They waggle picturesque farmer's markets and stone houses restored to their former glory with a budget of thruppence under the nose of an unsuspecting viewing public, with nary a sodding word about the dead cheetahs with hard to locate vaginas.
If they put my life on that programme I can guarantee that the "expat" immigration would drop to single figures within a week.
There are days when I loathe being married to an antiques restorer/dealer.
Aside from the fact he keeps trying to sneak horrible, dark ugly furniture into the house that takes up half a room yet proffers the same storage capacity as a very small teacup.
Also aside from the fact I have to nag for a year solid before he'll take me to IKEA and then he whinges the whole time there unless I distract him with salmon every five minutes.
This is one of those days.
Any normal person clearing out their dead maiden aunt's house would chuck most of it in a skip.
But, oh no, he has to bring it home, into the house and spend hours prodding everybody into admiring it with him.
Which accounts for the slightly stuffed, real
Other wives who have been sick for ten days solid get bunches of flowers.
I get a dead cheetah.
It's just not the same.
Whiskers, who has just discovered his (soon to missed) "marbles", is trying to hump the head.
My son is running around yelling "that isn't the Virginia !!!!" and trying to push him down to the tail end.
Oh yes, come live in Italy and be immersed in culture.