This is London and somewhere in Italy

This is the view from the roof of Walker Books, which is where I work. I'm not sure if you're allowed on the roof.

This is the view from the roof of 153 Petherton Road. You're not allowed on the roof.

This is East Croydon train station. I was waiting there to meet Arron and Greg to cycle down to Brighton (they didn't fancy the "South London shit bits").

This is the logo from a packet of IODAL Fino, which is an Italian salt brand. This tells us we are now in Italy.

This is the inside of our hired Fiat 500. Look at this picture whilst listening to Taylor Swift's Red on MAX VOL for the full experience.

This is the same scene drawn on a much rockier road, giving everything a charming Quentin Blake style wibble.

So that's nice.

Argentina

Here are some sketches and bad photos from my fun but unremarkable trip to Argentina in March. Please look at it.

Valerio's

Last week I went to that great balsamic boot, Italy.

Specifically I was back in the Marche region, in the medieval mountain town of San Ginesio. I suspect it's usually a sleepy place but it never is in August when everyone dresses like old paintings and marches back and forth drumming furiously for a month solid like renaissance Duracell bunnies.

One day we went for a cut-throat shave at Valerio's on the piaza. It was just like one of those old gangster movies where someone goes for a shave.

Otherwise it was mainly cooking and crosswords and cross words. You know, the usual family stuff. (Not my family, mind.)

I went to Mallorca

Last week I went to Mallorca. Mallorca is my favourite island, along with River Island and Fernando's. I went there last year, or at least around it, for a disastrous sailing trip. This time we stayed very much on land - specifically in a villa near Pollença.

I went with 5 friends.

And whilst they all read and bathed and chatted and lolled I sat away from the group in the shadows, drawing. I did a little spread for each day, look:

A place in the wind

Back in October I was lucky enough to get an invitation to a Tuscan villa retreat. Fresconaccia they call it, which Google translates as "Fresh threat" but apparently means something more like "windy place". In fact it was neither threatening nor farty. It was just five days of tearing mozzarella balls in crisp autumn sunshine, like an ad from the Lucca tourist board but with more topless ping-pong and some shameful drunk freestyling.

Whilst there, I drew this:

So that was nice.