Late, late, late. Our broadband has gone into some kind of hibernation and won't wake up. Mr F is in melt-down about it and the words 'banana republic' have been heard. He'll no doubt be ranting about it on his own blog so I'll confine myself to a couple of this week's lovelier Venetian moments.

We went to our favorite pasticceria and I was struck, not for the first time, by the profound reverence Italians bring to the breakfast moment. They stand at the banco and focus, cup in one hand, brioche in the other. They gaze into the schiuma of their cappuccino, sigh, and then slowly sip. The bit I love best is when they run the spoon round the inside of the cup, to capture every last fleck of milky foam. I'm not a cappuccino drinker myself, but when I see that I'm tempted.

Dissolve to several hours later when I had the tricky job of co-ordinating a rehearsal schedule for our pantomime's juvenile chorus. The choreographer can't do Tuesdays or Wednesdays, the juniors have catechism Wednesdays and on the telephone the caretaker of the parish rooms was decidedly hazy about Fridays. Only one thing for it. I went round there.

The parish rooms are wonderful. The 1950s trapped in amber. They are also a refuge for men of a certain age, with time on their hands and perhaps the need to steer clear of She Who Must Be Obeyed until she's finished dusting and mopping.

Fridays in November, it turned out, were not a problem. It was simply that Signor Custode was looking at the diary for December. A little too much grappa after lunch, perhaps. Anyway, my visit was the highlight of his friends' day.
A wild-eyed Englishwoman desperate for a space where six children could dress up as rats and dance.
You couldn't make it up, Luciano. You couldn't make it up. Pass the grappa, mate. And is it me, or is the Sacred Heart of Jesus hanging a bit lopsided?