At dinner last night, one of our new companions ordered the Mincemeat and orange strudel with Cornish clotted cream. I thought the whole thing sounded somewhat dubious and it turns out I was right. The resulting product was best described by its nervous-looking recipient as “an anomaly” which was an interesting description. I think it was the most polite thing he could think of to say! He was particularly perturbed by the astonishing elasticity of the mincemeat within and the puzzling flakiness of the surround, which was finally pronounced as “too dry”. The clotted cream, however, went down well, which presumably was all that was needed to help poor David clean his plate, despite his evident reservations!

News comment time: the bomb in Marrakesh killed one Brit. Turns out, he wrote for the Jewish Chronicle. His name was Peter Moss. Two Canadians, two Israelis, one Dutchman, six French and two Moroccans, so far. How does it help? This is what I don’t understand. I don’t know who you are or what you think you want, but how does blowing up people help your cause? Will it make the French more disposed towards helping you? I doubt it. Will it make the Moroccan elite more disposed towards you? Hardly. You’ve blown up ordinary Moroccans as well. Will that dispose the ordinary Moroccan people to your way of thinking? You don’t believe that any more than I do. So why kill anyone at all? It doesn’t work. It never works. I genuinely don’t see the point. Even your suicide bomber had doubts, which is why you blew him/her up remotely, so he/she couldn’t back out. The whole concept is alien to me and to most normal, logically-thinking people. In fact, if anyone believes for one second that killing even one person can make the world a better place, I suggest you read Making History by Stephen Fry, which is about the possible repercussions of removing Hitler from history. It’s a short, light read, with a very powerful message. Killing people doesn’t work. Stop it.

The heat on deck today is nothing short of fierce. At 7am this morning it was 81 degrees in the shade. Heaven only knows what it is now. The humidity is staggering, even at sea with a breeze blowing, and the sun is beating down like a hammer. I have been out in it for precisely three minutes, and I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it. Although, if I continue to watch the radars rotating in their hypnotic circles much longer, I’m liable to doze off and burn myself to a crisp.

Heat this fierce is not just about burning or tanning, however. It drains your energy, your will, your ability to move. Even the most minor of effort becomes enormous. Just reaching for a drink or adjusting a towel is a debilitatingly exhausting activity, which leaves you drained and gasping and collapsed where you land. I’m sure it’s only the pint of diet coke an hour I’m drinking that’s keeping me even vaguely upright. The obvious antidote is, of course, to dive in the pool, but there is precious little shade in there either and everyone in the water is carefully staying within what shadows there are, hats on heads, leaving large swathes of water undisturbed but for the ripples they send over from their sheltered corners at the shallow end. I’m also reliably informed that the pool is the temperature of a hot bath, which rather defeats the purpose, in my opinion.

We have spent the afternoon downstairs in the cool of the Spinnaker Bar, which, after I’d made them turn off the music, which sounded, even to me, like some woman was having her teeth removed without anaesthetic, was a lovely place to relax in the cool. There is nowhere on this ship that you can escape music except in your own cabin, and then only if you don’t turn on the tv, which has several channels playing background music, alongside Angels and Demons, A Few Good Men, Legally Blonde and four channels of some wedding or other. This ship is surprisingly noisy, in fact. Good music, bad music (mostly bad), instrumental muzak, pianos that play themselves, jukeboxes, even humming waiters. And that’s just the music. Never mind the technicians sanding and banging on fixing broken stuff or the food trolleys that rattle so loudly that there are probably dead deaf people on nearby landmasses being woken by them. The Spinnaker is often deserted, however, which means that you can ask them to turn off the music and they can’t use other customers as an excuse, because there aren’t any!

Just as we got settled with drinks and silence and cool air, two of our friends went past. One was off to a lecture, but the other came to join us. Her name is Enid and she is an absolute joy to spend time with. We chatted quite happily for about two hours, comparing war stories of being invalided off of cruises, the best tours to take in certain ports and our respective plans for next year. Which amounted, it turns out, to very little.

P&O should actually be a little worried by this. No one we have spoken to has anything booked for next year, except Merle and she’s booked her next ten or so months, but then she only goes home for new visas and passports and spends most of the rest of the time back to backing different ships and companies and sailing the oceans. Just as I would if I had the money! But everyone else is pretty much planless for next year. The recession may yet bite the cruise industry, albeit belatedly, on the proverbial behind, because people book cruises a year or two or at least eighteen months ahead, and now these are running out, people are realising how little money they have left to play with, as a result of two years of earning no interest whatsoever on their money, and they are balking at making further plans until the future looks a bit brighter. I think the Bank of England will have to raise interest rates soon, or the British cruise industry could find itself in real trouble.

Don’t look at the radar. Don’t look at the radar. Good grief, it’s like Hypno-toad. You can’t not look. I’m not sure how much longer I can stay awake at this rate. I’ve now retreated into the shade, but I can still see them turning round and round and round and round and…

A thunderstorm over a rainforest is quite a sight to see. The clouds are huge, heavy and dark and they hang low over the trees and hills, dropping their contents straight downwards like a dumptruck tipping up at the top of a cliff and sending its load over the side to the valley below. The thunder is low and long and angry and rumbles across the Isthmus above our heads. The lightning hides above the clouds, lighting up the dark sky like a fluorescent bulb that’s on the blink – giving a few shuddering starts of light before stopping, as if exhausted, for a rest.

The clouds seem to be damaged by the thunder and lightning. There are strange vertical shreds of cloud that peel off and waft across the treetops, like a straggler wildebeest separated from the herd or a toddler who has lost its mum’s hand struggling to keep up on its own. I’ve never seen anything like them. They seem to get their feet caught in the trees and break up as they fall. I assume they are pure moisture, disintegrating into individual raindrops as they go, but it does look quite sad. It looks like a slow-motion trip and fall like you see in a movie, when you know the character has been shot and will be dead before they hit the ground, only instead of landing in a puddle on a dark bullet-filled night, they disintegrate into nothing at all, moisture meeting moisture as the rainforest drinks.

On the plus side, from the human point of view at least, all this movement causes a breeze, for which we are quite pathetically grateful. Because if I thought it was humid before, that’s nothing to what it’s like just before it rains! The clagginess of the heat and the wet combined sticks to you like a thin layer of glue, and I have no doubt I will have to change every single item of clothing, down to and including my underwear, before going to dinner.

The wind is now strong enough to start knocking down unattended and badly propped-up sunloungers, with that rather over-spectacular clatter you can only get from a plastic sunlounger, and the deck is virtually deserted. Even here, under the sheltery bit, I’m getting quite damp indeed. The rain is really coming down now, as if to prove the point. ‘This is a rainforest, doncha know?’ Big blattery drops smashing down onto the swimming pool and the deck, each bouncing over an inch back upwards, such is their eagerness to smash into the ground. When it’s coming down hard enough to show up on a photo, that’s pretty hard. It’s all very pretty.

The huge (and I mean massive – it makes us look small) container ship behind us and the hills behind them have pretty much disappeared from view into the white mist that has descended, and only the silhouettes of the closer trees remain to remind us that we are still in the middle of the forest, just easing our way out of the last lock at Millaflores, before beginning the run down to Panama City and the Pacific Ocean. We’ve never been through the canal during the rainy season before, and I have to say I’m rather glad we did. It’s quite a sight. I hope, however, when I say “run” down to the ocean, I mean “run”, because we need to get ahead of this storm! There’s a speed limit in the locks, but once we’re free, I’m rather hoping we’re going to really peg it out of here! I imagine the rain will stay in the rainforest, so once we’re clear of that, we should hopefully be clear of its weather too.

The mules are made of metal. I wonder what the rain sounds like on the roof of those?!

And low and behold, as soon as we clear the edge of the rainforest…

We are moving so slowly I’ve had to put my wristbands on. (For those of you who are new readers, I suffer from what is known as MDD – mal de debarquement – which means that, although I’m fine at sea, when I step onto land, my inner ear keeps swaying, so I essentially get landsick for about four or five days. So when we are in port, or get home, are moored up or just not swaying, I have to wear my travel bands, otherwise I get nauseous). I woke up this morning and knew immediately that we had entered the canal because I had to put my wristbands on. In addition to this, my air con has completely given up the proverbial as regards the heat and humidity here in the Panamanian rainforest, so here I am, up and dressed and out on deck at half eight in the morning, getting shoved out the way by fools who have never seen a lock gate before. It rains in Panama for about eight months a year and this is the wet season. You could probably drink the air if you were so inclined. Just put an empty glass down and wait for the humidity to coalesce on it and eventually you’d have enough to drink. The chances of it NOT raining today are pretty slim, although it has held off so far. Saying that, it’s only half nine in the morning, so there’s still time…

The main problem with canal day is telling you about it. Like I said, we travel very slowly and not very far, so the only thing that changes is the statistics.

54 million gallons of fresh water are used to lift us through all the locks and down the other side, where this water flows out into the sea. That’s quite a lot of water. It all comes from the one rainforest lake. If Panama ever loses its rainforest, the canal will dry up within days.

The fee we have paid for today’s transit is US$405,000. He did say what that was in English money, but I’ve forgotten. It’s a fair amount, anyway.

The cheapest toll ever paid was by Richard Halliburton, in 1928, who paid 36 cents for the right to swim the canal. It took him ten days to do. See? There are mentals everywhere. An American, no doubt.

We’re out the Gatun Locks, and moving at what can only be described as a fast jog. You know you’re starved for input when that’s the most exciting thing to note!

Over 950,000 vessels have transited the canal since it was opened and they are now building new, wider locks, to allow all the new, stupidly huge cruise ships to go through. They expect these to be up and running by 2015. You still won’t get me on one! There are 2,000 passengers on here and that’s too many. You rarely see the same people twice. If you more than doubled that?! No, thank you! We’ve heard stories of half hour queues to get into the theatre and an hour to get off at a port. That’s insane. Nope, I’m downsizing after this. I will be choosing my future cruises by tonnage.

If you fancy having a good laugh at my expense, by the way, the Royal Wedding is tomorrow at 11am BST. We are currently at GMT -5. Think about it. Yes, that’s 5am. Ha blooming ha.

Talking of which, there is a notice in today’s paper. Attention: tomorrow we will be holding an old-fashioned street party, complete with fancy dress competition for the best dressed Royal. Nothing like giving us a bit of warning! We’ve been at sea for two days. How exactly are we supposed to rustle up a fancy dress outfit with less than 24 hours’ warning?! Seriously, you must have to practice being this stupid in front of a mirror. There’s no way anyone is NATURALLY that thick, surely?

While we’re on the subject, your film choices today are The Queen or The King’s Speech. Spotting a theme at all?

People were obviously only interested in the locks, because now we’re out, crossing the Gatun Lake, the sunbeds and the pool are filling up and the ambient noise level has increased significantly. It is noticeable that since Barbados one quarter of the passengers are new. 500 got off and 500 got on. It’s astonishing how few faces I recognise and it feels quite disorientating. It’s not easy, because you have to start all over again with getting to know people and I can’t help but feel that the rudeness level has also risen since the changeover. I’m quite sure I’ve been shoved out the way much more since then.

The problem is that this is a very bitty cruise. It seems to divide rather neatly into two-week lumps, which means that people who still work for a living are able to join. It was thirteen days to Barbados and now it is two weeks to San Francisco. I think the rudeness comes from the fact that these are working people who don’t know how to slow down and spend their daily lives pushing people out the way, so they just act the same on here. Retired people understand that there’s no rush in life. Shoving me out the way so that you can get your yellow jelly before I get mine is just pointless. It achieves nothing and all you do is look like a rude, obnoxious git, which is, in fact, exactly what you are. Is yellow jelly really that important, anyway? They just have no sense of perspective. Seriously, how important is yellow jelly, in the grand scheme of things? You’re not going to die if I get my yellow jelly before you get yours. Just chill out and stop shoving. It’s a measure of how much people shove each other aside in real life as to how much they do it on here. Some of these people must demand the entire pavement to themselves. Of course, it’s more noticeable on here that it is on, say, Oxford Street, in the centre of London, but that doesn’t excuse it in either setting. We have become a rather rude society, it seems to me. I know I rant on this subject on every cruise, but it is nonetheless true. The world is getting ruder and P&O cruisers are sadly no exception.

So, in summary, the Panama Canal has green water, the colour of verdigris for the more precise among you, although it gets a bit yellower where we’ve kicked the sand up on the bottom, the air is so moist you can wash in it and P&O passengers can be very rude. Nothing new under Heaven, as the saying goes.

I am feeling grumpy. Be warned. This will not be the cheeriest of missives.

Tonight was a formal night and I made an effort. The mauve dress with a silver bolero, the Stratford-upon-Avon jewellery, the Newbury shoes. But I felt dreadfully over-dressed! I’ve never felt over-dressed before! The men were dressed in their tuxes, but the women just seemed to be wearing separates or simple dresses. I felt quite annoyed. What’s the point in having a formal if you’re just going to wear the same stuff you wear to semi-formal or casual nights?! It was also ridiculously hot, which did nothing to improve my mood. Maybe I’ll just go to bed. I’m certainly not very good company right now!

Tonight the clocks go back again, which is nice, but we are supposed to get up early to stare at the Panama Canal for twelve hours straight. I might not, if it’s all the same to you. Yes, it’s a marvel of modern engineering, but, you know what? It’s not twelve hours of interesting, sorry. It’s barely two hours of interesting, frankly. The ship’s photographers make a video and take lots of photos and then they show it on the telly. We travel about 40 miles in a day. We normally do that in a couple of hours. Trust me, you have never seen so much time-lapse photography in your life. It’s like watching a piece of 1930s cinema but in colour. And, be reasonable. How long can you stare at trees and scenery you’re going past at a walking pace? Even when you go walking, you don’t stare around you all the time, do you? You look at your feet, you look at your friends, you look at a map. The only variety here is walking to a different part of the ship for a change of perspective. The view barely moves. Trust me, it’s dull.

The story behind the canal, however, is very interesting indeed. If you ever get the chance to see A Man, A Plan, A Canal, you should watch it. It’s a fascinating (if patronisingly pro-American) insight into why the French failed (losing 22,000 lives in the process, mostly to landslides) and the Americans did not (losing only 5,500 during the entire ten-year dig and bringing the thing in not just on time but early AND under budget). And why and how the thing was dug, including statistics such as the fact that the lock doors are so finely balanced, they only use the engine power of a large lawnmower to open and close them. But the actual thing is a giant river with a couple of locks. The locks are quite interesting, the trains that pull us through are quite interesting (“mules”) but the main excitement is in the fact that we only have two feet at each end and two feet at each side, so we will get scraped to pieces. As soon as we moor up in Puntarenas, they’ll be out with the paintbrushes. And they’ll have to do it all again on the way back. Seriously, if you have spare cash, invest in marine paint manufacturers! Over thirty ships a day transit the canal and most of them will need repainting when they get out the other side. Invest in white paint, specifically, as that will cover all the cruise ships and the refrigerated freight ships too.

That’s about it, really. *shrug* My sunburn itches. I’m going to bed.

We have just crossed over a line in the water. I kid you not. A virtually straight line in the water. I’ll attach a photo because otherwise you wouldn’t believe me.

We’re guessing it was the edge of an underwater shelf, although the table behind us have a theory about water temperature which I find unlikely, although I suppose not impossible. The greener water we are now in is no rougher than the royal blue we’ve come from, so it’s not that the sand on the bottom is more churned up, the wind speed is actually slightly lower, so that’s not it. If anyone has any idea what would cause this, please let me know! It’s not often something so dramatic occurs on a sea day.

What an absolutely lovely island. The people are not without their flaws, however, but humans are humans, I suppose, but more of that later. Aruba is one of the ABC islands that make up the Dutch Antilles, namely Aruba, Bonaire and Curacao, but don’t try spending euros here, they only want American dollars and, unless you specifically ask, they will try and give you your change in East Caribbean Dollars. It is odd holding a coin that says ‘One East Caribbean States Dollar’ on one side and has the Queen’s head on the other. Yes, Queen Elizabeth the Second. Yes, I know I said it was the DUTCH Antilles. Yes, it is part of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. Like I said, it’s confusing. I don’t think the Netherlands royal family has a Queen Elizabeth the Second, I’m pretty sure it’s our queen. It’s not a Barbadian dollar, that’s for sure, but other islands, such as St Kitts, Antigua, Dominica, St Lucia, St Vincent and the Grenadines and Grenada use the ECD as well… I think. I’m sure the Netherlands does have a royal family, but I don’t claim to be an expert. Can someone ask James for me? I thought the Euro would be currency here, but apparently not. The trouble is that every single island around the Caribbean has a different language and most have a different currency and my guide book, which was last updated in 2008, seems woefully out of touch, and is so virtually worthless on the topic. Luckily, they ALL accept the US dollar (except Cuba), so as long as you remember to ask for US change, it’s not really a big problem. It’s just making my head hurt a bit.

Anyway, I digress. Aruba is lovely. They know their market (most American cruise ships stop here) and the usual dose of Diamonds International, Emeralds International and cigar shops line the road that runs between the dock and the town. In fact, most of the shops in Oranjestad are jewellers or expensive designer labels. There is free wifi and cafes to eat at, including all the major US chains, such as Iguana Joe’s, Hard Rock Cafe, Pizza Hut and Dunkin Donuts. In fact the only non-chain cafe I could find was closed! Mum and Dad saw Wendys, KFC, Senor Frog’s and another Hard Rock on their excursion out of town, as well. They took a glass-bottomed boat to look at the fish on the coral reef and also saw a shipwreck under the sea. I refrained from taking yet another boat and just pootled around the town on my own. It’s really very pretty indeed, particularly as one of the shopping malls, centred around jewellery and t-shirt shops as per the norm, was designed to look vaguely like an Indian temple, only pink. I’ll try and upload a photo. It is by far the prettiest shopping mall I have ever seen.

Minimum spends on credit cards exist here, as with many of the islands we have visited, but, unfortunately, this place is so much cheaper, it is virtually impossible to spend twenty dollars! In one bar, I bought a cocktail, a large Diet Coke and a bowl of fries, but I still only spent eleven dollars! I simply couldn’t take in any more! In St Maarten, a t-shirt cost about twenty dollars, so that was easy. Here, they cost ten, which makes things much more cash-intensive!

Mercifully, the Dutch Antilles are not only far enough west and south (only 17 miles from Venezuela) to be beyond the hurricane belt, but are also coral, not volcanic, and therefore not rainforest and not nearly as humid as previous ports, so we only had heat to contend with, which is much easier to take, particularly in conjunction with a light sea breeze. In order to protect the coral, in fact, which virtually surrounds the island and most of which is protected National Marine Park, we were escorted in, through a very narrow channel, by a tug which nudged us if we veered too near the edge of the demarcated line. Being nudged by a tug is no little thing, trust me. We got quite a jolt!

Anyway, I said I would talk about humans. There was a cruise ship full of Americans in today, which probably made town probably significantly more noisy than it otherwise might have been. Don’t get me wrong, Americans are lovely and always friendly, but they are a noisy bunch!

As regards noise, they need to build a bypass. They’ve created this beautiful waterfront shopping heaven with food and all lovely stuff and they’ve even build a little clock tower with a carillon on top (that plays at completely random intervals), but then they drive container lorries with engines that make your ears bleed right through the middle. Definitely time to build a bypass or motorway of some sort.

But it was a local woman who made the most noise. She left a bag on a bench and a homeless man walked off with it. When she challenged him, he asked for money in exchange for its return. She refused and threatened to call the police, but in the end, she just left without it. The shop assistant explained that the homeless man hadn’t stolen anything, he had simply taken what he found, perfectly legitimately. Clearly, the law is different here, because in England we have an offence called Stealing by Finding. But here, everyone just shrugged and let him walk away with whatever it was he had found. And before you ask, no, I don’t speak the local lingo – every island has its own patois, you’d go insane learning them all – she explained it to me in English!

Tonight, we have each received our specially-printed invitation from someone called BBC World News to attend the wedding of some people called Kate and William. 4am, they want me to turn up on Friday, apparently. Yeah, right. I don’t care how much or little of a royalist you are, 4am is a bit much…

Now, pay attention. Barbados is NOT part of the Caribbean Curve. It’s 100 miles or so east and isn’t even made of volcanic rock. It’s made of two separate masses of coral rock that merged together.

The motto of Barbados is Pride and Industry. Not much of the latter on show today, that’s for sure. Barbados is shut. Well, it is Easter Sunday, to be fair. But when I say shut, I mean shut. There are opening scenes in 28 Days Later that have more activity. We pootled through the terminal shops, as is clearly standard practice in the West Indies, and purchased some postcards, which mum is now sitting writing industriously. Once outside, we found a cab to drive us into town, but the whole place was shut down. Metal shutters as far as the eye can see. Even the supermarkets and convenience stores are closed. Nothing, except, I imagine, the churches, is open for business. We asked to go to the Waterfront Cafe, recommended by both guide book and personal friends (thanks, Ange and Karen!), but even that was closed. So we fell back on what we knew to be safe – the Boatyard.

This where we came last time and was probably the only place open in Bridgetown. You buy a wristband which allows you to use the beach, the equipment and the bars and restaurants and wifi and then you walk through to the beach. They have cabanas and sun loungers and umbrellas and things in the water to swim out to and lie on and a rope swing to dump you in the water. And a bar in the shade and music that is not too loud if you sit at the other end. And the bluest, most startlingly turquoise water you have ever seen. The kind of blue you see on holiday brochures or CSI: Miami and assume they’ve used a red filter to get it that bright. Water so clear and turquoise and sand so white, it’s hard to believe it’s real. I can’t tell you how lovely it is here. If I’d realised we’d end up here, I’d have bought my cozzie and a towel, because the water looks ever so tempting, although I imagine the sand is scorchingly hot underfoot, so getting there would be tricky! Your wristband entitles you to one free drink, as well, which is a nice touch. The barman accidentally poured two diet cokes, and when we pointed it out, he said “Ah, just take it”. So I got TWO free drinks, which is even nicer!

It’s weird doing absolutely nothing. Just sitting watching the world, with no purpose or action or movement. No duties or plans or things to do or even think about. Mum dozed, dad went for a wander, I just sat and stared at the water. It was almost like meditation, watching my own thoughts wander past. I spotted the DJ from the ship, who is going home this evening, playing football on the sand. That got Together in Electric Dreams running through my head, as we sang it together the other night, which meant I then found myself thinking about the concert at Audley End where I heard Phil Oakey sing it live, and that was the day it rained so hard, we could barely see. So I found myself sitting on a beach in Barbados, where it was blazing sunshine and 30 degrees in the shade, thinking about heavy rainfall. Like I said, it’s weird watching your thoughts wander past – you never know where they’re going.

This evening I voted. My postal vote was sent from Huntingdon to Southampton, whence it was forwarded to Barbados to meet the ship. Despite a little left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing, and repeated denials of the existence of any envelope whatsoever with my name on, with enough nagging they found my envelope and delivered it to my cabin just before dinner. I was then able to complete both ballots, local election and referendum on the Alternative Vote, and seal up the envelope. I then went to reception and bought far too many stamps (possibly as high as three times that required) to ensure that nothing stops its safe return to Huntingdon for the count. My parents went down the proxy route, which means my poor uncle has to deal with it for both of them, as well as his own. Simpler from their point of view, but the control freak in my nature likes it this way.

I have spoken to other people on board whose local councils refused to accommodate their voting whilst being away. After some discussion, they conceded that they may not have asked the right questions or pressed hard enough for inclusion. Having personally been deliberately and maliciously disenfranchised during the last round of local elections by a delay in the moving of a ward boundary, there was no way I was going to miss out this time. I know some disagree, but I am very passionate about my right to vote and being on the wrong side of the world isn’t going to stop me. In particular, the potential for a permanent change to the way Britain votes in the future is far too important to leave to the whims of others and I was determined to make my voice heard. So dad and I went ashore and walked back into the terminal to put the envelope in the postbox ourselves. I could have simply handed it in to Reception for them to post, or put it in the on board postbox, but for the sake of a ten minute walk, I have now personally put it into the Barbados postal system, so the number of people able to make a mistake with it is now reduced to the bare minimum, and all I can do now is hope it arrives back in time. Job done.

I’m always intrigued by intelligent friends of mine who don’t vote. It’s not often anyone asks your opinion, so when they do, why would you not contribute? It’s not like you don’t have an opinion, everyone does, so express it. Never mind the number of people who have fought, been jailed and died for your right to vote, it’s your chance to express your opinion and shape the way the country works. I can’t even begin to comprehend the idea of not wanting to be a part of that. If you don’t vote, you can’t complain about what you end up with – licensing laws, schools, hospitals, the nhs, legal aid, benefits, immigration, potholes, dog licensing, straight bananas, the price of petrol, none of it. If you can look me in the eye and tell me that none of the above affect you or your life or your family and none of them matter, then fine, but otherwise, you should be voting.

Last time I checked there was a spellcheck function in PowerPoint, isn’t there? There’s a page on the television Passenger Information Channel which informs us that the “Captial” of Barbados is Bridgetown. Okay, so you may not give a rat’s whatsit about typing this stuff, but couldn’t you at least re-read it, just once? Pleeeeease? I’m not asking for a great deal and I’m sure it would cost you nothing in time or financial terms. Just click on the spellcheck button. Just once. That’s all we ask.

In fact, we’ve been having issues with punctuation for several days now. Dad has been particularly put out by a plasma screen playing a PowerPoint of information next to the Excursions Desk which said that “Our local agents have informed us that we will be arriving in St Maarten on Good Friday!!!” No, really. Three exclamation marks. Would you like to stick an ‘OMG!’ on the end as well, for good measure? Are you really so devoid of any intelligence whatsoever that you don’t realise that Good Friday is the same date all over the world? P&O, what kind of morons are you employing exactly? We managed to work it out for ourselves before we even left Southampton!!! To try and add extra exclamation marks in a rather fatuous attempt to insinuate that it came as a complete surprise to you is, frankly, insulting to your passengers, and dad, for one, is more annoyed by the exclamation marks than the shop closures. We knew they would be happening, we just didn’t realise how stupid you’d be assuming we are at the same time. And, yes, they did put up a similar message for Easter Sunday in Barbados. *sigh*

St Lucia is lovely. The view from the ship was amazing, nothing but green treetops, punctuated by the occasional red-tiled house roof, as far as the eye can see. But St Lucia is HUGE. The official thing to say is “twice the size of the Isle of Wight”, which means nothing to most people. But it is MASSIVE. It’s not a cute little island you can drive around in an hour or so.

St Lucia is one of the volcanic islands that make up the Caribbean Curve of islands. Hurricane-prone, rainforest-covered volcanic rock. Yes, feel free to read that again. Rainforest-covered. Whatever anyone tells you about the Caribbean, it is mostly rainforest, and, as a consequence, the humidity is ludicrous. It feels like we’re all suffering from very low level pleurisy. The air is so moist, our lungs simply can’t process it, and I know of at least one elderly friend who has ended up in the Medical Centre on oxygen, because his heart can’t clear the liquid from his lungs fast enough. Even I’m finding it a little harder to breathe than normal. The end result of which is that every step you take takes more effort that you ever imagined possible. Luckily, all the recent islands are used to this and provide LOTS of places for mum to sit down and take a breather. I’m even having to take a few, myself.

We took an early morning boat ride out to look for dolphins and whales. The size of the island only really becomes apparent when you try and sail around it. We sailed for an hour and a half and barely made it a quarter of the way around. We saw some dolphins, but unfortunately, our boat captain was an idiot and whenever he saw a pod of dolphins, he put the engines on full throttle and drove straight at them. Needless to say, they scattered. Surprise, surprise. What a fool. He got precisely no tip whatsoever. But we saw a few and it was a pleasant enough morning. I did, however, get very, VERY burned, particularly on my arms, despite applying and reapplying my sun cream several times.

The shops on St Lucia’s quayside were a delight (except for the karaoke bar with the REALLY loud microphone, which was disturbing us before we even got off the ship). A mixture of touristy stuff, clothes, jewellery and handicrafts. I bought two t-shirts and had to deliberately stop myself buying more. I am particularly happy to say that one of them was manufactured in Haiti. This is cool, because it means that their economy is boosted by my tourism here (Haiti is also in the Caribbean Curve). It is possible to be a tourist with a conscience, and to bring benefit to the world, whilst still travelling and exploring. We all joke that we aren’t shopping, we’re boosting the local economy, but in fact we are really doing both and the benefit is genuinely mutual.

Mum bought a hand-carved duck from the artist himself, who had a little stall of his work and he amended the beak to mum’s requirements, which proved they were really his own work. It was made of white cedar stained with brown Kiwi boot polish. How creative is that?! His cousin is also an artist and is making something to be presented for the Royal Wedding, apparently. See? There’s no escape the approaching nuptials, even here!

The sailaway party today was all about patriotic songs – a bit of Welsh, Irish and Scottish before the Englishness kicked in for St George’s Day. We did Jerusalem, Rule Britannia, even the National Anthem (and, yes, most people did stand!). Even dinner was “British” – roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.

Today was Hayley, Ted and John’s last night, so we went out for a drink with Sheila and Dave at the pub. Sheila and Dave then invited us to their suite, which was immense! They have the back left-hand corner of the ship, essentially, with an L-shaped balcony, a butler and his and hers bathroom sinks! All very swanky. They then turned in and Hayley, John and I went up onto Deck 9 for further drinks and talking until 2am. They had to pack before they went to bed, so that their suitcases could be sorted overnight. Apparently, it took a hour! I’m going to miss them dreadfully, and can only hope we don’t lose touch. They’ve been told that their flight is delayed, so they are being put up in the Marriott overnight. Huzzah for Thomson inefficiency! Ironically, the flight is delayed coming in, which means we have to stay as well, to wait for our new passengers. This will make us late into Aruba. Marvellous. Oh well, can’t have everything, I suppose.

Poor St Maarten. It’s not the island’s fault. It’s not the people’s fault. They’re lovely. But half an hour before it was time to leave, it was announced that the America’s Cup crewing excursion I was booked on was cancelled, due to lack of wind. We’ve been through some astonishing levels of wind in the past week, and yet, when we get here, there isn’t enough to even lift the flag on the bow. On the mastcam on the telly, it can be seen hanging like a wet dishrag. So I won’t be crewing an America’s Cup yacht around part of the America’s Cup course. Disappointment No. 1.

So I changed my clothes and we went ashore instead. There is a lovely little purpose-built quayside, with the usual, eye-wateringly expensive shops and some cheaper ones as well. The stuff on offer was lovely, and I bought a few gifts and a t-shirt (or two…). We stopped for a drink with a gecko and a chicken. Mum was finding it hard to deal with the heat, so we went back to the ship, and its associated air con, for lunch.

We went back out again with the intention of taking a taxi tour of at least part of the island, but they have carteled the prices and mum and dad decided it was too expensive. So we just went into town, Philipsburg, and Dad and I walked along the Broadwalk, which reminded us very much of Na’ama Bay in Sharm El Sheikh. This means, essentially, a purpose-built, crescent-shaped beachfront with beautiful white coral beaches like you see in the postcards, umbrellas and sunloungers to the left and bars and restaurants to the right. Most of which were open on the seafront, whereas one street further back, the main shopping area of the town was utterly desolate, completely shut down.

Because the other problem is that we are in Dutch (and French) territory on Good Friday. So everything is shut (except, presumably, the churches). It’s tricky to see what a place is really like when it’s shut. Disappointment No. 2. Even if I had remembered to bring my euros ashore, I couldn’t spend them.

So we went back to the port. We had another drink and enjoyed the sunshine and then the parents went back to the ship and I wandered around the shops a little longer before returning myself.

We had a fabulous sailaway party on deck 9 and then I rushed to dinner and the evening proceeded as usual. I avoided alcohol and opted for an early night, as the back to back port thing is starting to get to me a bit.

WARNING: RANT AHEAD

Good morning, welcome to St Maarten. Now, I know that you are all British and stupid and desperate to get off the ship and onto the beach to start damaging your skin in earnest. So you can now go ashore and do just that. The shops and restaurants near the ship and the beach are open, despite the fact that it is the holiest day in the Christian calendar. So off you go, go for it.

Quarter to eight in the morning. Read that again. Slowly. Quarter to EIGHT. Not quarter to NINE. Quarter to EIGHT. SEVEN FORTY-FIVE IN THE MORNING. Yes, of COURSE I was asleep! Wouldn’t you be at QUARTER TO EIGHT in the morning when you’re on holiday?! I don’t even get up that early when I’m working, for pity’s sake!

Now, granted, I have an excursion at ten I need to be up for, but it is going to be hard work and I also therefore need SOME SLEEP BEFOREHAND. Yes, I appreciate that it is already 25 degrees in the shade, and, yes, I am also aware that we are leaving slightly early today, at half four, in order to get to St Lucia on time tomorrow, so time to damage your skin and your wallet is slightly more limited than you might otherwise like.

But, QUARTER TO EIGHT? Seriously?

Happy Good Friday, everybody. I’m going BACK TO BED. My alarm is set for NINE, not eight, and certainly not seven anything.