This was not our only gumby tourist moment in the soul-destroying labyrinth that is Rome: I am not, by any means, one to point the finger of shameful blonde moments. Together we could start a collection form this trip alone: Kylz asking who Keats was and which way it is to Stonehenge from Picadilly Circus; me asking what the blue flag with the circle of yellow stars is (answer: the European Union, which I studied for five years, two degrees and $37 000 worth of uni debt).

To cap it all off, Kylz has not quite yet mastered the art of the vertical photograph, meaning that I could traipse the world over and have nothing to show for it but photographs of me standing before a backdrop of random steps that could be anything: ‘Hmm, this is me at Bucko Palace, me at the Eiffel Tower, me at the Trevi Fountain - note the different shades of limestone?’

Speaking of the Trevi Fountain, coffees here start at a whopping €5, so we quickly moved on for a random detour to the Jewish Quarter, to appease my inexplicable and slightly weird fascination with all people of Hebraic ancestry.

This was the old ghetto into which hundreds of thousands of Jews were packed during WWII; light refreshments are cheaper here but we’re still ripped off by a couple of euros when we pause for an on-the-spot chocolate hit. (Due to our associated-guilt complex from that whole extermination thing, though, we let the vendor get away with it. How’s that for mending fences?)