I forget if it was Heston or Bettina who told me, years ago now, that I'd never get anywhere in showbiz unless I realised it wasn't the cooking that the public were interested in but the cooks themselves. It was invaluable advice and, god knows, when you see what that pair come up with week after week you can see how ardently they took it to heart themselves. When Bettina leans over a steaming saucepan with her top three buttons undone it might as well be a pair of socks she's stewing up for all Joe Public cares. Heston has to work a bit harder, of course, not having Bettina's natural advantages, but it's all stage magic at bottom – doing something so distracting with one hand that no one notices the other hand as you slip in a can of Heinz Baked Beans or something. We're all at it, truth be told. Even that dear old dragon Mary B.

That was very much the frame of mind with which I approached the writing of the newly published 'Travels', let me add. Not too much about the recipes, but an awful lot about yours truly and the scrapes I always seem to get into. I had my qualms, of course, but that gnome Barry and that incorrigible boozehound David Pickering dictated that that was how it was to be.

It was me, though, who insisted that there should be some drawings of the places I visited, penned by my brilliant self of course. This was one of my favourites:

Now you'd think, after the depths I plumbed in the adventures detailed in the book (should you have had time yet to read beyond the opening pages), that I'd think twice about ever venturing over that particular ground again. Yet here I am, packing my bags as we speak in preparation for a triumphal return to Venice, the scene of some of my all-too-recent lamentable, lascivious and life-imperilling adventures. Your jaw drops open in surprise. I know, I can scarcely believe it myself.

The fact is I don't have much choice in the matter. The Italian police need certain points to be cleared up, and who am I to disappoint them when they're covering the air fare and hotel bill? All they really need to do is buy the book, of course, and everything would be made plain. At only £2.99 or $3.67 a throw for the e-version, it would be a helluva lot cheaper for them, but who am I to interfere? La Serenissima extends her dripping lily-white arms in my direction and I cannot deny her siren call.

Which makes for a good excuse to treat you to another of my delightful little sketches:

What I'm not sure about is what exactly the rozzers need to know. That's the trouble with the past. No one remembers things precisely as they happened, and that effect increases as time passes. When I re-read the book a couple of weeks ago, chiefly to marvel at the dreadful hash David Pickering has made of the thing, I could hardly believe some of the things that happened to little me. The night with that minx Mariana, for instance – I've only got the haziest recollections of that particular romp (and it's probably best that way). Ditto concerning her mother. And then there were the truly terrifying threats I faced in Rome, Naples and Sicily... it's enough to put me off my vittals, even now. Almost.

So, if anyone's popping over to Venice this weekend do let me know and we can share a knowing wink at least as we saunter through St Mark's Square. I believe it's the start of the Carnival season so I might don mask and cloak just for the fun of it. Actually, a bit of a disguise might not be a bad idea should word of my presence leak out to any associates of Mariana's father...

Gulp!

A presto,
Tremayne.