Shutter Island lives

Murano, or Shutter Island as I called if after the horrid horror film, was an experience, but not one that I would recommend. Having been dropped by the ferry at the arse end of the island and been forced by that nice lady decorator to “enjoy” the glassware for which the island is justly infamous, we finally found some civilisation away from the prison style dormitories that prevail around the glass blowing factories. Perhaps the “accommodation” is part of the punishment for creating such monstrosities? The world’s limited resources are being squandered on such disastrous style statements, such as in the picture shown below. It had a sign saying “no photography” but I felt it was my public duty to expose to the world the full horrors of what I had been forced to experience. At least with Auchwitz you choose to bear testament to the horror perpetrated. Here, there was no choice, at least not for me.

Greenglass horse from Murano, will go well with the chesterfields don't you think

As I say, we did finally find somewhere civilized for lunch and enjoyed pasta with clams and Sardines Venetian, which I would like to describe as blinding because that would be the kind of joke one would expect if a regular reader of this column. As it was they were good but perhaps not blinding.

Then back into central Venice to see the Rialto Bridge and seek a cafe where we could indulge in an afternoon cigar, with a little prosecco to wash it down. Helicopters over head continually overhead marred a convivial last afternoon, a trifle noisy due I suppose to the presence of the pope in Venice. I suggest that they are there to ensure

the pontiff does not nick off for a quick dalliance with a nun, but find no one amongst our party who will concur. I suspect there may be some amongst us with catholic sympathies.

In the evening, Harrys Bar, with its long tradition of hosting the rich and famous for over 80 years was the venue chosen for an aperitif. Having failed to gain entrance yesterday due to at least one of our party being improperly dressed, we ensured that the nice lady decorator was not once again wearing her gondaliers costume, and tried again. Her claim that the reason for being refused entry earlier was that some of us were wearing shorts was clearly not the main reason for our being disbarred, so we were determined not to allow her to make the same failed fashion statement again.

Peter Lynn had tried to talk me out of ordering a Bellini there, but I was determined to see some belly dancing as that seems to be what he did when there. So a couple of bellinis and a couple of martinis and we were over 100 Euros worse off and not a bare midriff in sight.

Worse was to come as we found a cheap restaurant near St Marks Square, which cost a mere 150 Euros a head for dinner, a snip, at least I felt snipped afterwards, a bit like a man from the Jewish faith might feel.

As soon as it was suggested that she was beaten, when the nice lady decorator initially refused a grappa, saying “I am not going to drink that shit”, and the realisation that she would be held to account for said refusal, she decided belatedly that she would indeed partake of “that shit” and in fact in the end, as I had predicted, one was not enough.

Today we will leave Venice and head back through tunnel hell that is Italy towards the Cote d’Azur, and if I get me way, a slight diversion for a night at Lake Guardia. However, regular readers will be aware that my chances of getting my own way require subtle even subliminal suggestion, cunning and a good deal of good fortune.

My angloinfo blog was posted this morning and enables me to have another rant about Royal weddings, this time the farce set for Monaco

Chris France