I can't think why I've waited 57 years to visit Venice. And I still wouldn't have thought of going had a friend's birthday not prompted me to make the trip. I felt I sort of knew what to expect. I was familiar with the pictures, had seen the films, laughed at the ice-cream commercials. But nothing can prepare you for the shock. I had no idea just how much water there is: the streets seem flooded - complete with road signs and bus stops. It is a truly remarkable place. As my friend said over his birthday lunch on the terrace of the Danieli: "We are dining in the middle of a Canaletto."
Venice was busy, but apparently noticeably less so, as the Americans were staying away. There were some, however, and I encountered one on a boat trip. She was from Los Angeles; what about me? I told her the north of England, thinking anything more specific would serve little purpose. "I've just been reading an article about someone famous who came from near there," she valiantly countered. "Now, who would it be?" Presuming that she would not have heard of Dickie Bird or even Michael Parkinson, I suggested James Mason or Barbara Taylor Bradford. After drawing several blanks, we eventually settled on William Wordsworth and she seemed happy.
I took lunch at La Romano at Murano, recommended by my mentor, Sir Paul Fox. You can see why. An eating house with a history. Pictures adorn every inch of wallspace - given by starving artists in return for pasta. No doubt they are now worth trillions - this is, after all, the land of the lira. Groups of men were lunching, some with sunglasses, all tucking into course after course. The menu lists not only the fare, but also the famous people who have dined there. I noticed "Filippo D'Edinburgo" and "Lady Rosalin and Anny Carter", Ernest Hemingway and Ezra Pound, Charlie Chaplin and John Charles. Opposite stood the office of a political party - a red rose adorning its logo. And there, amid this melange of political intrigue and literary inspiration, it seemed entirely natural to see our own Michael Foot lunching with friends. With white fluffy hair still tumbling around his ears, he entertained his table with gusto. Then he seemed to don a dark-green garment - yes, it did seem like a donkey jacket - and was wheeled over the road to buy a dark-green floppy hat.
I am not particularly a lover of the euro, but I certainly welcome its arrival in Italy. I'm so nervous of the lira: the talk of millions frightens me, the row of noughts on notes swim before my eyes. I accidentally gave the hotel porter £35 merely for carrying my bag up, and 60p to a gondolier who had sweated his way up and down the canal for an hour for my delight. Even more confusing is that the lira symbol looks like our own pound. Good riddance.
Wensleydale, where I live, escaped a major invasion of foot-and-mouth, but still suffered its effects. Particularly affected were the farmers' wives. They were prisoners in their farmhouses, and were denied the daily and weekly rituals - shopping, the WI, the village-hall socials, church and chapel. Now, as life tries to get back to normal, these women are worried stiff by another scare - they live in the lee of two mighty military bases, Catterick and RAF Leeming, not to mention the Golf Balls of Menwith Hill, which peer menacingly over Nidderdale. A distant war against terror that could come very close to home is the final straw in a horrendous year for country folk.
I was thrilled to be asked to open a new bandstand in Ilkley. As I sat among the Rotarians, the Lord Mayor, the town mayor and the local MP, Ann Cryer, I was amused to hear myself introduced thus: "A big welcome for our local celebrity, Mr Roger Whiteley." I'm used to this. For the first two years of my career at Yorkshire Television, my boss, Donald Baverstock, called me David, in spite of my appearing on his screen every night. They got it right on the plaque, and it's nice to know that my name will live on - even though they are setting it into the pavement. Come to Ilkley and walk on Whiteley. It could certainly draw the crowds.
I have had close encounters of the royal kind with two ladies recently - well, one was royal and apparently is no longer, and one might be some day. I refer to the Duchess of York and Camilla Parker Bowles. I was seated next to Parker Bowles at a charity dinner at Highgrove. The boss wasn't there, having fallen off his polo pony. I now want to be vice-president of her fan club, presuming he is president. She is natural, unassuming, gossipy, witty, self-deprecating, thoroughly comfortable and, yes, attractive. She should get out more, then people would discover what she's really like. Take as you find, as we say in Yorkshire.
So with the Duchess. She can make a charity night go with a zizz - she is spontaneous and sparky. At an awards ceremony we co-hosted in Yorkshire, she announced herself Judy to my Richard. When Kevin Darley came for his award as Champion Jockey, she said she knew how Nicole Kidman would feel about Tom Cruise. At the auction, two copies of my book (Himoff!: memoirs of a TV matinee idle, £16.99) sold for £1,000 each.
Telling my 82-year-old mother about this later, she was amazed. "Couldn't they buy it in the shops?" she asked. 'Fraid so! Three remarkable ladies.
