A work outing to Venice. Sweetpea (yes, her real name) has captained my ship, run my life, steered me from countless disasters for 15 years and she deserved a decent break. Luckily two of my oldest friends have an apartment in the city. Our first supper at Corte Sconta in the authentic Castello district was sensational. Mixed grilled fish of the day, gleaming artichokes. No showiness, just exquisite food. We scored again for lunch next day outside in the sunshine on Campo Santo Stefano. Trust me to break the magic by booking us a Saturday night table at Harry’s Bar. We had to settle for 7 p.m. and then in an inner room, no view. It went from bad to worse. The bread was stale; the waiter, irritated each time we questioned the menu, unashamedly hostile. He and another waiter were looking at us and openly laughing. We began to feel like a quartet from Wisconsin on our first trip to Europe. The main course – we all had fish – was overcooked and swimming in a tasteless sauce, and on my plate was a single frizzled artichoke. Dishes of disintegrating vegetables followed. Enough! I called for the bill. The maître d’ came to check on us. ‘It’s been shockingly disappointing,’ I said. He removed the tab and apologised. Maybe it was a bad night in the kitchen. We left a little nonplussed and opted for Caffè Florian for pudding, where there’s a choice of nearly a hundred patisseries. I grabbed the bill. It was less than €50: a bargain. But not as cheap as Harry’s Bar.

It’s nearly 70 years since The Spectator lost a libel action after describing three prominent Labour politicians as having shocked the Italians with their consumption of alcohol during a socialist conference in Venice. Nye Bevan, Dick Crossman and Morgan Phillips sued and picked up nearly £10,000. A fortune for the time. My first trip to the city was with my wonderful Hampstead neighbours Jill and Michael Foot in the early 1980s. No guidebooks required. One morning in St Mark’s Square, Michael waved his stick towards the corner café where he said Nye and the others had enjoyed themselves ‘rather too much’. Were they drunk, I asked? Very, was his response.

After the arctic weather, I could hardly believe I could hear the buzz of a wasp as I put my head on my pillow. But no mistake, the sharp sting on the fourth finger of my left hand confirmed it. I did as instructed, bathed my hand in ice, took an antihistamine and a paracetamol tablet. What I didn’t do was remove my Russian ring – in effect three rings – of gold and diamonds. The next day a lump nearly the size of a golf ball had blown up on the knuckle of my finger, which was clearly blocked from swelling upwards towards my hand. God bless Cirencester hospital, somehow saved from countless attempts to close it and now a daytime minor injury unit. The nurse didn’t blink, just ushered me into a cubicle and said she would get the glass cutter. Alas, 80 minutes later and two glass cutters broken, my ring remained in place. I thought the fire brigade might help. But the nurse called the local jeweller, who shut up his shop and came with a variety of terrifying instruments. Ten minutes later the ring was shattered into six pieces. He said his wife was a GP and endlessly pleaded with A&E departments to have a ring cutter. I have ordered one for Cirencester.

I have a recurring fantasy that Sir Keir Starmer has won me in a raffle for a morning. First, we will shampoo his hair and remove what I presume is the gel that forms that quiff. Next, I will devise a way to convince him never, ever again during a 20-second televised soundbite to utter the words ‘moving forward’. The only time I’ve heard this phrase used is in scripts at call centres as a means of shutting up whingeing complainants. In the time left, I will serve him several large gins and suggest that, when faced with an awkward question, he tries replying: ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea.’

You need the patience of a robot to serve in a shop in my local town of Burford. I’ve yet to witness a tourist doing anything but browse – they never purchase. Dashing into our wonderful cheese shop, my way was blocked by three very large Germans. I got past one daughter and the mother, while the other daughter was leaning over the glass in front of the cheese display, taking photos. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you bought some cheese instead of just photographing it,’ I demanded. ‘I already buyed it,’ she said. ‘Bought, bought,’ I retorted. ‘Are you a teacher?’ whispered the teenager behind the counter.