The Name's Ephgrave, David James Ephgrave.


As I hurtled towards Marco Polo Airport by speedboat this morning, I felt like James Bond. 

Admittedly, Bond would have been behind the wheel himself. He'd be surrounded by a fleet of water-skiing Russians and under a barrage of machine gun fire. He'd be brandishing a weapon too, making quips to an imaginary audience each time he successfully shot an enemy. In truth, I differed from Ian Fleming's creation in every way, except for being on a speedboat. Still, one out of four wasn't bad. 

It certainly was the best way to leave Venice. Actually, it's one of the only ways you can. This didn't matter. I was pleased to be leaving the water-locked city in style. 

I felt like a Bullseye contestant on their maiden voyage, with a Bendy Bully in one hand and a wad of freshly-counted cash in their back pocket; like a spaniel with his head out of the window of a speeding car, ears and tongue flapping in the breeze; like Prince Charles, the day his mastery of the cup and balls trick got him into the Magic Circle. In other words, I felt good. 

"This is the life," I thought, then felt seasick. 

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