JaneLaverick.com

Sometimes your plans do not go as planned,  not even slightly.

On Tuesday the plan was that the OH and I would have a day out.  We planned to visit a National Trust property not far from here.  In the end (spoiler alert, as they say, spoilsportingly, now) when we got there and looked round the restaurant the OH remarked, perspicaciously, that we were right in the demographic.  If it is not your ambition to support the National Trust by visiting their properties when you retire, what is wrong with you?  It really is OK to go before you get the walking stick, and, really, accessorising with a grandchild is just a choice.

Accordingly, exhibiting the correct (demographically) behaviour, I rose at seven and was showered, dressed and had endeavoured to get the OH into the bathroom, but still hadn’t brushed my hair, which had one (1) curler in it, and had just made my cup of tea, when there was a knock at the door.

On the doorstep was a very worried young man.  Had I got a key, or a phone number for next door (gesturing) because they’d phoned to report a gas leak but weren’t there and next door the other way had a sold sign but no key?

So I let us in and the gas smell was immediately so absolutely overpowering I was surprised not to find the dog (Socks) flat on the floor with his little paws in the air, choking his last.

The young gas engineer (Nathan) opened every window he could and found the gas meter under the stairs.  I let Socks out into the garden.

The smell was dreadful, no, worse than that, it was dreadful.

I went back home and explained to the OH (who was in the shower) what was going on.  Wrote the phone numbers of Mr Next Door and his Son (who lives at home but is saving up for a cardboard box or similar, like everyone in their twenties) down for Nathan and went back next door into the smell of gas which was now just awful.

By this time Nathan was looking even more worried and asked if I would go upstairs with him and  his device for detecting gas, which had been sounding a loud alarm ever since we walked in through the door.

Upstairs the gas smell was really bad. And, also, everywhere.

Nathan tried to ring Mr Next Door with no luck.  Mr Next Door is an orthopaedic  surgeon with a tight schedule and was probably in the middle of someone’s leg, as it were.  I explained to Nathan that this was the case, so he tried ringing Son (saving for a cardboard box) but his phone was turned off.

Socks was back in the house, also looking worried and getting very barky indeed.  I thought maybe, dog’s noses being so superior to our noses, that he was probably trying to tell us that there was a strange smell, which we knew because it was slightly less dreadful but still pretty gut wrenching.

Nathan had been trailing his device along the hall skirting boards, which was making the alarm sound extremely, well, alarmed.

At this stage, Nathan looked even more worried and the alarm had been sounding a high pitched squeal for about three quarters of an hour, which was about the same length of time Socks had been barking.

I promised Nathan I wouldn’t leave him, took Socks back out into the garden and went next door to fetch my cup of tea, with a small cup of yoghurt (Easiyo, I make it, easy, there’s a website) to have my breakfast next door.

Nathan said the level was going down slightly, but that was only because he had opened all the windows.  He closed the windows, we waited about five minutes, then the alarm went off, the levels skyrocketed, Socks, who’d got back in, barked constantly and Nathan phoned for help, advising me that the levels were now dangerously explosive but not poisonous.

Fortunately I was not stirring my tea with a lit match, so I held the fort while Nathan went off to his van, parked round a corner, to try more urgently to get other gas engineers to attend as soon as possible to turn the gas off in the road before we all went bang.  Well, before those of us not parked round the corner, went bang.

So I gave Socks a dog treat, climbed down the step to the garden without making sparks, and decided to water a plant or two to take my mind off the situation.  Turning on the outside tap, I cleverly sprayed water all over my smart going out trousers, which made Socks, who has stopped barking to eat a dog treat, run round the garden, barking for help from the neighbours, which was a bit pointless, because I was there.

To recap:  an hour in I am in an explosive house with one (1) curler unbrushed hair, wet trousers, a small cup of yoghurt, half a cup of tea (cold) and a dog (Socks) outside running round the garden barking for help.

Happily it was only about ten minutes before Nathan returned having been able to alert other gas engineers (hooray) to the gravity of the situation, with every probability that they might turn up that very morning.

Nathan ran his detector along the skirting boards, it went off and so did Socks.  Could there be gas under the floor, I wondered out loud.  Ooh yes, I was told, it gathers and then…

Being the builder’s daughter that I am, I went into the garden for a stroll round the house looking for airbricks.  I found several.  This, for the unbuilderly, means a suspended floor with a void underneath, which in this case, was full of gas.  Below the suspended floor would be concrete.  Nathan was quick to appraise me of the absorbent qualities of concrete.  The way he put it I felt as if houses were traditionally built on a layer of toilet paper, the situation couldn’t be any worse.

At this stage there was a bit of a breakthrough, in that Mr Next Door, having a quick surgical break, from the surgical break of the leg, as it were, had answered his phone.  He was very sorry, he told Nathan, but he couldn’t get away as he was in surgery.  Nathan looked ready to burst into tears, so I popped back to tell the OH that the day out was off, took the curler (just the one) out, left it in the dining room (on the table) and went back to keep Nathan company.

At least an hour of barking and alarms later two white vans bearing extra gas engineers appeared, parked on the grass outside the house and turned the gas, in the road, right off.

They came inside, Socks went nuts, so I put him in his cage, which is his bedroom and fed him more treats, which each worked for a good three seconds, and the engineers went round the house agreeing with each other that it was really bad, one of the worst they had seen recently and, also, dangerous.

Apparently when a gas leak is this dangerous, what gas engineers would like to do is dig up the drive, because, if the house is full of gas, under the floor, the gas in the road is turned off and it’s been a couple of hours now, easily, has it?  Yeh Kev, the lad rung at half nine, yeh, he did, so what we need is to dig up the drive to find the leak there.  Can the neighbour, like, hello love, give the say-so?

At my instigation, Nathan rang again.  I returned to the OH to beg him to text Mr Next Door, which he was very reluctant to do. ‘He’s busy, Jane.’  I thought he’d be a lot busier if his house went bang and said so.

So I made a cup of tea for all the gas engineers to hold them off for as long as it takes to drink a cup of tea.  By this time Nathan (with a cup of tea in his van safely round the corner) reported a message from Mr Next Door who promised to be there within half an hour.

The OH relented and sent a text and then came round to next door for laddish banter with the gas engineers and within three quarters of an hour at only half past twelve, in his lunch hour, Mr Next Door was seen striding across the green.  Fortunately, being a surgeon, he is quite bright; I was able to acquaint him with the relevant information in a few steps, so that, upon arrival at home he instantly gave permission and immediately the gas engineers took a pick axe to the drive as the Son (cardboard box) who had just turned his phone on, arrived wondering what all the fuss was about.  It also became apparent that he had forgotten to feed the dog (Socks) before he left, so matters soon took a much quieter turn and I went and had my lunch.

After a quick bite Mr Next Door went back to work on the second leg, as it were, Son (cardboard box) was in charge and I could leave, only popping back a couple of times to admire the hole.

At the end of work Mr Next Door, who grew up in a tower block in another country, described the enthusiasm with which tower block dwellers were encouraged to report gas smells. I found it unnecessary to say anything about owning a house, reporting smells and then going to work.

Amazingly, throughout the rest of the day and overnight, gas engineers were parked on the grass, going into the house every hour or so to monitor the levels.  By the following day they had drilled holes in the concrete floor in the hall to let the gas dissipate but it did take another twenty four hours before it all went.  On the following day, having determined that elderly gas pipes were the cause of the trouble, another engineer came and borrowed my ladder to put a new pipe into the house, over the flat roof.

Even more amazingly then the engineers put the drive back, exactly as it had been.

And really very amazingly it did not cost next door a penny.  Sorting out gas leaks in this country is a job for private firms funded partly by the government and partly by the cost of your gas boiler service, so that anybody can be rescued whether rich or poor. It makes me feel I will resent the cost of my next boiler service a bit less, now I know that it not just the responsible thing to do, it may save lives too.

In the Sixties, when I was a teenager, there was a gas leak and explosion, in a house  just up the road.  It was a house in a terrace.  The explosion reduced the house to rubble, making a gap in the terrace and burying the young couple who had not lived there for long. My father ran up the road to help dig them out. The young man was killed and the girl became a wheel chair user.

Although this blog has been light hearted, my neighbours were so lucky.  They reported the smell as soon as it became apparent.  The evening previously they had cooked dinner in the gas oven and not on the gas hob as usual, which was very lucky.  Neither of them smoke, so there were no lit cigarettes.  The lady of the house, away, abroad caring for her elderly demented mother, will still have a husband and son to come home to, which is as lucky as it gets.

And, of course, Socks, the dog.

~~~~~~~~~~~

https://uk.easiyo.com

Sculpture is  skill that can be learned but great sculpture is often a joint venture between learning and love.

I’ve been sculpting dolls for over three decades and have sufficient skill to get the shape I am thinking of out of my head, down my arm and into my fingers.  Usually this is predictable in that you have a good idea of the end result but every now and then, as the shape appears, you fall in love with what you are making, the love seeps into and out of your fingers and you can actually see the love in the end result.  Something is there which is more than a statement of the truth, more than an observation that tells us about what the artist can see that is not readily apparent in the object itself.  You can actually see the love.

I have already introduced you to the horses on the Basilica San Marco in Venice. Scroll down to Rooftop Sketching if you missed them.

No one knows who sculpted these four horses, though they have been attributed to Polykleitos, the famous Greek sculptor active in the fifth century BC, but anyone can see how good they are and how much love has been put into them and, indeed comes out of them.  They have personality and intent, and, were they not slightly larger than life size, you would just pick them up and cuddle them. There are four and it is generally accepted that they were originally, probably, pulling a chariot.

It is known that they were on the top of the starting gate of the Hippodrome in Constantinople.  They were seized during the sack of Constantinople, which marked the end of the Fourth Crusade in 1204.  As previously referenced here, the Venetians used their ships with siege towers built on them, to attack the strong defensive sea walls of Constantinople and make holes in them for the knights to crawl through.  The Venetians and Crusaders, having got into the city, went on a wild rampage, seizing anything of value, including altars from churches, disassembled for the marble, pillars made of rare stones, and gem stones and anything made of gold, which was melted down to mint coins.  Part of the plunder was a massive sculpture of Hercules by known and celebrated ancient sculptor Lysippus.  This too was thrown into the melting pot.

It is a mystery how the horses escaped.  Perhaps even the rampaging Crusaders and Venetian sailors could see how much love had been poured into these four bronze wonders.  They took them from their mounting on top of the starting gate of the Hippodrome, the place of entertainment so famous its name lives on in ice rinks, theatres and cinemas to this day and they carted, or manhandled, the horses down to the sea, put them on ships and sailed for Venice.

They also took relics of body parts of St George and St John the Baptist. These joined the relics of St Mark, smuggled into Venice in 828 AD from Alexandria by merchants.  The bits of St Mark ‘acquired’ an origin story about Mark having visited the area and been rescued from a storm in a lagoon, which rescue predicted his final resting place.  His relics were subsequently lost, miraculously resurfacing following a rebuild of the basilica.  A procession and prayers caused a holy odour to emanate from a pillar in which the relics were rediscovered.  After their placement in the crypt in 1049 the story grew until the thirteenth century, by which time it was said that St Mark had thrust his arm through a pillar during a service.  As you do when you’re dead.

The mediaeval preoccupation with the relics of saints is difficult to understand in this, more cynical age.  A thousand years ago the possession of even a small bit of somebody very holy gave legitimacy to the possessor, regardless of how the relic had been acquired.  Apart from any other consideration, relics brought pilgrims and pilgrims mean revenue. People in ancient times did not go on package holidays but they did go on pilgrimages and continued to do so for many centuries, Chaucer was still writing the Canterbury Tales when he died in 1400.  We know by his tales that a pilgrimage, wasn’t very grim at all but a holiday in disguise, with the added bonus that traipsing around to see the finger bone of a saint, or similar, was absolutely bound to secure you a place in Heaven. It was a bit of a Two for One.

It is actually quite uplifting to see long dead parts of bodies, providing the owners of the bodies were sufficiently famous.  Regular readers (hello again!) know how very pleased I was to spot Galileo’s actual finger in the Galileo museum last October.

I felt as if science had been vindicated.

Which may make you consider how little I know about science.

But I do know about art, or at least, I know what I like.  (Art that looks like what it is meant to be.)

In the thirteenth century much of the building work on St Mark’s basilica was finished and the front of the building became a magnificent display case for many looted treasures.  The horses finally galloped up to the balcony, having spent decades secreted in Arsenal, the industrial and shipbuilding area of the city.

They were there until Napoleon, also well-known lover of horses, nicked them.  He put them on the Arc De Triomphe where they lived until 1815, when they were returned to Venice.  They were removed for safety during the First World War and replaced in June 1918. They were removed again during the Second World War and stored in a monastery near Padua, returning in June 1946.

There they stayed until the late 1970s, when restoration work on them revealed the damage that acid rain was doing to them.  Although they are bronze, in theory, bronze being an alloy of copper and tin, during the restoration it was discovered that there is mostly copper in the mix, which can be eroded by acid and actually be dissolved if oxygen is present, as it is in rain.  The whole work is covered in gilt.

Like the rest of Venice, the Horses of St Marks (which are actually the horses of Napoleon, the horses of the Hippodrome and the horses of Polykleitos) are subject to picturesque decay.  The originals have been removed from the façade and moved into the building on a high floor, which is actually much better because you can walk past them, standing nearly as close to them as you are to your screen now.

This enables you to see all the wonderful colours, occasioned by the centuries of weather.

They are silver, they are gold, they are rust, they are verdigris, they are bronze, they are grey, they are black.  They fit perfectly with Venice.  They stand on their special plinths, which I did not get a good look at.

I have drawn the horse identified as the horse on the extreme right as the copy stands on the balcony of the basilica.  This is the one raising a hoof.  Is it counting down to the OFF!  Is it doing highly trained, very intelligent horse tricks?  It certainly looks capable.  It has the most beautiful face.  It looks wise.  I’m glad it’s indoors now. Two and a half millennia is long enough for anyone to be outdoors.  It is just absolutely lovely that people on pilgrimages, or, even, package holidays, to Venice, can pay to visit it and bring revenue to the Basilica that will pay for the upkeep of the horses.

Actual horses in Venice were banned in the city after the fifteenth century, though they were gradually phased out from the thirteenth century.  As I previously noted, the streets are, in some places less than six feet wide.  The multiple bridges were being built by the twelfth century.  I found them difficult to cross, only the sides have handrails, there are hand carts everywhere; if you added a horse to the pedestrianised chaos, the result could be dangerous.  People in Venice have expected to be on Shanks’s pony, or in a boat, for eight hundred years, which could be why the locals are mainly slim with strong arms.

Which makes amazing buildings such as the Basilica San Marco even more amazing when you realise that all the amazements, having been nicked from all over the region, variously, have been taken to the Basilica by hand or on hand carts. The bas relief sculptures of religious scenes and scenes legitimising the thefts, are mainly from the thirteenth century, and have been sculpted beside the building and then hauled aloft.  Manhandling massive blocks of stone, or huge stone pillars without a Hiab crane is an amazement in itself.  We know they were good at making towers, but creating a building such as the Basilica or the Doge’s Palace, which is next door, with wooden towers and hand tools is really incredible.

The golden mosaics were begun in the eleventh century, tellingly by craftsmen from Constantinople (who should probably not have boasted about stuff they had at home.)  By the twelfth and thirteenth centuries Venetian apprentices had got the knack and began to cover the inside and the outside with mosaics in glass and gold.  These mosaics are utterly gorgeous.  I may make drawings from some of my photos which I took inside the Basilica but the outside picture was drawn on two occasions as I sat outside of fabulous café Florian, on St. Mark’s Square Venice, accompanied by a musical quartet and an Aperol Spritz.

There is a large metal flagpole on the square but the rest is the Basilica.  Art nicked from all over, work by foreign craftsmen, ancient statues; the glorious whole hovers over the square like a vision of Heaven.  Top left in my picture you can see the mosaic of St. Mark being rescued from the lagoon.  On the level below that you can see the horse copies.  Below that are more mosaics telling the Christian story.  Below that in serried ranks and going in and out of various doorways are the columns of rare and precious stones stolen from Byzantium and, in front of all of that, hundreds and hundreds of tourists.

From very early in its development, trade and the attraction of wealth has been the raison d’etre of Venice.  Lacking royalty to inherit or appropriate, or need to be supported, the city evolved a council of the richest families, responsible for electing the Doge.  The council had the power and used it to attract more money to the city.  The beauties on which they spent it, elevated and legitimised the city state attracting more money from pilgrims and tourists.

Venice has been supporting building, the Catholic church, its own most serene republic and art for over eleven centuries, and doing it very well indeed.

Horses for courses, art for everyone.  Wonderful.

Venice is a remarkable city.  I have not visited anywhere else that looks good as it is and better when it it starting to decay.

I had seen news broadcasts about Venice imperilled by the rising tide but had little idea what this meant practically until I was there.

One evening, walking back to the hotel, we crossed St. Mark’s square and remarked to each other that we had not noticed a fountain, which had appeared, previously.  It was, of course, not a fountain at all but a large paving slab with a concentric ring pattern around a hole.  The hole was permitting the lagoon’s rising water entry through the hole to relieve the pressure on the surrounding slabs.  The water is ever present.

As the lack of building land is so remarkable, the hotel that we stayed in had a foyer and rooms in one block and, a short walk out of a back door and across a lane, more of a passageway, the dining room.  The dining room had large windows above massive stanking boards.  More of stanking boards later.  What was visible when looking down at the boards was a triple layer protection from the canal running past the window.  The outside board was metal, then there was a layer of some rigid thick board then the inner wall which was the dining room wall, painted a plain, easily re-touchable colour, unlike the upper dining room walls which were decorated with fancy Italian wallpaper.

What was visible, beyond the dining room window curtain, on the other side of the little canal, was this:

As you can see, this wall has been much mended, bricks have been inserted, gaps have been filled with cement and metal braces have been drilled in to keep the whole structure together.

The damp was not so much rising as galloping, leaving picturesque trails of mould around every brick and block that had a slight gap.

As you may also deduce, robbery by gondola is a hazard of living in Venice.  Every canal-side window I saw, throughout the city, had a metal grille over it.  This even extends to the second floor.  Venice is, after all, the first State whose shipbuilders invented a way of fastening scaling towers to seagoing ships, that made them such a devastating force in the middle ages against surrounding nations with sea walls.

In the picture, that blue-grey wavy line at the bottom is the canal.  There is nothing between the water and the wall.  If you are keen on household insurance, I imagine Venetian Insurers have left the clause about water damage right out.  There’s probably a wavy line under the one about damp possessions too.  We watched restorers in museums touching up twenty foot square painting from ground floor rooms of palaces.  I imagine, in the City of Art, picture restorer is a thriving trade with no slack season at all.

Yet, despite all the difficulties, this incredible city with endemic and regular flooding, is one of the cleanest places I have visited.  Near the hotel, across one of the hundreds of little bridges, was a restaurant.  One day it was flooded with brackish, stinking water, ankle deep.  As we came back from a walk a couple of hours later, the water had been reintroduced to the canal, and the floor cleaned so thoroughly, you could have eaten your dinner off it.

As I described in a previous post, cleaning, sweeping, litter removal and tidying up, all taken away by hand cart, happens continuously. As well as the rubbish landing in the rubbish barge, huge plastic bags of the rubbish, swept up overnight, are placed in large wire metal containers in some squares.  As I sat early in the day in a square to draw, there were three huge containers in a corner.  How on earth they could be manhandled over the bridges to any pick-up point, I have no idea.  But they were there when I sat down to draw.

There they were in a corner in front of the church. I did the drawings of the buildings first.  If my Latin is up to scratch, I’d say that’s the church of St Mary and the Angels.  That brown metal thing with the flower on it is a well head.  These are all over the city in squares, often near churches, some funded in previous centuries by wealthy citizens, hoping to book a place in Heaven, no doubt.

I drew all the buildings and started on the rubbish containers.  You may consider the drawing of the rubbish containers to be not very good.  I most certainly do.  I’d drawn the right hand one and had started on the middle one, then I looked up and they had gone.  I didn’t even hear cries of: To me!  To you!  in Italian, or any grunting at all.  They just vanished and the square was tidy again.

I love a city where so much effort is put in the keeping it beautiful, no wonder it is such a draw (and a colour in).

~~~~~~~~~

Here is the latest of my Venice sketches to be coloured in.  If you are late to this particular party, the OH and I went to Venice in June, which was my second holiday in either 18 years or 8 months depending on your counting.

There is a vast amount to see in the city of Art.  A week was not really long enough.  Some of the most famous Renaissance artists are buried in Venetian churches, some of the best architects of their age were engaged to make or improve public buildings.  Because of the extraordinary possibilities for maritime trade that arise when a city is situated on water, at the fulcrum of so many great civilisations, and because of the emergence to power of so many trading families, there have been in Venice, for hundreds of years, wealthy patrons of the arts. For centuries families with spare cash have been vying for the attention of the best painters, sculptors, mosaicists, metal workers, textile artists and anyone else who looked likely to immortalise them in art.

The other crucial factor in the story of the emergence of the city as art capital of everywhere, is the lack of ground to spread out on.  Any other city would have burst out of its mediaeval city walls and spread, and many have done, benefitting the transport system with the custom of many tourists.

The protective walls of Venice are the water.  It was first a group of small wet islets settled by people fleeing assorted marauding hordes. It started with Attila and his Huns in 452 AD.  He was followed by the Lombards, the Visigoths, the Ostrogoths and the Vandals.  The Italians, who would become the Venetians, kept fleeing to the safety of the marshy islets, in the process becoming the brilliant sailors who would found fortunes by trade, and also by conquest, of other nations on the surrounding seaboards.  They had opportunities to view wonderful works of art in gold, precious stones and wrought metals and, in some cases, nick them and bring them home. A case in point being the wonderful bronze horses on the Basilica San Marco.  These were either ancient Greek or Roman and were stolen and moved around until they were nicked for the penultimate time in 1204 by the Venetians, who sacked Constantinople. and purloined them from the top of the starting gates of the Hippodrome. Napoleon stole them from Venice in 1797 but they were finally returned at the start of the nineteenth century to the high balcony of the Basilica and were only moved inside the building to be replaced by exact replicas in 1982.

They are a bit larger than life, they glow like gold and have such nice faces and are so strong and well done and just so very encapsulating of everything we have ever felt about horses, in short, such great art, that it’s practically impossible to see them without immediately wondering where you would put one if you could get it home in your suitcase.  Trickier down the aeroplane steps than Donald Trump no doubt, but definitely worth the struggle.

Good on the lawn?  Nice in a conservatory?  Super in a palace?

It’s easy to see why the Venetians patronised the arts, when they had such examples to hand.

However the end result of so many patrons of the arts coexisting in rivalry in such a confined space, is that many works of art are hidden in corners.

Such an oeuvre we came upon by serendipity.  The OH had spotted a sign for a rooftop restaurant on the window of a corner bar.  Looking up with difficulty, because the building on the opposite side of the pavement was only about six feet away, leaving you nowhere to step back and look up, we could just about see a hedge on the third storey roof.  Behind us a big door, and the base of a balcony, also on the third floor.

I do not like heights, so, with a promise from the OH that we could go down again if I got vertigo, we climbed up three staircases, ever narrower, and emerged on to the rooftop restaurant to find hidden art on the building opposite.

Above the third floor windows and the balcony, which was all you could see from street level, were two magnificent sculpted caryatids, supporting a pediment.

So, my pizza grew cold while I drew.

For the first time, colouring in, I’ve used jars of Australian liquid pencil, which have been sitting in a cupboard for a few years.  The heads, larger than life, had been sculpted in stone, possibly marble and looked like classical heroes, or ancient Gods.  They were at the same time, really well done, probably cost a lot to have made, and absolutely invisible from anywhere except the roof of the building opposite, where I sat letting my pizza fossilize.

Why put them there?  Had there been a space opposite which had been built on?  Would people originally have been able to marvel at them from the pavement?  If this was not the case, as an example of one-upmanship, they were a failure.

I’ll never know, but they were so typical of the Venice that I saw with art at every turn, every level, everywhere.

I’ll have to go back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here is a typical bridge.  You can see by the moored boats that there is not much headroom.  There are a lot of bridges, 435 at the last count.  In this photo you can see the bricola beside the boats.  These oak posts, driven into the bottom of the lagoon, mark the navigable channels and act as signposts and mooring posts.  They only last ten to twenty years before they have to be replaced;  like everything else in the city, they are subject to the picturesque decay which occurs when you insist on building a city on water.

It’s absolutely crackers, really, which I also like very much.  The other amazement, you cannot see.  Look at the sidewalk in the picture.  What can you not see?  What is missing? What would you expect to see in a city with thousands of tourists, who are all walking, many, cleverly, eating ice cream or drinking out of disposable plastic bottles at the same time?  What do you think of it so far?

Rubbish!

Exactly.  That’s what is missing.  Only once, well off the beaten track did we spot a swirl of rubbish in a corner.  Everywhere else was as clean as a whistle.  There were bins but there were also thousands of tourists. How did they do it, on foot with no bin lorries?

Just like this.  As you can see this is an hotel porter, acting like a lorry.  All round the city, every day, several times, we saw incredibly strong men pushing heavy loads up steps and, also, much more dangerously, down steps, surrounded by tourists not looking where they were going, like tourists everywhere.

Among the strong men were rubbish collectors, sweeping, picking up and otherwise accounting for, every last bit of anything that should not be on the ground.  All the rubbish was manually retrieved, placed into huge metal carts and wheeled away.

Actually, no camels but there was a heatwave.  It got up to 37 in my craft room with no one to blame, as I am the genius who designed floor to ceiling windows in a small south-facing room.

I decamped to the dining room, which has no windows and tried to work, I have some dolls waiting patiently.  The illustrations of Venice will return when the dolls are dressed.

Meanwhile, has anyone discovered how to survive in a heatwave?

I don’t know where you are reading this in the world, could be a place where 37 is a normal temperature and you’re wondering what all the fuss is about.  In 2008, when we were in Australia, meeting the new rellies, we visited a zoo on a day where the thermometer hit 40.  It was definitely a bit warm.

The problems arise, not when you are a visitor and can return to your normal conditions, but when your normal conditions have flitted off elsewhere leaving you in the lurch.

Given the global nature of the Internet, I wondered if any readers had routinely encountered the following problems and knew what to do.

How to put moisturiser on your face in a heatwave. I’m asking because I discovered that it slides off on a tide of sweat as fast as you put it on.  I didn’t even bother with the layer that shrinks your pores.  If you closed your pores up like the skin on a cheese, you’d be in trouble in a heatwave, expanding like a balloon.  Perhaps we should ask the former Prince known as Andrew, on televisual record as saying he never sweats, quite how he copes in a heatwave.

How to get to sleep in a heatwave.  I am the one with the south-facing bedroom, which, with three windows, got up to 39 degrees with ease.  I tried a rota of opening and closing curtains, windows and doors to deny entry to the extreme warmth.  I enlisted the aid of my greatest fan, which is floor standing and rechargeable.  I went to bed with my hair wet, dry, tied up and bunched.  I sought sleep on my side, my back, my front, hanging over the edge, propped up, flat and spreadeagled.  If one was really, really rich, one could afford flunkies to hold up one’s massive tits, a mixed blessing of age and genetics, entirely natural and nothing like those famed for their abundance such as Dolly Parton and Kim Kardashian, who must be struggling, at least, and fan underneath, which leads me to the next dilemma..

How to put a bra on in a heatwave.   It took the thick end of an hour. Any strap which did not twist, rolled, taking adjacent fastenings with it.  At one point I had both arms trapped, no boobs in, and three straps like maypoles and thought I might have to live the rest of my life like that, which would have caused a stir in the supermarket, even if I was just popping in, or out, for bottled water.  The OH came to me at this point for help, having his tee-shirt rolled up his back and stuck there.  I rescued him with my teeth to cries of ‘ama, oh damn, ama, no, try again, amateur!’

Who sells expanding fridges?  Day two of the heatwave, no one has been shopping seriously yet but there is not one square inch of fridge space left because anything left out is either mouldy or shrivelled instantly.  What is needed is a fridge with a rubber casing that will expand as you stuff stuff in with all the other stuff.  If there were to be an explosion of multiple chilly things towards the fridge opener, this would be welcome on the hottest day, I feel.  I essayed a tentative trip to the supermarket, finding the ice cream aisle strangely shopper-free, which was explained almost instantly by the complete lack of ice cream, which void had been filled by an engineer in orange overalls, standing waist deep in one of the chest freezers, on his phone, presumably to someone who knew what to do, if anything.  If climate change continues, people will be looking to move to a fridge with house attached.  Talking of which..

How to adapt your house for a heatwave.  Which should really be how to adapt your house for climate change.  The unwise, upon prompting from the government, festooned their houses with solar panels and discovered subsequently that the energy required to shuffle the resultant solar power energy to the National Grid was going to cost quite a bit more than the revenue from the energy created.  No one yet has discovered the cost of replacing a roof which has caved in from the weight of solar panels balanced on the elderly tiles, but I feel it will come with time.  Then there are the wonderful winter heat pumps which require a massive white box, coming in the one colour carefully designed to show the dirt, to be fastened to whichever side of the building is most visible from the road, except in houses with very nice gardens, in which case it will fill the gazebo.

How to have romantic relations in 30 degrees and above.  If you have worked out how to do this, for example, if you are an actual circus acrobat or have discovered a practical use for an indoor parachute harness, please don’t tell me.  My head is full of disturbing images as it is, given the current political situation.

How to stop your bare feet sticking to your sandals.  If you put foot cream on them, you will slide, toes, bunions, instep and all, very painfully out of the front and be wearing your sandals round your ankles, with your bare, scraped feet on the tarmac.  This has never been advertised in the fashion press as ‘A Look’.  If you just inch your bare sweaty feet into the open sandal, one millimetre at a time, they will reach the personalised, foot-shaped depression and instantly lock in. You will be stuck until the first frosts.

How to rescue your expensive new leather sandals that you managed to ease off your feet in a cold shower, that now look like the old rag you scrub the car wheels with.  Sandal manufacturers know all about this, which is why sandals containing just enough leather to make a biker jacket for a bean, cost over £100.  They know you’ll be back for another mortgage-worthy purchase, or be tramping the pavements on your own home-grown callouses.

Let us not talk about other underwear.  Three changes a day, minimum.  I wish I had shares in Marks and Spencer.  Not for the little lace frilly things, or indeed little lace frilly thongs, which you would be able to thread through a needle with quite a small eye after half an hour of wear.  No. I am talking about the full body, solid cotton efforts that encase all the sweaty bits, which are all the bits, with enough absorbency to get to the two hour wear mark and that’s only in privacy, sitting quietly at home.  In public, such as staff meeting, company summer do on the lawn, parent’s evening, you’re on your own.

Hair. The need to wash your hair in the shower three times a day just to stop the sweat trickling out of it into your eyes, making your mascara run until you are completely panda-ed and blind as a bat, is I feel, not something that John Frieda has really tackled.  No amount of conditioner, anti-frizzy, caffeine, cough mixture additive or anything else in any brand at all has addressed this problem.  You can squirt your hair with Australian oil, middle Eastern clarified butter, or basic chip fat, nothing makes any difference.  Out of the shower it is instantly drier than the Gobi desert before you can even get a towel on it and sticking out at a ninety degree angle to every last follicle, except the ones adjacent to your neck which will lie flat as if superglued and sweat down your back, making your bra, which you had been trying to get on, hopefully, as wet as an open topped tourer, with sponge seating, in a car wash.

How to sit on boiling car seats, in shorts.  I wish I knew.  I had to take the OH to an appointment.  I  just about peeled my legs off when I got back without requiring a skin graft but it was a close-run thing.  Soothing skin gel does not stay where you put it, either.  In an instant it was soaking into my ankle sandals.

If climate change continues we will have to adapt very quickly.  The human of the future will have short hollow hair all over that squirts sweat six inches from the body in all directions.  Once procreation ceases we will all have to become nocturnal with huge eyes, like bush babies, and the new trillionaires will be fridge magnets.

No sorry, fridge magnates.  (Blame the heat, I do.)

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Every foothold that could be occupied was taken up.  Not one inch was wasted.  Every little bit of flat roof had a terrace patio on it.  Every roof which did not have a patio on it had an ariel, a cooling tower, a chimney, another construction to ventilate yet another room squeezed into another tiny corner.  To label the result as ‘density of occupation’ understates the case considerably.

I found the view utterly magical and, first into the bathroom every morning, used the time in which the OH was performing his ablutions to sketch the enchanting view from our window.  There was a lot to draw, it took all week and I enjoyed every minute of it.  The sketch is eight and a quarter by four and a half inches wide.  I may show you again because that will not be the finished size in the eight inch square scrapbook.  I may lose a bit off the left, to the frame.

The colouring is done with watercolours.  I took the Stamperia metallic watercolour paint set, which is just over two and a half inches square and has a removable lid to use as a mixing tray and the Kuretake Kobako watercolour set, which has just five pans and a spare, which I replaced with another pan.  The Kuretake watercolours change as you paint, the more water, the greater the change.

Venice is full of opportunities to paint and draw; it has been designated the City of Art for a long time, having been attracting artists in every medium for centuries, by virtue of  the enormous wealth of the city state providing patrons who wished to be immortalised in public buildings by the very best artists.

I did not see anyone else drawing, though very few people were not using camera phones, in fact so many visitors had their phones in their hands I wondered what visitors had done in previous centuries.

Venice is a collection of streets, in which, as every map warns you ‘conditions on the ground may not closely resemble reality.’  The shortness of space has caused another little shop to be built in a tiny gap, so that a straight street now has a bend in it.  The streets themselves are so narrow that most professional basketball players would be unable to lie flat across the street.  There are no powered wheeled vehicles, the only possibility for getting about is on foot or by boat.  There are about 150 canals, 400 bridges and 400 gondoliers.

The OH, at first very annoyingly, until I observed newcomers doing the same, speedily developed the habit of running along a street with his phone held high, shouting that he knew where he was going.  Sadly, Google Maps did not share his conviction.  I learned not to try to keep up with him but to dawdle along and enjoy the shop windows until he came surging past me, going in the opposite direction.  Most maddening was encountering him at a cross street, spinning in a circle.

After a few days without my head in a phone, I began to develop a sense of where we were.

The best place to be is sitting under a big sun umbrella, outside a café, with a long cool drink, sketchbook in hand.  We had ventured to the south of St Mark’s Square, which is, without a doubt, the place to be (of which more later) and found a place to sit and draw and drink overlooking the Grand Canal.  I started drawing when quite suddenly a downpour began.  Waiters rushed out to close the umbrellas and take them in and we sought the safety of the dry colonnades, which surround three sides of the square. So it was a couple of days later when I returned to finish the drawing of the interesting skyline on the other side of the canal.

As you can see I am old, wearing bags, sunglasses and goodness knows what that you can’t see under the table (more bags) and concentrating fiercely.  The finished picture will be here, later.  I have done the drawing but just need to do the colouring in.

I discovered, over the course of a week, that the tolerance of the OH for sitting with a drink while I draw, lasts just as long as the drink. After sixty years of practice, the speed at which he can imbibe is not that surprising.  As the week wore on, my drawing speeded up.  There are few artistic experiences as annoying as the subject vanishing before the oeuvre is complete.

I drew everywhere.

The OH particularly wanted to ascend the twisty tower known as the Scala Contarini del Bovolo.  This tower which twists like a corkscrew as it goes up, was commissioned by the Bovolo family in 1499 with the principle aim of one-upmanship over the neighbours and some extreme showing off.

I did not wish to ascend for the views.  At this stage, several days into the holiday, I was worried that my gammy knee was about to collapse publicly, possibly due to the strain of climbing over so many of the 435 footbridges that span the canals that are the roads in Venice.

So the the OH went up and took a photo of me, sprawled in a tiny courtyard, drawing the tower.

That’s me, sitting on the step with my legs stretched out, drawing furiously.  I did not get this one finished; he went up the tower and back down again much faster than anticipated.

Drawing has much to recommend it as a method of recording an experience.  As I sat, drawing the tower, the observation of ascending tourists taking camera photos of every level and each other at every level, was somewhat inescapable.  I did wonder if they ever looked at the photos after the holiday.

We took photos, lots of them.  Venice has to be one of the most picturesque destinations in Europe. It is gorgeous when resplendent and even prettier in decay. The plan is to collect both sets of photographs in order to print off the best and put them in a scrapbook along with the drawings.

Venice has been dubbed the City of Art.  Wherever we went we found artists of every kind.  Leather workers, lace makers, textile artists, painters, designers and even a few big porcelain dolls masquerading as puppets in a shop dedicated to Carnivale, which happens in February.

The entire city is dedicated to art, appearance, gentility and power.

Of which much more later.  Right now I have some painting to do.

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