Since returning from Rome I've been suffering from withdrawal symptoms. An inexplicable longing for a custard filled pastry, a miniature choux bun or one of those darling macaroons.
You see, right opposite our hotel was the neighbourhood Pasticceria, and each morning it called to me, to stock up on a few pastries, just in case the hunger pangs should strike mid-morning.
Of course, my son insisted on eating one of those open cream cakes there and then to chase his breakfast down - after all they would be too squishy to carry around.
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