This Sunday, on the shortest day of the year, I was woken at 7.15 (6.15 British time) by brilliant light streaming through the windows, and stepped into the bathroom to watch the sun rising into summer-deep blue sky over the Leonessa, the lion-shaped hill that marks the rise of the snow-dusted Apennines, visible for miles away in the still, clear air. Sunrise brightened the gold of the oak leaves, most still on the trees, the startling orange of ripe persimmons and the silver olive leaves, before picking out the nameless yellow flowers that look just like jonquils but flower from October right through January - wild flowers, a present from a passing bird. There are things money can't buy.

More than enough of them, in this glorious corner of Umbria, to take the expat mind off the things a pound can buy precious little of in euroland this Christmas. Such as, er, central heating oil - but who is not cringing at their central heating bills back in the UK? And we can always fall back on ancient wheel-about stoves cheaply heated by gas bombolas. Their use may well be outlawed here in Italy, as they certainly would be in H&S-obsessed Britain; but in Italy no one bothers about such finicky details. No, decidedly no: this semi-expat is not for moaning.

What's more, I find the sob stories from continent-bound Brits panicking about sterling's sudden and undeniably painful downward plunge against the euro somewhat perverse. The time to fret about the cost of living in the eurozone is not now. It was when the euro became legal tender in 2002. Exchange rates are a today-tomorrow thing - remember how the euro tanked following its firework-popping formal launch ten years ago this coming January? But there was nothing impermanent about the hefty increase in the price of just about everything that accompanied the moment of conversion from national currencies.

Here in Italy, the government sent lira-euro calculators (Lt 1,936.27 to €1) to every household in the land. It must have forgotten to send them to the bars, the restaurants and the shops, though, because most retailers evidently found it simpler to convert at 1,000 to 1, more or less doubling overnight the cost of the grocery run and, to universal outrage, of that quick shot of espresso without which no Italian can face the day ahead.

So, if they survived that hit to their standard of living, and before they take the estate agents' fire sale advice to knock 40 per cent or more off the asking price of those just-refurbished houses in the Dordogne, Chiantishire or Marbella and tail it homeward, my advice to my countrymen would be to think a bit about why the pound has slumped to near-parity with the euro, and how long it will stay down. They may not know the answer: who can, with confidence, say they do? But at least they will have asked the right question. If their answer to the first part of the question is the word “Brown”, maybe they will think twice about rushing back to the Blessed Plot.

The euro has won this round of the beauty contest, no question; but there are only ugly sisters in the line-up. It has roared up against the dollar as well as the pound this month, though it is worth remembering what a seesaw ride the euro-dollar rate has been since summer. The euro hit a record high of $1.59 in July, only to fall to $1.25 in late October before it bounced up to $1.39 last week.

But this has had far more to do with the widening gap between ECB interest rates, still 2.5 per cent, and America's, now near zero, than with confidence in the eurozone's economic health - which is low, and sinking fast. With Germany headed into its worst recession since the war, France contracting, Italy in the doldrums and Spain's already high unemployment soaring with the bursting of its property bubble, the Deutsche Bank expects the euro to be back down to $1.21 within a year.

As for the 20 per cent fall of the pound against the euro, an overlooked factor is that, reflecting stronger growth in the UK than in core eurozone countries, the pound has been extremely strong in recent years (too strong, in terms of purchasing power parity, making London the most expensive city in Europe). The higher you climb, the farther there is to fall.

When the City hit the rocks this autumn and “No more boom or bust” turned into “No more boom. Bust”, sterling was heavily hit. Logically enough: the UK's heavy reliance on financial services made it likely that it would suffer a particularly severe recession. In addition, investors were alerted to just how much of that seemingly impressive growth had been buttressed by public borrowing and a three-fold increase in household debt. The final straw, though, was yet again interest rates: once the Bank of England slashed rates to 2 per cent with further cuts expected, sterling assets looked decidedly unattractive.

Brits living in continental Europe have to put up not only with shrinking wallets, but a touch of condescension. The French feel vindicated in their distrust of le capitalisme sauvage (which really means distrust of capitalism). After a decade enduring lectures from Gordon Brown about their earthbound economy, the Germans are being less than tactful about their views of his housekeeping. And here in Italy, La Stampa gleefully calculates that, at the current exchange rate, Britain's GDP was lower than Italy's.

Not that the newspaper was as gloating about this discovery as all of Italy was back in 1987, the year of the short-lived sorpasso when Italy overtook Britain in the international wealth league. For Italy, too, it said, there was “nothing but trouble ahead”; no one is talking about an economic miracle, far from it. It is widely understood that the strong euro is no blessing, and also that the eurozone recessions could be more stubborn and lasting than in Britain and the US because of the ECB's slowness to cut interest rates. The pound would then perk up.

What people do ask, in amazement, is why on earth the Brits, instead of savaging the politician who got them into this mess, are more inclined to vote for him. Is it masochism, or fog on the brain (the myth of smogbound London never dies)? Or are we just plain thick? To feel broke is bad; to be thought stupid is worse.

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