What a difference a day makes. Yesterday, when we set off, the sky was a solid grey and the whole world was dingy. Today, we woke to blazing sunshine and blue skies. Tomorrow, we should get to 20 degrees.  Welcome to cruise R421 to the USA and Caribbean, on board P&O Aurora. We aren’t going to the USA, nowhere near, but, hey, don’t let’s let a little thing like accuracy get in the way of a good sales pitch, P&O. Heaven forbid!

So, anyway, here we are. Aurora is her same reliable, if somewhat weary-looking, self. The occasional blown double-glazing in the restaurant; so far only one lift without a working screen, so you don’t know what deck you’ve arrived at; and a LOT of familiar faces – crew and passengers alike.  On the plus side, my lovely Lenora – the chef who saved me from starvation earlier in the year – is here, and fussing over dad already. A little kindness goes a long way around here. Sadly, however, it seems that Carnival and P&O Cruises have decided that they don’t want disabled people on their ships anymore, so this may be our last ever foray.

Last November, Carnival introduced new rules for the mobility impaired.  Yes, you’ve guessed right. This is not going to go well. They have concluded, somehow, that there is no such thing as ambulatory disability. You’re either in a wheelchair, or you’re a pain-free spring chicken.  Essentially, Aurora has five Evac chairs, to assist those in wheelchairs to do stairs in an emergency.  That’s it. On an adults-only ship that caters to 2000 older, more faithful, clientele. Five. Now, this is, in itself, not a problem, because, if our lives depended on it, Dad and I can both do a couple of flights of stairs, no problems. We might be distinctly unhappy pain-wise afterwards, but we can do that in our lifeboat! Oh no, says Carnival. No, no and no again. That cannot be allowed.

Now, if those of you with excellent memories cast your minds back to 1999, to our first ever cruise and the Pineapple Juice Incident, you will recall that, in the Good Old Days, we used to board at Southampton up a shallow gangplank, the same as we use to disembark on Port Days. However, as this meant crossing the quayside, a member of P&O staff marshalled the passengers, so that we didn’t step out in front of a passing vehicle.  For those who were not around at the time, the PJI occurred when Mum and I were stopped, with Nana and Dad behind us. We were held so that a forklift laden with fruit juice cartons could pass by. The driver hit a bump, his load shifted, then fell, and he ran straight over it, sending what can only be described as a tidal wave of pineapple juice all over us. Think Hokusai’s The Wave, but a LOT stickier, and you’ll get the picture.

After that excitement, P&O Cruises decided that this was not an optimum arrangement (!), and they purchased an air bridge. Now, the trouble with air bridges and ships is that the tide is constantly going in and out. So the air bridge has to adjust its height all the time. It cannot stay stationary like an airport version. To prevent the climb from getting too steep in either direction, they use a zig zag formation. This is all very well and good, but it adds a couple of hundred yards onto the walk. This was described to us on Tuesday as “only short”, by people who clearly wouldn’t know a mobility impairment if they were punched on the nose by one. The end result being that they had to introduce a bunch of wheelchairs and people to push them, to get passengers the extra distance to the ship.  All local volunteers, often retired or students, and mostly lovely, chatty, friendly, kind people.  You turned up, checked in and asked for a chair, and they would trundle you up in the lift and along the air bridge to the ship.  In recent years, as my ME has progressed, we have used two chairs, one for dad and one for me. Originally, it was mum and me and we made dad walk, but now he’s 91, I think he’s entitled to a bit of a sit down.

All this reminiscing has a point, I promise.

Meanwhile, back in 2024, in recent months, my GP has changed my medication. This has resulted in what can only be described as misery for me – nausea, vomiting, constant heartburn, and indigestion so bad, I have to sleep with extra pillows – it’s been fun.  Anyway, I am assured that my system will acclimatise soon, but in the meantime, I have been feeling fairly sorry for myself.  And also, which is tricky when you’re trying to pack for a holiday, unable to bend over for fear of setting off the more horrid of the symptoms.  This meant that, firstly, we didn’t pack until the night before, when Dad’s lovely carer, Josephine, was around to do the work, and secondly, I was feeling pretty ropey after a 2.5 hour coach journey.

Returning to the new anti-disabled rules, we are now required to complete an online form in advance of departure, to clarify that, whilst we can do stairs in an emergency, the extra walk along the air bridge is too far, and we need assistance. I duly filled out a form for dad, and then immediately did the same for me.  I even grumbled to him that I had had to start from scratch, all over again, entering much the same information twice. When we got to check-in, only his name was on the list. They had no record of my request.  Remember, I’m already feeling quite unwell (although you cannot admit that, in case they think you’re infectious and send you home).  Foolishly, I glibly assumed that, having done this for years already, upon realising that the form had not been saved or whatever, they would shrug their shoulders, write me in by hand, and give me a chair. Hahahahaha. Nope.  They said that the new rules were “no form, no chair”, and it was just tough that the system hadn’t saved my request, I would have to walk it. No flexibility, no kindness, no understanding, nothing. I was even told that Carnival Head Office have so little to do with their time, that they apparently sit and watch the CCTV cameras, to make sure that no one whose name is not on the list gets a chair. The utter implausibility of this completely flummoxed me. I don’t even know how to think down to that level of stupid, never mind respond to it effectively.

So now we are sitting in the departure hall, facing the prospect of having to go home, because they don’t have a form with my name on. Instead, I was told, repeatedly, that if I did not walk on, I would be denied boarding and sent home, because I was clearly too frail to leg it to a lifeboat.  Trying to explain that a few stairs in an emergency are not the same as a good chunk of a mile without a seat or stopping point, was fruitless, and I had a panic attack. I sobbed my heart out, but they were utterly impervious.  Dad suggested that I take his chair, and we take turns every few feet, but that wasn’t allowed either. Why the hell not was never really made clear. Eventually, they got the Rollator walker out of the bag (we brought it for dad to use on long piers!), and said I could use that.  My pointing out that that won’t reduce my leg pain, or the four days of pain afterwards while my body tries to make fresh ADP, was also received by a wall of Computer Says No. Funnily enough, being repeatedly told to Calm Myself doesn’t magically stop a panic attack. Who knew?! I have never been so thoroughly bullied in my life.

In the end, I was force marched onto the ship with the walker, and had to stop several times, unsurprisingly. Surreally, I was allowed to stop and sit on the walker as many times as I wanted. But, just to make sure there was enough salt in the wound, a pusher followed behind me, WITH AN EMPTY WHEELCHAIR. Apparently, this was so that, if I became unwell on the walk, I could have a sit down in it. But if I did sit down, I would promptly be denied boarding and returned to the terminal! Seriously, you couldn’t make this shit up. What kind of a Machiavelli-trained sociopath came up with this nonsense?! Not only did I have to endure the pain, but I could see a chair and not sit in it!  Orwell would have been impressed.  Huxley would have had conniptions. I cried the whole way.

All this to “improve Health & Safety” for passengers and crew alike. How it helps anyone, I have no idea. I just think they’ve decided that young people have more disposable income, and a longer projected lifespan in which to spend it with them, so the old and infirm can sod off, and then they can raise the prices and increase their profits by bleeding the youngsters dry instead.

So, now we are on Thursday, Halloween, having endured the above on Tuesday, and I am still popping painkillers like nobody’s business. I’m not sleeping because of the painsomnia and poor Dad is at a loss to help.  The wifi works, the door keys work, (most of) the lifts work, the sea is lovely and calm, and the sun is shining, but Heaven help you if you’re ambulatory disabled, because you can get knotted.  All because the second online form wasn’t saved by the system. What would have they done if I had submitted mine first, and it was Dad’s that wasn’t saved?! Bully a 91-year-old man to tears?!