George is back from his three months holiday in Italy.
He arrived at the door the other evening.
Gone are the flowing locks of hair, the t-shirt, jeans and trainers. He now sports a fuck-you buzz cut, thin scimitar-shaped sideburns which curl up almost to the corners of his mouth, and a diamond-stud in one ear. His black leather jacket is softest Napoli leather, his trousers Cerruti and his shoes black calf leather, hand-made in Palermo by Uncle Benni's cobbler, a man called Nino.

"I've got an idea. Capiche?" he said and I said, "Good. But sorry, we don't have any Italian cheese."
George frowned and leaned forward and looked at me like Robert de Niro. "Whadda y'know about  the internet? You familiar with it?"
"Well, yes, I think so. What do you have in mind?"
George nodded a couple of times, clasped his hands like a priest, and said, "I have a money-making idea. It involves getting 200,000 people a week to go on a website."
"Wow," I said, "that's a lot of people."
"Yes," he said, "but the question is, do you think there is a way to make money out of such figures?"
"Well, if you're getting that number of people you could flog advertising, for starters. You'd make a mint."
"Hmm, good."
"So what's your idea, then?" I asked.
He looked at me and smiled a thin smile. "Well, I was hoping you could come up with something."
I frowned. "George, what exactly have you been spending your time doing in Italy? I thought you'd be working on ideas. Like, specific ones."
He laughed. "Mate, no-one works in Italy. They just eat and drink. There's nothing else to do."
"Anything at all?"
George nodded again, looking at the floor before suddenly looking up, spearing me with his new black-eyed contact lenses. The diamond in his ear winked.
"I'm thinking vegetable shop. But here's the point - it's online."
I looked at him for a while. "Want some wine?"
"I thought you were never going to ask. But mate, you got any Aussie red? I've had enough Italian to last me a lifetime."