, but my parents told me that it was too expensive and they could have not afforded it so… no.
This was my chance.
I knew that bloody turtle was meant to be mine.
I went to my mum yelling and screaming, all excited. My mum said, “ok sure let’s do this, let me read the rules so that we do everything right, we can do this!”.

I stared at her reading the terms and conditions of that contest in awe.
At some point, she stopped reading and said “oh… oh no”
“what mummy?”
“well, it looks like girls can only pick girls’ toys and boys can only pick boys’ toys”

Hey, this was 30 something years ago ok? Now there would be Twitter storms full of hashtags and pure rage, Facebook would be plastered with boycott campaigns, there would be articles on every newspaper and magazines, debates on tv, you name it. Back then? Nobody really cared.
Apart from yours truly, who wanted that bloody Michelangelo turtle and was having none of it.

The lawyer in me started arguing my case (in a slightly hysterical way): oh my gosh this is so unfair that I have to choose a girls toy that I don’t even like, and why is that, why can’t I have a Ninja Turtle, I don’t even like jam anyway unless it’s apricot jam, it is not my fault if all girls’ toys are rubbish, look mummy, look, they are disgusting, this is outrageous, mummy, we need to do something, we need to do something about it because I want it so badly”.

My mum was not even listening.
She was reading and re-reading the add, trying to come up with a solution.

“ok, I have a plan”

I froze. Silence fell. My eyes became as big and shiny as two lightbulbs.

“you want that turtle? Ok. Listen. We are going to draw the best picture ever, and when we’ll write the letter, you’ll sign it as SILVIO. We’ll pretend that you are a boy, they’ll never check anyway, and if they do, we’ll say that your handwriting is shit – after all, an a is an o with a little tail, right?”

Hell yeah, lying has never tasted so great like that day.
My mum and I draw something like 10 drawings, they were funny as hell, we made fruits say something very silly: I still remember what we made the cherries say because it was in rhyme and I almost peed myself from laughing hard (“noi siamo ciliegine e siamo un po’ cretine”, which means “we are little cherries and we are a bit silly”). Anyway, she helped me writing the super lovely letter in which this poor boy Silvio desperately wanted the Ninja Turtle of his dreams that his parents could not afford and off we popped to the post office to ship that precious envelope full of hopes.

I think we waited a month or so for an answer, I don’t remember, but it had to be quite a while because my mum and I convinced ourselves that we didn’t win.
One day the postman knocked on the door.
My mum went to open as usual, and I followed her because I was nosey as fuck.
The postman was holding a parcel.
My mum looked surprised as she was not expecting anything.
Then the postman said “It’s not for you madam, I think this is for your daughter, though funnily enough they misspelled her name (start laughing) see? they wrote SILVIO”.

We both had a heart attack there and then.

My mum quickly dismissed the postman and slammed the door behind her back. We both quickly run in the living room and, with incredible fury, we ripped that parcel to pieces.
There is was: my incredible, amazing, fantastic, beautiful Ninja Turtle.

I have never, ever been so happy in my life.

I gave my mum the biggest hug ever. Silvio fuckin’ won this shit!

FORMULA FERRARI

I have always been, and I will always be, 100% daddy’s girl. I am not sure if this is the root cause of me being a total, unapologetic tomboy, but I can’t deny that my undisputed love for my dad had certainly an impact on who I am.

Hands up, no lies, my dad in my eyes was this mystical creature descended from heaven, the saviour and bringer of anything good and amazing, the legendary super powerful dude who-drives-the-car and who-goes-to-work and who-spends-time-in-office and who-owns-a-computer and omg he is such a hero fuck you stupid princes my dad is the real shit. I never quite got why the entire planet Earth didn’t consider itself honoured and blessed to be The Planet were my dad was born – I certainly considered myself being so lucky to be his daughter.

As you can imagine, anything my dad did or said was pure gold out of a fountain of diamonds and rainbows; anything he liked was to be religiously and devotedly liked, and anything he owned or hoped to own were the official Most Precious Things Ever Existed.

Much for my mum’s dismay, it became quite obvious that I had more things in common with my dad than with her.

He loved (and still loves) to travel, he had amazing stories to tell, he took beautiful papapictures, he used to have a dark room kit to develop photos from film, he did some pretty cool stuff when he was “young and wild” (and hippie!)… excitement all around. But most importantly, my dad has always been into sports. When he was at home, the TV was constantly showing some sport programme: NBA basketball, wrestling, football, motorbikes, athletics, skiing, you name it.

For the average Italian catholic family, Sundays were the days dedicated to God: you had a shower, you wore your Sunday best clothes (aka: the prettiest dresses to make all other church-goers green with envy), you went to church to attend mass, you spent mass doing some proper fashion police and gossiping about people you saw, you repented from your sins (or pretended to), and if you survived long enough to see the end of it, then you went to the nearest patisserie to buy dessert to take home for the Sunday lunch.

Well… in my house, only my mum was (is) religious. My dad is as atheist as it comes. My mum made sure I did all the sacraments and Catholics bits and bobs, hoping for me to develop some sort of faith. I did, just not for the God she was hoping for. For my dad and I, the Only Religion Worth of Worship was Formula 1. Still is! (yes, and to a much worse lever of hysteria, for the record). Trust me, when people talk about “religious integralists”, they could have easily portrayed my dad and I on a race Sunday. Infidels-hating people? HA! No match for my dad and I’s rage against whoever dared to step in the way of Ferrari and its racing glory. Oh, and we A L W A Y S watched it live (and still do). Even if it meant waking up at 4am and be barely able to keep our eyes open.

The ritual was always the same every single racing Sunday: silence fell at exactly hqdefault12:00pm with the first few notes of Grand Prix’s theme tune (an Italian programme about Formula 1 and motorsports in general). The presenter, Mr Andrea De Adamich (a former racing driver), was our Pope. My dad and I stared at the TV without even blinking our eyes. If we were eating, we didn’t chew, or swallow, or anything, to not miss any single breath coming out of the presenter’s mouth. No guests were allowed, unless they loved Formula 1 AND only if they brought luck to Ferrari. I remember I had a friend, during those glorious Schumacher years, who supported Mika Hakkinen and McLaren. For four Sundays in a row, he came over to watch the race at my house, and in each race, Michael Schumacher didn’t even make it to the first corner. I unplugged the 526x297-u6llandline and went into hiding, or faked sicknesses, or other things to avoid him like the plague on the following Sundays (vengeance tasted so sweet when Michael won in Monza and Hakkinen was found crying somewhere around the track)

Of course, my dad and I spent Sundays praying. Oh yes, we did! We prayed non-stop, deeply, and intensely, we prayed hard and till tears run down our faces… only we prayed whoever the Ferrari drivers were at the time to not let us spend another depressing Sunday afternoon witnessing Ferrari doing the usual shitty race and mourning the driver’s championship that surely, we’ll win – just not this year (again. FFS).

Put it this way, I learned the hard way that prayers don’t work. Period.

Whenever Ferrari won, our household exploded: we got the cakes and the wine out, we’d shout, and jump, and scream, then I’d run to grab my enormous Ferrari flags and I would hang them in every window or terrace of the house. My mum was not allowed toschumacher_1980206c touch our display of Ferrari love up until the following Sunday. YES SIR. Oh, when Michael Schumacher made the Miracle with capital M to win the Constructor’s championship and then, finally, the DRIVER championship. My dad and I cried for a week solid, and then we enjoyed 7 blissful years of:
– turning the tv on to watch the race;
– sit on the sofa (bed in my case, as I had the tv in my bedroom);
– watch the race start;
– ensure Michael was leading the race;
– fall asleep;
– wake up when Michael was on the podium;
– repeat the next race.

s-l300On Monday, my dad would buy Austosprint, the most famous motorport magazines, and when he finished reading it, he’d pass it on to me so I could cut Ferrari’s pictures and stick them to my bedroom’s wall. If it was summertime, then he’d also buy “La Gazzetta dello Sport” every day. I am proud to say that those two things helped me perfecting my reading skills at a very young age, because my dad was kind and prima schumi-kVkE-U901001961194ISG-350x467@Gazzetta-Web_articolosweet, yes, but after the fourth time I made him re-read the same old article, he’d tell me “learn to read and read it yourself!”. And rightly so! Oh, that day I read that Ferrari was about to sell Jean Alesi and Gehrard Berger to hire Michael Schumacher… I was FURIOUS! I hated that German prick with a passion. That hate didn’t last long though!

My dad’s and my love for Formula 1 has been often borderline insane; I bet that my mum has secretly wondered more than once whether she should have had us locked up in a mental facility. The stuff we did…. like waking up at an ungodly hour in the morning to queue at Monza and get the best seats to watch the private practice’s sessions, lying to my mum “we are just having a little gathering with some Ferrari fans….” and ending up in Monaco for the Thursday practice session (my mum was not pleased….). There is one lovely episode that I feel like sharing though:

My dad knew I was madly in love with Nigel Mansell. He is still today one of my all-time Ferrari heroes (my son’s second name is Nigel… just sayin’…). One of the Italian petrol companies came up with a Formula 1 sticker album, with all the drivers and cars: every

nigel
of course I bought his authobiography!

10 Mila Lire of fuel (no Euros when I was a little girl!) you got a bag of sticker, so the more you filled your car, the more stickers you got. The thing was though that fuel of that brand was more expensive, and my dad didn’t really want to spend more for some stickers, since my bedroom was plastered with Ferrari stuff top to bottom anyway. I begged, I begged, and I begged some more, till he gave in and said, “ok but JUST THIS TIME”. He filled the car, got the stickers, gave them to me.
We both held our breaths whilst I opened the first little bag.
And I saw it.
One shot, one kill, here it was, Nigel’s sticker in my hand.
We had a moment of silence.
My hands were shaking.
My dad and I screamed the car down of happiness (I bet he was also very happy that he didn’t have to put up with a very disappointed daughter and, potentially, more fuel purchases to find that fucking sticker!).

The price to pay for loving an extreme sport is that, unfortunately, sooner or later, you’ll learn that those daredevils you hail as heroes are just as mortal as you are. My dad used to tell me all about those legendary accidents that he witnessed over the years of his Formula 1 love, such as when Niki Lauda almost got burned alive in 1976, or when Wolfgang von Trips collided with Jim Clarke’s car and his car went flying, killing him and 15 spectators at the Italian Grand Prix in 1961. I remember how emotional it was for both of us, walking around Monza’s circuit, and stand in the sport where it happened. Yes, if you are wondering, my dad also talked an awful lot about his personal legend: Gilles Villeneuve.
When you are a kid, and you hear all these stories, you don’t really get that these are real things. Most importantly, you don’t think that, one day, you’d be the one witnessing it happening in front of your eyes.
My rose-tinted, legendary portrait of the Formula 1 world ended dramatically on the 1st of May 1994, when Ayrton Senna died at the San Marino Grand Prix. Even though 24 years have passed since that fatal day, I still had to pause for a moment before keeping writing about it.
That race was just… NO. That weekend was doomed from the start.  Rubens Barrichello almost died on the Friday practice session. On the Saturday, Roland Ratzenberger was killed by crashing his car at 310kmh on a wall. It was not looking good. But, life goes on, and to quote Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, “After all, tomorrow is another day”. I can still see it happening in front of my eyes as we speak. It felt so surreal. I didn’t want to believe it. Nobody wanted to believe it. My dad was shocked and he wanted to just shut the television for good. He knew. I didn’t. I held on to all the hope I could with all my heart; I prayed, yes, for the first time I summoned any god or anything above to do something and… please don’t take him, please don’t. I spent my day glued at the TV in search for news, any news. In the evening, Ayrton was declared dead. I cried like a baby in my dad’s arms. My dad just kept hugging me in silence. Ayrton was gone and with him, the fairy tale died as well.

Ok, before I burst into tears, let’s bring the mood of this post to a fun one, shall we?

As I said, my passion for Formula 1 is still alive and strong. Even though we don’t have our Sunday ritual anymore, my dad and I are still as crazy as ever. Even though he is in Italy and I’m in the UK, we make it work but furiouslyferrari2 texting each other constantly during qualifying session and, most importantly, during the race. We don’t have filters, and most our conversation is made by an endless list of swearing words, curses thrown at random drivers, F-bombs (or, V words, as we go VAFFANCULO in Italy) and so on. Yeah, we would make sailors blush.
However, I missed sharing this crazy passion of mine on a daily basis with someone, and guess who is now at the receiving end of my Formula 1 love? My dear colleague Shary!
I know you are reading this my friend, and I want to use this space to personally thank you for being an awesome friend and Ferrari fan. You are da best in da world!

shary
bad Monday….

Shary and I are on a constant stream of Formula 1 talks and updates. We live and breathe BBC Sport Formula 1 Gossip. On a Monday, depending on how the race went, we don’t even have to talk: we just look at each other and we instantly know what the other one is thinking… and then we start debating like two Formula 1 pundits, much for the “pleasure” of the other colleagues surrounding us!
Over the last 2 years I’ve worked hard to get the rest of my office not only into the racing spirit, but also into supporting Ferrari, and to do so, I have used the most powerful resource after “money bribery”: FOOD. Everyone knows that, if Ferrari

ferrari
caught in the act of delivering the cake

wins, I will bake a cake and bring it over to celebrate. They may not watch the race and be truly Ferrari fanatics like Shary and I, but they WILL check the race results and they will text me “so…. How about Lemon Drizzle?” “is it going to be Red Velvet tomorrow?” “can we have cake even though Vettel arrived second?”
I’m telling you, should Sebastian Vettel win the Driver’s championship, I’ll bake a cake so big I’ll need to come to the office in a truck to carry it!!!!!