So here we are.
The scene of The Stakeout. FBI vans, darkened windows, piles of crumpled takeout coffees, greasy burger papers and the like. Earpieces. Cliched dialogue. You know the sort of thing.
Here's perhaps one of the views the Arsenalotti, supervised by Uberto or Sclavo, might have had of Soranzo's home as they seek to understand just what the hell is going on.
One would hope the team adopted a more effective covert operation than that of yours truly. "Yes, officer - I do remember now. There was a man. Purple shirt. Stupid hat. Just stood there. I wish I'd done more at the time. None of us would be in this mess if I had."
The house itself, sitting on edge of Campiello Santa Maria Zobenigo, is only a couple of hundred metres north of the Grand Canal, in the heart of San Marco.
We had escaped here on foot after narrowly avoiding attracting a 15-Euro-per-drink tariff (and that's just for a 330ml Heineken, for goodness sake) at one of the ludicrously overpriced tourist cafes on St. Marks Square. Probably good that you can't see my face in the picture. Not one of my better moments in the city. Or, indeed, my marriage - I had not yet thought through the tactics that would make up for Joanne's embarrassment by association.