A rare and delightful moment while roving around a secondhand bookshop in Dublin had me stumbling across a true (personal) literary treasure. It was during the brief period in the summer when travel between Italy and Ireland was permitted and I’d nipped home for my annual dose of Irishness. Not on the lookout for anything in particular, my eyes passed mindlessly over the shelves before an unexpected title peeped out: The Irish Signorina (1984) by Julia O’Faolain. “Well, that’s what I am!” I said to myself. Or rather, what I was, for then I began to ponder when one departs signorina territory before entering that of a signora.