A life on the ocean wave, a home on the rolling deep suits me - Susan Morrison
Once again I am back at sea. Any more of this and I’ll invest in a kitbag, a pea jacket, take up pipe smoking and lay off lasering my moustache.
Life on a cruise has a strange, relaxing rhythm. The days seamlessly smoosh into one another. It’s like that week between Christmas and New Year when everyone wanders about saying ‘is this Monday? Is it?’
It’s probably why ol’ Captain James T Kirk was such a fusspot when it came to meticulously noting that star date. It’s probably the only way he could keep track of the days.
Mind you, the catering on this ship would beat the Star Fleet’s finest, hands down. And the good people of Scotland’s coastal ports are far more welcoming than Klingons, although Kirkwall fudge might send your blood sugar spiralling.
Not that you need to go ashore. You never have to leave the ship. The entertainment teams lay on a lavish selection of fun and games. You can choose from a full-on musical, a trivia quiz, or charming young couple teaching you how to do traditional Scottish Country dancing. Obviously, not all at the same time. I had a word with the dance instructors. Did they teach ‘Strip the Willow?’, I asked.
“Jings, no” was the quick answer. “there’s not an insurance company that would cover us for the carnage that could cause.” Good point, I felt, and well made.
But ashore they do boldly go. Intrepid travellers, these Americans. The ship virtually empties at every port as they go ashore looking for Neolithic standing stones or the Loch Ness Monster, which I assured everyone does exist. If you believe hard enough. It's like Tinkerbell. Only bigger. And camera shy.
Even our weather doesn’t seem to bother them. They zip up those rain jackets and hit the shops to buy tablet and whisky, both of which they love.
Fearless they may be, but they have an enemy. Silence. The citizens of the USA cannot move without a soundtrack. British lifts may rise and fall in a funereal hush, broken only by the occasional cough or murmured ‘excuse me’, but American elevators must at all times play a selection of 1980s soft rock.
Easy listening hits whisper along lobbies, corridors and stairways whisper easy listening hits. The promenade deck regularly rocks to an in-house band, and one day they had a silent disco.
Well, I say silent. They were all wearing headphones, but the music was still being pumped out of the speakers. Kinda missing the point, I thought.
There was a duo playing jazz on piano and drums once. It’s the only time my thoughts turned to mutiny.
Eric Clapton’s ‘Darling, You Look Wonderful Tonight’ is never very far away. I’ve started to listen out for it. It’s like that game of ‘Whamaggedon’ in December. You lose the second you hear ‘Last Christmas’. You could win, if you shunned the horror that is festive shopping, but you can never survive a day on board without being Clappaggedoned.
Indeed, as far as I can tell, the only song missing is Celine Dion singing ‘My Heart Will Go On”. This is a good thing on two counts. One, no-one needs to be reminded of the world’s most famous maritime disaster and two, me, that song and a confined space is a highly combustible combination.