I used to live in this little street, in the house of a widowed lady, Signora Donzelli Lucia (I don't know why she put her surname first). She was tiny and I was tall and lanky, and we got on well. I left after a year and never saw her again, although we corresponded for a while. She had a beautiful copperplate hand and her Italian was a joy to read.
The only reason I am telling you all this is to take my mind off my bloody sore throat. When it comes to making a fuss out of a minor illness, nobody can outwimp me. Signora Donzelli Lucia could have told you the same thing.