Sure, I've watched the whole 6 seasons of The Sopranos in the past 6 months, so maybe I'm tuned into this stuff. But contra deals, meetings at night, prosciutto and parmesan arriving at la casa for no particular reason known to us... they all lead me some tricky realisations.

I've seen some things, man.

Sure, I've watched the whole 6 seasons of The Sopranos in the past 6 months, so maybe I'm tuned into this stuff. But contra deals, meetings at night, prosciutto and parmesan arriving at la casa for no particular reason known to us... they all lead me some tricky realisations.

I took the oath, and was 'welcomed into the family.' But now I had to make a choice: keep making thousands of lira selling stolen televisions to feed my family and put Vito Junior through college, or be a law abiding citizen and join the witness relocation program.

There would be challenges, name changes. I would have to sell the Maserati. Go all low key. It was gonna be real tough, but worth it to get a straight job.

So we had the big 'sit down.' In Italian. They had more guys than I did, but all due respect was given (where due). Two days later, I carefully packed all my things into the mostly reliable but likely unroadworthy old green team car and burned out of Toscana heading 400km north to Lombardia.

I stopped at Modena to refuel the macchina verde with diesel, buy a pork sandwich and wipe down my velour tracksuit, my gold chain glinting in the sun.

I was happy - no more bunk bed, no more pro bono work as a doctor/PR manager/counsellor. Pro bono is for lawyers, man.

And now, here I am, in Brunello, Varese. Staying with a wonderful family who have accepted my criminal past and the fact that I once lived closer to Roma than northern Italians ever like to contemplate.

They are warm, welcoming, generous and understanding. He is a retired pro cyclist, now working for Pinarello and she is a full time mother/wife and jewellery maker.

Their 9 year old daughter, Anna, is sharing her bedroom with me. It's the dream girl's bedroom - pink walls, pink sheets, Cinderella bedspread and Miley Cyrus posters. It's made me realise that my Da was right to deny my sister and I Barbie dolls when we wanted them. All that does is start a torrent of desire for girly-themed acoutrements. And being girly-themed as a 9yo girl would be bad, right Da?

I'm 3km from the AIS base in Castronno, so now I have training buddies, great climbs, lakes surrounded by snow capped mountains and a 9 year old Italian teacher. She's harsh on my improper use of verbs, too. But I'm willing to tolerate it - the only equines I see are happy cantering ones on the walls, and not horse's heads in the bed.

Tutto posto!