"Dov'h lo zio Billy?" It's a cry that can often be heard in our house, usually from the
children. Literally translated it means: "Where's the Uncle Billy?" Some explanation is required.
Parents generally agree that the single most important difference
in child-rearing past and present is the television. An
inappropriate book was easily removed from enquiring eyes and I
remember my mother having no difficulty confiscating The Stones' "Let's
Spend the Night Together." But the television...
Italian children go to school six days a week, starting at eight sharp.
In recompense they come home at one. It isn't always possible to be
around to greet them. My wife returns in the afternoon and hears, as
she turns the key, the familiar scuffle to get away from the viewing
position on the sofa. "The TV is scorching!" "No, it's not," Michele
says.
It's not so much the content that bothers you. No, it's the seductiveness of the moving image itself that is so disturbing. Whether it be the sexual habits of
seagulls, armed insurrections in countries you've never heard of, or
just ageing nuns invited to karaoke outside the Duomo, the children
will sit for hours entranced, then insist indignant that a modern
citizen needs a broad range of knowledge.
"Okay, so what's the incubation period of a seagull's egg, Michele?"
"Can't remember."
Suddenly draconian, my wife confiscates the TV. It's stored away in the cubby. Sullen at first, the children quickly adapt. The toys come
out, the story tapes, even the piano. But in the end, the World
Cup did it, or the combination of the World Cup and a trip to London.
In a moment of inspiration I invented the zio Billy.
Zio being so close to dio, God, is a word frequently used in children's
expletives. Zio Billy is equivalent to 'whatdoyoucallit'. Basically, I
replaced the two-point Italian plug on the TV with a chunky English
three-point. Now to plug in the TV, you need that tiny extension with the English socket at one end and the Italian plug at the other, the Zio Billy.
My wife takes it to work, or hides it in an old ski-jacket, or behind the encyclopaedia. The kids search and search as we did once for Christmas presents. It's become a family
joke, a permanent game of hunt the thimble.
"You're getting warmer. No, colder now."
"Dad, when we next go to England I'm going to spend all my pocket money on a secret supply of plugs."
"You see how active your mind is getting," I tell him.
