We all make career mistakes. One of mine was to allow the word 'zany' to creep into a publisher's catalogue copy. 'Zany' can take years to live down, particularly if you decide you want to switch lanes and start writing deeply thoughtful literature. Not that I did. But I bring this up because last week I saw David Daniels singing in Orlando, and wondered at what point after signing the contract he discovered he'd be expected to wear US Marine fatigues.

Orlando has a pretty dumb storyline anyway, saved only by the music, but I question the wisdom of setting much of the action in a rat's nest of electricity cables. And as for the chorus...well I guess the designer just has a real thing about camouflage gear. 9 out of 10 for Messrs Daniels and Handel, nul points for the designer.

Another night and several pig-based Bavarian meals later we heard Vesselena Kasarova in Alcina.
An unearthly voice that I can hardly wait to hear again so I'm stocking up on her CDs, but she has such presence too. Only July, but I'm already betting she'll be my personal find of the year.

But then back to earth, house-hunting with my mother. The agent, sensing we were less than enthusiastic about the property, showed signs of desperation and began stating the bleeding obvious.
'Window,' he pointed out. 'Radiator.'
Indeed they were. An apartment with a window AND a radiator. Happy thought.

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On the road in pursuit of the angel voice of David Daniels, I leave this week's blog in the capable hands of Michelle Lovric, novelist, anthologist, friend, fellow Venetian-by-adoption and General Good Egg. Check her out at http://www.michellelovric.com

Ten days ago Venice briefly became part of Italy. Normally Venetians would agree with their poet Mario Stefano, that if Venice didn't have a bridge Europe would be an island. But when it came to the final of the Coppa del Mondo, well, suddenly Venice wasn't just part of Italy. Venice WAS Italy.
My husband was honored with an invitation to a private party at our local bar, where everyone stood for the national anthem, something Venetians normally wouldn't be seen dead doing. The owner, Emilio, is a huge football fan. The bar was decorated in the Italian team colors and all his staff wore the team livery. During the penalties Emilio was so overcome with emotion that he had to go into the kitchen to compose himself.
I wasn't watching the match myself, but I knew every time there was a near miss or a goal. Sirens sounded up and down the Grand Canal. It was 90 degrees and rising so everyone had their windows open. I heard every groan and scream. Nobody had to tell me Italy had won when it happened.
The fun started. With big splashes. From our terrace there's a good view of the Accademia Bridge, where committed fans were jumping off. It's illegal to swim in the canals here but the Venetian police are very retiring. Particularly on the night Venice, sorry, Italy, had won the World Cup.
On any important occasion Venetians take to the water, and so the boats started coming, up and down the Canalazzo for the rest of the night, crammed with people waving flags and singing, 'Siamo NOI i campioni del Mondo.'
WE are the World champions.
Indeed.

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Metaphorically speaking, that is. I suffer from this delusion that, having studied German for two years as a schoolgirl, I still have some command of the language. Actually, I have about ten phrases, of which the most useful is, 'I'm sorry, I don't understand.'
I'm going to Germany and I don't like to travel stripped of language, but there are only 600,000 hours in the average life time and one can't master everything. I'm 58 and I haven't even made a start on Polish.
People say, 'Of course, you must be fluent in Italian by now.'
Fluent, my eye! 'Fluent ' is when you use a language every waking minute, to the point where you no longer have to think, is a clothes-airer masculine or feminine? 'Fluent' is when you can begin to say something and with one little mid-sentence flick of your mother tongue leave no one in any doubt about the exact weight of your opinion.

But before Germany we have the Feast of Redentore, when sane Venetians scarper to Brussels or somewhere on a nice cheap Ryanair flight and the rest of us take to the water in anything remotely floatable and party until the midnight fireworks. This is followed by the 12.30 jockeying of boats for pole position and a fast getaway. Canal rage.
The traditional Redentore party foods are marinated sardines and stuffed roast duck. Mm-mm. Just what I want on a sultry July night. I'm thinking, make mine a big slice of water melon and a cold shower. And let's have the fireworks at 10.30.

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I'm travelin'
My wardrobe's unravelin'
I got those don't-know-what-to-put-in-my-blue-suitcase blues

Scattered showers are forecast, with lows of fifty five
Still my humor'll be sweeter if I leave off that windcheater
Cause I got those flashing, glowing, red-faced old broad blues

Grandbaby's gonna ick on my shoulder, public expects to see style
Wish my bias cut silk was resistant to milk
Oh I got those sheet-me-down-in-plastic, why'd-I-ever-buy-this-danged-thing blues

Travelin'
I just hate travelin'
I got those sad shoes, wrong bag, crumpled collar, knee sag, does-this-make-my-ass-look-too-big blues

Yeah

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