Rome, Italy

A groggy Coman wakes and asks me for paracetamol. His head is throbbing, tipped over the edge by that final glass of port. In the darkness I can't find them so we both manage to get another couple of hours sleep before dragging ourselves out of bed at 9.30. We make it to Lemonia for breakfast and just before they close the doors are joined by a sprightly Shellie who, like me, is suffering no ill effects. Clodagh however is less lucky and when she eventually comes into the room, to some perturbed looks from the staff who obviously consider breakfast service closed, she's somewhat pale and wan.

A little sustenance later and Coman and Clodagh feel strong enough for a walk so we head into the park next to our hotel, Villa Borghese. Through the various pathways and roads, past avenues, statues and fountains we meander vaguely towards the city centre. Families enjoying their weekends mill around, tourists take strolls through the trees and piazzas and joggers run past, with headphones in and elbows out to keep the perambulating masses away.

Above us the skies are overcast, and while still relatively mild, I notice that various friends are raving about the blazing sunny day London is enjoying. Here in Rome the sun is hiding behind the clouds, denying us the beautiful heat and vivid blue skies of yesterday.

After twenty minutes or so we make it down to the southern end of the park, overlooking Piazza del Popolo, a large oval-shaped space surrounded by churches and fountains, with the air of Trafalgar Square about it. In amongst the crowds of sightseers, there are musicians, entertainers, magicians and people dressed as statues entertaining the crowds. On one side of the square a guitarist is gently playing Metallica's 'Nothing Else Matters' while elsewhere a film crew is recording some punks busking.

We walk down Via del Corsa, one of Rome's main shopping thoroughfares and pop into both the Church of Jesus and Mary and the Basilica de Santi Ambrogio which boast fabulous interiors. But with so much shopping around us we decide to split up and worship at the temples of Mammon instead. Clodagh and Shellie head off in search of handbags while we hunt for jackets and shoes.

With all of Rome before us and the chance to buy unique Italian tailoring around us, our first stop actually turns out to be Zara where Coman picks me out a jacket. I try it on and Coman approves, however when I I glance in the mirror I decide I look like a gay biker boy in leather and studs. A cross between Joe Orton and Judas Priest, it's not quite the style I'm after. An abortive attempt at modelling a safari jacket reinforces the opinion that we need to look elsewhere.

We turn off Via del Corso and on a side street find a smaller boutique selling various Italian wares. We both try on a variety of looks, all the time with a sales assistant telling us how good we look in each item. I explain that at these prices we'll be looking for a jacket we can both share and he looks at me like I'm mad. Obviously Coman and I are slightly different shapes but it's not like we're from different planets. However the Italian fashionista recoils at the notion that the pair of us would possibly fit into the same items.

Eventually we settle on a jacket that looks good on us both, but decide that it's way over-priced. The assistant refers us to his manager, a loud, dramatic man who thinks we're trying to ruin him with our request for him to slash his prices. I tell him I'd pay only £100 for this jacket in the UK and he throws his hands up in the air with a dramatic flourish; I swear he's about to exclaim "Mamma Mia!".

However he launches instead into a spiel about Oxford Street and Selfridges and how fantastic they are, how much he loves London, how he can't compete with the prices there. As he continues he keeps shaving a few euros off the jacket but we hold firm, telling him he's got a sale, but at our price not his. On he goes, waiting for us to stop him and say we'll take the latest price but he looks at Coman who's wearing the face of a hard-nosed negotiator unwilling to budge an inch and realises all his theatrics aren't even close to what we'll pay.

Finally as we start walking out of the shop he runs out from behind his counter, "ok, ok, you gotta the deal!" He then high-fives us and starts talking in rapid Italian and all we can make out is "David Cameron". Bemused we settle the bill, in slight disbelief that we've got such a huge discount, and try to leave but he runs off and comes back waving a t-shirt which has the faces of David Cameron and Silvio Berlusconi on it. "I love David Cameron," he beams. We make our excuses and leave as fast as we can.

By this point we're late to meet the ladies and so make our way through the maze of streets to Piazza Navona as fast as we can, where we find them looking at paintings, from the artists who fill the square. At the far end a huge booming noise is ringing out of drums and chants. Turns out there's an anti-nuclear demonstration taking place with a stage set for speeches, all aimed at Berlusconi.

We leave the Piazza in search of a quieter spot for lunch. Clodagh and Shellie had found somewhere whilst waiting for us but by the time we make it back there lunch service is closed so we end up in a rather tatty little cafe called Serafini on the Via della Pace ordering salads and fries.

Whilst there Shellie searches her Lonely Planet app for evening restaurant suggestions, having cancelled our reservation at Mirabelle after last night. We've decided to head to the other side of the Tiber to check out the Travestere area, southwest of the Vatican, and settle upon a restaurant named Spirito Divino, an ecclesiastical-sounding establishment which used to be a medieval synagogue.

Rich in history, with some good reviews, it's the oldest continuously used domestic building in Rome dating back to AD 980. Its cellars are even older, pre-dating the Colosseum by 160 years, and it is famed for serving ancient recipes and unique Roman fare. Sounds fantastic so I manage to get through and book us a table for 9pm.

We leave the cafe and wander over to the Pantheon, one of the wonders of Ancient Rome. It's heaving with people but vastly impressive, the huge rotunda letting in light to the cavernous, carved interior. From there we walk back towards the Spanish Steps, stopping off at a souvenir shop to buy a Venetian-style mask for our dining room wall.

Having had a very basic lunch we decide that afternoon tea is in order and stop off for coffee and cakes in the Intercontinental before Shellie and Clodagh visit the hairdressers for a wash and blow dry before tonight's grand dinner; our final Roman night out.

When we meet them later, they are glammed up to the nines, perfect for our first location; drinks in Harrys Bar. The sister venue to the world-famous drinking establishment in Venice, it was the place to be in the '60s and '70s, frequented by the likes of Sophia Loren, Liz Taylor, Jack Nicholson and Raquel Welsh amongst many others. We sit by the piano in the wood-panelled bar and order peach bellinis and kir royales, which at 20 euros a pop mean we have one round and make our excuses. We're sophisticated but not stupid!

Hailing a cab on the street we have a fantastic drive through Rome at night, all lit up and looking stunning before pulling up at a little side street, down which our restaurant lies. Tottering along the cobbles we reach the doorway, above which is emblazoned the legend Spirito di Vino. So much for a religious experience, this will be all about the wine.

Inside we're rather disappointed. Having expected an atmospheric, crumbling building we're confronted with laminate floors, re-plastered walls painted bright yellow, harsh overhead lights and a distinctly unwelcoming ambience. There are plenty of people here but no-one's really talking much. We're shown to a table and then left for a good twenty minutes without even a drink before the owner comes over to talk us through the menu.

He's the father and engaging enough as he describes the food yet as the evening progresses his 'witty banter' descends into casual sexism and then just plain rudeness toward Clodagh and Shellie, which seems unintended but leaves us all with a sour taste in our mouths. The sommelier is his son, and peddles a line of nonchalant sarcasm and indifference to our requests, while the waitress is just plain surly, mixing up orders and ignoring us. Other guests seem to have the royal treatment yet we're left feeling distinctly unloved, for reasons we can't fathom.

We eventually order our food and tuck into the signature dish of pork shoulder prepared to the 2,000 year old recipe of Gaius Matius, cook to Julius Caesar. Slow-roasted for five hours in apples, onion, vinegar, red wine, honey and 18 spices it's interesting but not worth the two millennia wait. Coman opts for wild boar and blueberry sauce. While we wait we check out the wine cellar below which is supposedly one of the lost sights of Rome.

The strange atmosphere continues through the evening and we can't wait to leave. However our taxi never arrives so we sit, by now in near silence, ignored by the staff, for 25 minutes before taking our chances on the street. It's 1am by the time we get back to the hotel, all ready for bed.

It's the end of our Roman holiday, concluding on a damp squib rather than a Roman candle, but hey; we've had a blast. Just a shame the Spirt of Wine proved to be more the Spirit of Vinegar. Tomorrow the airport and home...