From Freezer to Deep Fat Fryer: Venice 2015

I'm back in Venice, and just like last time, the worst thing was trying to find Bristol Airport. This time I resorted to Satnav and I still had the feeling, as the steep wooded lanes got more and more narrow, that I was somehow being betrayed by Satnav. One lane was so narrow I doubted whether it would even manage to accommodate an endoscopy, let alone a Kia Sorento. I am, incidentally, irritated by my car's inability to spell Sorrento. Perhaps it is an intellectual rights issue.
Unlike the rest of humanity, I have somehow failed to instal a cute little holder on the dashboard for the Satnav to slot into with a reassuring click. So - sorry to start a sentence with the word so, but this time it's justified as it has a causal connection to the previous sentence - so my Satnav is free range, and as I lurched up and down those narrow lanes, the Satnav hurtled about in the front of a car, like an untrained terrier trying to escape from its lead. I managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of it as it flashed between my thighs heading for the brake pedal, and it seemed to say the journey was going to take another seven hours.
But in fact it was seven minutes, and to my astonishment Satnav delivered me to the airport with a kind of abruptness which almost seemed like the end of a marital row. 'So there's your precious Bristol Airport - actually!' Perhaps it had heard the things I had been screaming at it.
I parked in the Silver Zone, but there was no reduction for silver surfers. The Silver Zone is fine actually, but if you enter the loo accompanied by your luggage there's a chance you'll be trapped there forever. It's not an unpleasant loo as loos go, but I'm not sure it can compare with the Serenissima. (Is that a car yet, by the way?)
Eventually I escaped and found myself trudging across tarmac to the Ryanair flight to Treviso. The bitter wind and rain was horizontal - a tradition in British Maytime - and I had to cling to the handrail with all my strength as I climbed the steps onto the plane, or I would have been blown off to Swindon in tatters. 'It might be a bumpy to start with,' the pilot warned us. I hate it when pilots use the word 'bumpy'. It's like when doctors say, 'So you're worried it might be Something Nasty?' It's infantilising. But on the other hand, 'Waaaaah! Mummeeee! We're gonna die!'
Instead, however, the flight was smooth and pleasant. I'm sorry to have to say this, but I'm quite satisfied with Ryanair. So far. We haven't had the flight home yet.
Anyway, I arrived to find there was a problem. It was hot. On the short walk from the plane to Treviso terminal I removed my anorak, gilet, and woolly jumper - which had not been enough to protect me from the wintry blasts at Bristol. I would fain have removed my vest had it been feasible. On the bus into Venice there was a digital display giving the temperature as 29 degrees. I assumed it was broken, but the bus tipped us out into Piazzale Roma like sausages into a frying pan. What's happened? Last year it was pleasant, but with a chilly breeze. In fact I remember often feeling a bit too cold.
Well, I had to walk to the apartment I had rented in Cannaregio. It's not far, but to a silver surfer wearing a vest and jeans and dragging a suitcase packed with more jumpers and jeans, it was an endless trek. I feared I would end up drinking my own urine and cowering in the shade of my own passport, but just two minutes from death, I arrived.
My flat is most delightful, and very affordable - I'll tell you more about it later. But the problem is the heat. I need to buy a pair of thin cotton trousers to take the place of these damned jeans, but the jeans are squeezing the life out of me and boiling my thighs, so I can't go out in the heat of the day, in search of tropical weight togs.
Oh God! I should be contemplating the tomb of Tintoretto, and instead am wondering if I could get away with wearing my pyjama trousers in the street. They are leopard print. What do you think?