At seven I get out of bed. I put on a pair of shorts and I'm ready. I don't have any breakfast - that's my only bad habit. At 7.30 I'm at work, a six-minute walk from the Grand Canal.

Gondolas have always been my life. Sometimes I'll shed a little tear when I'm building one, especially when we first put it into the water. For me, the gondola is the best vessel in the world. It's a jewel of architecture, and the whole world envies us Venetians for it.

Eighty per cent of the work is done by hand. I use only a saw, an axe, a hammer, three different sorts of planes and a pair of tongs. I've made about 500 gondolas. I always start with the curved ribs in the bow, middle and stern. Then it takes shape: oak for the flanks, fir for the bottom of the hull because it's light. The stern is cherry, the bow is mahogany. In all, eight different kinds of wood.

I go home for lunch and pop some frozen thing into the microwave. If I'm really hungry I'll eat a kilo, or even a kilo and a half, of ice cream. When I tuck in, I tuck in. By 12.30 I've eaten, and then I'll have a siesta until two.

A few things about Venice today upset me, like the bridges they've built over the Grand Canal and near the station. Do you know, they got the paving wrong, and it will all have to be redone in a few years' time? That didn't happen under Mussolini. At least the Fascists ran things efficiently.

I'm a perfectionist. Once I saw the hull was a couple of millimetres out. My son said we should just use a plane, but I said no. I took out all the nails and shaved two millimetres off. It cost me three hours' work, but the shape has to be perfect. My gondolas have to please me, not other people. Thing is, it's an art that is dying out. Young people just want to go to university, but they don't realise they'll never be out of a job here. There are 406 gondoliers in Venice, and I could churn out six or seven gondolas a year if I wanted to, but I stick to two a year. I've got my order book full until 2019.

I get upset if I see my gondola go to someone who doesn't care. If it rains, you should get the water out of her, and you should paint her once a year. But I don't like the gondoliers who ferry people across the Grand Canal at the Rialto. I call them the signorine [young ladies] because they just spend and spend to compete with each other to see who has the richest gondola.

When I was younger the gondoliers were dirt-poor. Now a permit can swap hands for 800m lire [about £295,000]. My gondolas cost 34m lire, but with the decoration and carving others do afterwards, the price can go up to 60m. They use gold - real gold - for some of the finishing touches.

When I get home in the evening, the first thing I do is look into the bedroom to see if my wife is there. Even though she's been dead 12 years, I still think she might be there. I have a piece of advice for today's couples: if you love your partner or children, show it. I realised this a little late. I'd been too dedicated to my work.

I'll cook pasta or have a meal in the trattoria. At 9.15pm I'm in bed. It takes me quite a bit to get to sleep - I'm always thinking of my blooming work. I'm sure that if I stop working I'll die. That's what happened to my father. He was 82. I said to him: 'Sit down, have a glass of wine, chat with the customers.' Two years after he stopped work, he died. The human body is a machine: as long as you keep moving it'll hold up.

My funeral is already organised. I want my coffin to be carried on a gondola, just like my wife's was, poor thing. During the trip her coffin almost slipped off. After her death two women said they wanted to live with me, but it was obvious they were just after my money. I'm not lonely; I do models of boats in my spare time. I don't like holidays. I went to stay in the mountains with my daughter-in-law's family, but I was happy only because I kept busy repairing the shutters.

I'm getting on, and I can't take a gondola out myself any more because my legs shake. But I'll never forget the biggest delight I got out of a gondola. It was with my wife, when we were courting. We'd stop off the Giudecca at night, in front of St Mark's Square. In the moonlight, all you could hear were a few notes from the Lido, a waltz or something, and, best of all, the waves striking gently against the hull. I could see the moon reflected in the water. We'd hug each other, we'd kiss - that's all, you didn't go very far in those days - and I'd cry. It was the most beautiful thing in the world.