Signor Bialetti looks worried. I would prefer that he looked happy. He looks dumb struck, as though watching a disaster unfolding in slow motion, knowing that there is no time to verbalise a warning, yet desperately hoping that his upward pointing finger will have the power to create a picture of the rapidly descending piano in the soon the be flattened mind of the innocent passerby who is about to become the innocent victim of a length of weakened rope or an inadequate knowledge of knots. I have always been slightly apprehensive about pressure cookers ( a phobia that I hope to overcome this year) and their ilk, and this sort of coffee pot is of that ilk. Maybe Signor Bialetti is trying to share his worry with me. He’s made a few bob selling millions of coffee makers, and now he’s trying to come clean. Like the innocent passer by, I’ll continue on my way until the piano brings an end to it all.