Reading Jonathan Franzen makes me want to write. The way the words fall out of him, the way he condenses so precisely seemingly massively wide concepts into a sentence or two, seem to chime with something within me and I always find that, when I read him in bed, I have to get back up and write immediately. Which is most disturbing, both literally and figuratively. Whether his influence provokes anything of any quality from within me is debatable and I will leave to you to decide, but the urge must be assuaged and the itch must be scratched, so you get what you’re given, I’m afraid.

Talking of which, I got bitten today. Out in the middle of the ocean, hundreds of miles from anywhere – if Warren’s noon announcement informs me one more time that the nearest piece of land is straight down, I may have to hurt someone – I got bitten. Obviously, the security precautions against stowaways discriminate against only those of a certain minimum size and my friend fitted neatly under that radar. For the more fact-conscious among my readers, the bite is on the side of my face, at almost exactly eye height, on the left temple where my sunglasses tan line runs, where my hair begins. Currently. My hair line sometimes seems to be receding faster than a Fifa president’s credibility, so ‘currently’ is a necessary addition there. And that’s with the kelp supplements. If I stopped taking them, I think I’d be bald in a fortnight.

But I digress. This is supposed to be about writing. Reading Jonathan Franzen seems to stir in me the need to get stuff out that I didn’t know was trapped inside. Oh dear, I make it sound like wind! It does feel a little like that, though. I get an ache, somewhere in the region of my solar plexus, that could be mistaken for indigestion if I had eaten anything of any consequence at dinner three hours ago, which I haven’t because I haven’t felt hungry or seen my appetite in well over five weeks now. It interferes with my breathing, just like indigestion, now I come to think about it. In fact, it’s probably just a Haribo cola bottle that went down sideways. Ignore this paragraph.

Is there any point in writing anymore? Does anyone read these days? Do people read books? Newspapers? Blogs? (I exclude my own here, because OBVIOUSLY a good half dozen people read this – when the subscription email trumpeting a new missive nags them to, anyway). Every day on board, an abbreviated newspaper is printed, courtesy of that paragon of unbiased and factually impeccable journalism that is the Daily Mail. I don’t even bother to read it any more. I have 24 hour BBC World News to watch and, if that lets me down or fails to provide the level of detail or intrigue I require, I can switch to Sky News or, say it quietly and behind a hand if you’ve got one free, E! News. Ahem. Crashing on…

When was the last time I read a book? (OTHER than the Jonathan Franzen essays, smarty-pants)

When I was working in London last year (remember that four month temp job in Holborn?), I had an hour each way on the train to kill. Going in, of course, provided a constantly changing, if slightly blurry, landscape to watch, gaze, glaze over and doze off at, not to mention a whole host of people at their desks in the midst of their working days who seemed to have a burning desire to make me ring them up and yell at them about something between tunnels. Going home, however, the outside world offered only darkness, and the occasional flurry of dimly-lit bypassed stations for entertainment, and I was forced to turn inwards. There always remains that old stalwart, the Nap, to fall back on, particularly after Friday drinkies, but going North is trickier, because it is possible to miss the station. Going South, you’d hit the buffers – all rails lead to Kings Cross – so you can nod off with impunity. North is more precarious, so it’s best to stay awake. So that leaves books, doesn’t it? Sadly, no. For I was in the thrall of that most dangerous of Modern Menaces: a New Phone. And once you’ve mucked about arranging icons and editing functionalities, such as ringtone volume and screen backlight timers, new phones have App Stores and App Stores have Games. I became particularly addicted to an app version of a game I used to play at the end of exams. You know the one: where you take a word or set of words, often the title of the exam, and see how many smaller words you can get out of it. I almost always finish exams early, so I became rather adept at this game, and even started with alphabetical columns for each letter, so that I could better sort and see the lists of words I found. Now? ‘There’s an App for that’. Heaven.

So, although, in my defence, I spent the vast proportion of my time on word puzzles, rather than free tetris rip-offs, nevertheless, the opportunity to read was missed. It’s not that I’m short of material, either. Granted, the Books To Read pile did get a little swallowed in the move, and they are now scattered among the shelves, hiding between the Already Read but Keep in Case I Read Again books, rather than all in one orderly location, but only a small amount of judicious fishing would suffice to recreate the Tower of Shame that is the Unread Books Pile. And yet the Tower remains un(re)built, six months on, as does some of the flatpack furniture, and I haven’t read a book in getting on for a year or more.

So why didn’t I read? Why don’t I read all the time? I’m unemployed, for pity’s sake, it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do! Television. Let’s not muck about, you knew the answer as soon as I asked the question. Whether it’s nostalgic episodes of anodine American whodunits (Murder, She Wrote, Diagnosis Murder, Perry Mason) or documentaries about the Pyramids or the Titanic, religion, history, archaeology or the state of the economy, or even just the News, there’s almost always something on that appeals to me. I don’t watch game shows or soaps, only certain quizzes (QI, Have I Got News For You, Argumental), nothing with nature or animals and certainly no movies or sport, and yet there seems to be, nonetheless, an astonishing array of distraction just a button push away. Even here on the ship, we get two 24 hour news channels (and E!), along with the BBC selections I have mentioned previously (one comedy and one drama), the drama one of which, rather deliciously, is currently repeatedly showing the first Matt Smith Dr Who episode 😀 (“Basically… run.”) , and there is a documentaries channel to boot (current offering: the invention and development of the dry dock shipyard, which is a lot more interesting than I make it sound!). Frankly, it’s a wonder I ever leave the cabin at all. Not to mention the three film channels. Which reminds me, I need to do a film list, don’t I?

So if I, someone who wants to be a writer, claims to be a writer, and does actually, sometimes, write, am not reading, who do I think is going to read me?! I’m currently being nagged to write a book, but let’s see how we go with the blog, first! Within the blogosphere, the accepted way to publicise your blog is to go to other people’s blogs, read them, and then leave a message inviting them ‘back to yours’, so to speak. A method that is both highly inefficient and time-consuming and, at sea, prohibitively expensive at 20p per minute (£12 an hour, give or take). I spend enough reading my emails and Facebook and uploading my blog, without devoting time and energy to pandering to someone else’s ego as well. And yet, I expect you to all read this devotedly. Why? I don’t! Well, obviously I read it once or twice before I upload it, and I reload the page to make sure it looks right after I add the photos, but I don’t visit it or any other blogs, even when I have free wifi in a port (which is rarer than you might imagine).

The trouble is that life gets in the way. I have to be somewhere or doing something or I bump into someone I need to talk to and the time just slips away from me. Maybe when I’m back in the UK (three weeks tomorrow, if you’re interested), I’ll be able to devote more time and energy to reading. I’ve certainly purchased enough books during this cruise! In fact, now that I’ve finished the Jonathan Franzen essays, and until I receive the copy of his other book from Ros, who I assume will be bringing it with her next time she comes over, rather than posting it to me, and who is kindly lending it to me because when I get home I will be skinter than a skint thing from Skintville, and unable to buy anything again ever (no, really, if you need money from me for something, ask now), maybe I will have time to read some of the other books that have been hanging over me for so long. But if I’m reading, I’m not writing, and if I’m going to be a writer, then I imagine actually writing would be a useful, nay, positively important, part of the process.

So this is the dilemma I face. Even sitting here now, at quarter past midnight, in a cabin too hot to sleep in, and with this urge to write spilling out in these pages of what will probably amount to utter gibberish (sorry!), should I be reading or writing? Them’s your options. Place your votes now.

This is one of those One Thought, One Paragraph entries. Sorry. I know they’re bitty, but life’s like that.

Had a massage today. Alexandra really is very good. She established that, rather than exacerbating the supra-spinitus tendonitis I was being treated for before we left (thank you, Karen!) that has completely healed (thank you, Karen!) and I have actually done myself a completely separate and brand new injury, overextending the deltoid muscles at the front of my shoulder, not the back. The only cure is massage and exercise. She said it’s okay to use the sling to immobilise it, but that it won’t help it heal, it’ll just stop it getting worse. They have a buy five get one free on massages, so I may HAVE to have another few. *sigh*

The Adonia (launched this week by Shirley Bassey) has no Entertainment Officers on board. Too few rooms and too little going on to justify it. This does not bode well. I mean, I’m all fora quiet holiday, but there’s quiet and quiet…

There are reports that the P&O website shows that we are not going to Limon. Not the pages I looked at today, mind you. Possibly another attack of Overactive Imagination Syndrome from our now notorious tablemate.

Disgusting: Am sat in the shade by the pool chatting with friends, while the Chinese couple at the next table cut their fingernails with nail clippers and let the pieces fall on the floor. Not one broken one that’s bugging you, all of them, on both their hands. People are trying to eat their afternoon tea, here. How revolting.

Theatre. Second-hand review of last night’s show, Cry of the Celts. It was quite good until the girl did Danny Boy. “She didn’t just murder it, she annihilated it, chopped it up into little pieces and threw it away”. It was apparently sung by a girl, which seems unusual, and I can find no one with a polite word to say about it. I’ll keep asking around, but don’t hold your breath.

Sunshine. Am once again lying on a sunlounger trying not to doze off and listening to the sounds of the ship. The murmur of conversations in the shade and between loungers, the slosh of the water in the pool lapping gently back and forth, and the triumphant yells of the rather over-competitive table tennis players in the far corner. Yes, the sun is shining and life on Arcadia is returning to normal. I’m only doing one hour on each side today – start slowly. I don’t want to burn, but I don’t want to arrive home paler than I left, either! After the exhausting sprint of Alaska – 8 places in 9 days – this is the Wind Down. Everyone is lying in the sun or the shade, reading and generally uncoiling, swapping stories and reminiscing and catching up with diaries, postcards and emails. For the record, I have bought some postcards, I just haven’t written or sent them. Small technicality.

Shoulder pain. I have a massage tomorrow. I have booked it with the masseuse who has physiotherapy training as well, in the hope that she won’t do my shoulder more harm than good. The proof will be in the pudding, so to speak. Watch this space. In the meantime, the sling is getting me WAY more sympathy than I deserve!

Racism. Not something you’d expect to find on a P&O cruise ship. But there you go. And certainly not this flagrant. Today one of our tablemates described the head waiter who takes care of us and our advance orders as “Sammy Davis Jnr’s brother”. Twice. Later, when the wine waiter arrived, he called him “Sambo” to his face, which really shocked the Canadians at our table. Everyone laughed it off, but it made us all uncomfortable.

You have to be REALLY racist to think that a Goan of Indian descent looks like Sammy Davis Jnr., who was African-American of Jewish descent, remember. You’d have to be a racist of the “they all look the same” ilk. And that “they” would have to include pretty much everyone on the planet with skin that isn’t Scottish white. Never mind that the waiter concerned is nearly six foot tall and Sammy Davis Jnr was five foot.

I’m rather going off this tablemate, frankly. I don’t know what we can do about it – I think we could be stuck with them – but it’s not good, that’s for sure. If he says anything similar tomorrow, we may have to do something about it, but maybe he’ll reel it in a bit after his wife has a go at him later. For what it’s worth, the complaint about the invitations not being on good enough paper? Same bloke. It’s not all smooth sailing* on a cruise, you know.

* Pardon the pun or don’t, I don’t mind either way.

I’m running out of tablets. This is disastrous because it means only one thing. We’re running out of cruise. By all accounts we have less than four weeks left. This is a Bad Thing. Boo.

Having slept 14 hours straight, I feel a bit better today, but I am ACHEY beyond reason. I don’t know why – I didn’t do that much physical work in LA. I think it’s all just catching up with me a bit. Added to which, we’re about to start losing hours. Rats. 😦 It might also help the achiness if I actually remembered to WEAR the sling I bought for my shoulder…

Dad and I spent a couple of hours today trying to balance my bill. P&O have, without a shadow of a doubt, the most complicated bills on the planet. Good thing I kicked that headache beforehand! We finally sussed it and found that, astonishingly, it was correct, all five pages of it, which was both a surprise and a relief. Tomorrow, we’ll do Dad’s bill! That’ll be fun. You see what a party we have? You’re so jealous. I can tell.

Today was definitely a Take It Easy day. I surfed the Internet a bit and caught up on some emails and then had a short rest before it was time to get ready for another formal night, complete with Captain’s drinks. Oh well, a free drink is a free drink! 😀

Complainers. This ship is full of them. I even found someone today who actually complained that the invitation to the Captain’s drinks do wasn’t printed on good enough card. No, really. It was on thin card and was quite generic and had probably been printed in a bit of a hurry, to placate people with free booze after the past couple of days of ‘excitement’, instead of on the usual thick invitation card printed with your cabin number and name as usual. And someone actually complained that it wasn’t good enough. Unbelievable, it may seem, but you have my word of honour, it is 100% true. I was there. This one I witnessed myself. I can’t help but think that if that is the only thing you’ve got to worry about, you’re having a pretty good day.

After a light supper (avocado, cold meat and coleslaw, fruit platter), I had drinks with a couple of good friends, Joan and Colin, who are an absolute joy to hang out with. They never complain and are clearly happy to be here and enjoying every second, but they are cursed with the worst tablemates, so I have endless hours of fun listening to the complaints of people I have never met and never want to meet! One person told Joan how odd she was to spend her money on ringing home to speak to her children and grandchildren. Really? You need to comment on that? Just because you don’t do it, no one should?

I never understand why people disapprove of others. You have no idea what life is like inside my skin or my head and, until you do, you are in no position to comment, frankly. Who are you to “disapprove” of how I spend my time or my money? What’s it to you whether I get up at 8am or 11am? It’s a funny old world when how often I cook for myself matters to anyone else on the planet but me, and it is nothing short of hilarious why it matters what I do for a living. And as to my health? You have no clue, trust me. Don’t go there, you will just make a fool of yourself.*

People who devote their time and energy to judging others in this way are simply wasting their valuable and extremely limited time on this Earth in the most unproductive way imaginable and will achieve nothing whatsoever but to drive themselves completely insane and render themselves friendless and alone. After all, none of us want to spend our time with people who irritate us at best and upset us at worst. Life’s too short to spend it with people that toxic.

If you have someone in your life that judges you, criticises you and informs you of their opinion of you when you haven’t asked, get rid. Remove that person from your daily life, and I guarantee you will feel better, a weight will be lifted and you will be free to enjoy your life more. It’s simple. You don’t like my driving? You’re free to get out and walk any time you like. My car, my rules. Similarly, my life, my rules. Not yours or anybody else’s. If I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. If I don’t, I won’t, and if I don’t, it’s because I have no desire to hear it. If you impart it anyway, be ready for goodbyes. I can’t be doing with it any more. This foot is being put down right here, right now. Make a note.

I have a friend whose mother-in-law is toxic like this. She puts up with it a lot of the time, but about once a year, she blows. She tells her mother-in-law exactly what she thinks of her and her opinions and bans her from the house until she has learned some respect/manners. After a few weeks, she’s back, quieter, politer and a little contrite. She deteriorates again gradually, but it’ll be another year or so before my friend blows her top again, so it never gets TOO acrimonious. Mother-in-laws are sadly not as easily disposed of as judgemental friends might be (although I keep telling her ‘a body is a body is a body’), but even relatives can be held in check with a few judicious ‘taste of your own medicine’ moments. Give it a go. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. 😉 As the song sort of says, ‘if you love them, kick them out, if they love you, they’ll come back’. Or something like that.

Tonight, my air con is making a humming noise that sounds like the horn of a distant train. Not an English two-tone train, an American one, racing across the flat plains of the prairies with mile upon mile of freight carriages in tow. You know the sound. Like that, only quieter, like it’s a long way in the distance. Which, from where we are now, it would be! The gibberish has set in. Time for bed, said Zebedee.

* Sorry, that does sound very American, but sometimes a British turn of phrase just won’t suffice.

Various stories floating about regarding the nine and a half hours of immigration chaos at LA

Disclaimer: These are all rumours. I cannot vouch for the veracity of any of them.

One woman lying on the floor and screaming and only being persuaded to get up by the arrival of two armed officers.

One lady staging a sit-in on the floor at the end of the gangplank and refusing to budge until they provided a chair for her to sit on.

One passenger swearing at the Immigration Officers, being arrested and taken away.

One passenger spitting at the Immigration Officers, being arrested and taken away.

Five passengers grumbling at the Immigration Officers and being disrespectful.

One man being refused a doctor despite clutching his stomach and begging for assistance.

At least two people collapsing and one woman fainting in the queue (I know the woman who fainted).

The reason it was so slow was because they were looking for someone.

Someone claiming that the Americans misunderstood ‘Arcadia’ as ‘Al Quaeda’ (remember, they do pronounce it al kay da!)

One person was arrested, cuffed and taken away.

They were only fingerprinting 1 in 50 passengers until someone upset them.

A security officer threatening to arrest people who didn’t disembark when ordered to do so.

Mutiny in Reception from crowds of shouting people who wanted to leave LA as planned and go to Roatan. Apparently some people only took this leg of the cruise because they wanted to go to/back to Roatan (our tablemates from Canada included).

A claim that the Captain’s wife’s plane was delayed, so the ship was held back to wait for her (unlikely!).

A claim that the ship was impounded by US Immigration and refused permission to leave.

Rumours that if you are over eighty, you get immigrated quicker. MUCH quicker. They all but ignore you.

Rumour that the chief executive of P&O UK, Carol Marlow, is going to fly out to the ship to placate the passengers.

Apparently there was no change in procedure – someone who got off at 8am and was in Long Beach by 9am had to do the full fingerprints etc, just like everyone else. So maybe all of the above is completely untrue!

End of list. Take your pick, frankly. Could be any, all or none of the above whatsoever.

There’s something I never thought I’d be writing. Los Angeles Day Two. Very nice too.

Judy met us at about half ten in her very smart white Chevy. She drove us into the heart of Downtown, because she was determined to show us the Walt Disney Concert Hall. And it is the most beautiful building. It’s a Gehry masterpiece and has, inside, the most technologically accurate acoustics in the world, apparently. We didn’t have time to listen to a concert, but we used the loos, which were also beautiful! The outside is covered with reflective metal tiles, although they are matt, not shiny shiny; it is astonishingly beautiful. The tiles have been removed on one side, however, as the sun’s reflected rays were overheating the sidewalk below and the locals were complaining!

Judy then drove us to the Farmer’s Market, which now has a little open air shopping mall attached to it, called The Grove. We had lunch at The Cheesecake Factory (no queue here). I have never seen such a long menu in my life. It was 20 pages long and it took me so long to read and choose that everyone else had ordered and gone to the loo and back before I was even ready to decide!

I had chicken sliders, which were really cute little mini chicken burgers, four of them. If you’re interested in scale, they were about the circumference of a small, newly-born turtle! Dad and mum shared a small guacamole with a plate of tortilla chips as big as your head and Judy had a Chinese salad – her “usual”. All utterly delicious and with superb service. I could get used to this. Judy’s salad was so large, she split it in half before she started and filled a take home box. She also took a container of dressing separately, so that the crispy noodles wouldn’t get soggy on the way home.

We then pootled around the shops and stalls – Mum bought a hat – and took a trip or two on the little two-stop antique tram, and then sat and watched the koi in the fountain enjoying the sunshine until it was time to head back. The fountains had a display pattern and we tried to watch it all. I think the entire routine took about an hour. Because we are moored in the port, which is miles from anywhere, we had to head back to the car at 3.30 and we still only just made it in time. We boarded at 5.22 for a 5.30 sailing! We don’t normally cut it quite that fine!

The Port of Los Angeles may well be the biggest in the world, by area, if nothing else – everyone we spoke to thinks it is, but no one is quite sure. It takes over twenty minutes on the freeway (at 60mph) to drive over it to the actual water and it is, likewise, nearly twenty minutes on the freeway to drive over the top from side to side (San Pedro to Long Beach). I think that makes it about twenty miles by twenty miles, which would be 400 square miles in area. It is ludicrously huge. All you can see are cranes and containers as far as the eye can see in any direction. It’s an extraordinary sight – ugly, but extraordinary.

And so we sail. We didn’t have time to cry when we said goodbye to Judy, as we were rushing to get on board in time. But it is desperately sad to keep saying goodbye to people. Fran at San Francisco, Stewart and Julie yesterday, Judy today and still more to come in New York and Boston.

The rest of the day was just food and bed. Utterly exhausted. I was in bed by nine.

What an extraordinary day. WARNING: it starts badly. Again.

Announcements started at bang on 7am but people obviously couldn’t be bothered getting up that early, because by 8am, they were coming through the headboard speakers. We got up and went ashore just before 9. When we saw the queue, we immediately asked for a chair for mum. What turned up was not a chair, but a wheelchair, which turned out to be marvellously useful, as the port-employed pusher proceeded as far up towards the front of the queue as he could get away with. But the queue did not move. They funnelled those on excursions to the front of the queue, and we remained stationary. And we waited and we waited and we waited.

After being fully fingerprinted and photographed, we finally met up with Stewart and Julie at quarter to eleven. Yes, feel free to go back and read that again, I’ll wait here. Quarter to ELEVEN. Over two and a half hours.

We drove to Malibu where we went to lunch at Gladstone’s, a stunning restaurant right on the Baywatch beach. We watched the pelicans fishing while we ate. The food was superb. My chicken sandwich was served on challah bread!

When we left, we headed into town and saw Rodeo Drive, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, the Walk of Fame, the Kodak Theatre and other bits and pieces of that ilk. Stewart and Julie also found us a good spot to take photos of the Hollywood sign.

We then headed back to the ship, which was completely the other end of town, over two dozen miles away through heavy traffic – rush hour here starts at 3pm – and we only got through by using the car pool lane. It only today dawned on me that the car pool lane is empty because most vehicles only contain one person. No wonder they have such pollution problems here. We went through the car pool lane (which you can only use if you have 2 or more people in your car) like a dose of salts.

We arranged to meet up with mum’s cousin, Judy, and her husband, Jerry, but they had problems with the traffic and then accidentally went to the wrong place. We waited as long as we could at a little cafe village near the ship called Ports O’ Call, despite being attacked from all sides by mariachi bands parping at us much too loudly but admirably persistently, whilst still being quite astonishingly tuneless, but eventually we had to head to the terminal. Mum was quite upset and I developed a banging headache trying to navigate Jerry and Judy’s car through a town I don’t know (although I may have a bit of sunstroke as well). Jerry eventually rang and said that they were at the terminal but couldn’t find us. After much toing and froing, we realised that they were on a different car park level to us! We found them just in time to say goodbye before boarding. In fact, we were just swapping kisses when we were informed that the ship wasn’t leaving today, but tomorrow! I had to chase Stewart and Julie’s car down the road to get them to stop and come back! On the plus side, Julie gave me some Moltrin. Dunno what’s in it, but it fixed my headache, no problem. Good stuff.

We got independent verification of this astonishing news (obviously)(like we were going to take one person’s word for that)(the lovely lady who confirmed it for us was Charmaine Brandon, the World’s Nicest Security Person) and then all seven of us went to dinner together at P.F. Chang’s Chinese restaurant in Long Beach (almost opposite the Queen Mary). The food was spectacular and we all ate till we were fit to explode. We had spring rolls to start and hot and sour soup, followed by duck – which here was served with pancakes much thicker than we were expecting, more like chapattis, and the duck was sliced not shredded. Still yummy though! Then I had a crispy honey chicken and mum had vegetable chow mein and there was steamed rice and vegetable fried rice (like EFR but with veg added). I can’t remember all the other dishes! Jerry is an astonishing fount of information on an astonishing array of topics and we all really enjoyed the evening. Eventually, we arranged to meet Judy tomorrow and then Stewart and Julie drove us back to the ship (again!). It was sad to have to say goodbye. We can’t see them tomorrow as they have to go back to work. 😦

On return to the cabin, I found a letter from the Captain explaining what had changed. The immigration procedure apparently was not completed until 4.30pm, which meant that some had less than two hours in LA. No wonder they kicked up a stink! So we are staying another day here in LA and skipping Roatan instead, to make up the discrepancy in the itinerary. No iguanas for us then.

Interestingly, the Captain blamed the slow immigration process on the behaviour of some passengers, which made the US authorities suspicious/annoyed and decide to up the requirements for everyone. Oh, and an hour-long computer crash. Right. Nothing that could be construed as pure vindictive over-officiousness by the US Homeland Security personnel then? Okay. Because a couple of mouthy passengers is plenty enough reason to force all 3000 people on board to go through a NINE AND A HALF HOUR immigration process, is it? Good to know. Say the word ‘security’ and you’re expected to just put up with whatever they feel like throwing at you. And they can throw whatever they like, you daren’t object. After all, who would argue with good security? And they are armed… Those we left still queuing had no food, no water and no toilets. Neither were they allowed back ONTO the ship until everyone had been immigrated. Goodness only knows what they went through. I have never been so glad we queue-jumped. Or so unashamed to have done so.

Today was the Gold Tier Luncheon. We were sat with some pleasant enough people but my neighbour’s breath stank, so every time he spoke to me, I had to turn my head away. I had a lovely long soak in the shower this morning, but now I feel like I need another wash!

Desperately trying to email LA people about arrangements for tomorrow. Shame there’s no internet.

The ship is packed, which is odd, considering the huge number of people who left at Vancouver. The trouble is that, due to strong winds, all the open decks have been closed since yesterday evening, so everyone is inside. The Belvedere is packed, the Spinnaker is packed. All our usual quiet haunts are rammed. I may have to resort to my own cabin for some peace and quiet. The same probably explains the lack of internet access – there’s just too many people trying to use it at the same time. Funny really, because the sea is now dead calm. The mist has come down so that visibility is down to a couple of miles at best – not enough for the fog horn to sound, but enough to hold the water down – and there is now no wind at all, not a breath, so why they won’t let us back outside, I’m not sure.

Last night was odd, though, feeling the ship moving about in the wind, reading the notice on the Passenger Information Channel about deck closures, and then turning on the tv to find a second tornado warning in Joplin, Missouri. That’s not fair. There’s nowhere left to hide after yesterday. We are obviously nowhere near the tornado belt, but the confluence of events was a little uncanny.

Some twit yesterday announced that the weather would be rubbish til we got to the Panama Canal. Really? Have you informed Mexico and Costa Rica about this sudden turnaround in their climate or are you just being an idiot who likes the sound of his own voice and doesn’t care what comes out of his mouth, as long as it’s words? LA, we’re relying on you to give us good weather. Don’t let us down – we’ve done very well so far.

Today I slept. That is all.

Those of you of a nervous disposition should look away now. This was NOT a good start to a day.

Firstly, I tried to meet up with some other passengers who were trying to go to the Turbine despite P&O cancelling the excursion from under us. We arranged to meet at 9. They left early and went without me. Thanks a bunch.

So we got off and made our way through the terminal and customs to the shore. HALF AN HOUR it took us. Now, granted mum is not the fastest mover on Earth, but there were no seats to take a break and no wheelchairs offered or available on request for less able passengers. We were just left to fend for ourselves and have to watch mum struggle for the best part of A MILE (no, really, I counted the steps on the way back and, assuming my walking pace is about three feet end to end, it was over three quarters of a mile). There were wheelchairs at the other end, but they were for HIRE ONLY and were chained up with no one in the building who knew who was in charge of them or where the key was.

When we got to the other end, the exit was far from obvious and we found ourselves in a convention centre with what felt like 10,000 plastic surgeons all trying to book in. By the time I got out into the open air, I was on the verge of a panic attack.

Luckily, said open air provided a bench for mum to have a rest, while dad and I confronted our next obstacle. Finding someone to help us go where we wanted to go. There were five tour bus reps and one welcome/information desk. That’s six people to assist, what, 2,000 people? More? There was also another cruise ship in as well, of course. The Oceanic Regatta, which no one had ever heard of*. The struggle for attention was exhausting and I eventually gave up and let dad deal with it. We eventually booked onto a free shuttle to Grouse Mountain and went to have a cup of coffee while we waited for it, in the Pacifica Hotel which was on top of the conference centre on top of the cruise terminal. Mum and dad both declared their respective drinks to be The Worst Cups of Coffee/Decaff They Had Ever Drunk. Don’t go to Starbucks on the ground floor but don’t go up to the Lobby Cafe either!

As an aside, one of the tours is the Big Pink Bus Tour (pink for Breast Cancer Research), which uses, amongst others, Routemaster buses from London (well, RML 609s, to be precise). They still say things like 23 to Tottenham Court Rd on the back!

The driver of our shuttle bus, Susan, was a delight and showed us a little of the city on the way out to the mountain. It was during the trip that we realised the bears mum wanted to see were at the TOP of the cable car, not the bottom. Oops. She did it, bless her. It was only eight-minute trip, mind you, but she wasn’t pleased.

When we got to the top, dad found her a wheelchair and we pushed her over some surprisingly unwheelchairfriendly paths to the bears. Well, almost to the bears. The path descended into mud and she had to walk the last 20 yards or so. But we got to see bears, at last. One brown and one black. Both orphaned by accidents and unable to be released into the wild. They seemed happy enough.

Then we went back into the warm and had lunch in the Altitudes Bistro. I nipped down two flights of stairs to the shop while we waited for our order. The food was superb, although not cheap. Mum and dad had bruschetta and I had a beefburger.

By the time we had eaten, it was time to go back down the mountain to catch the shuttle bus back to town. I couldn’t have gone up the turbine anyway, it was a complete whiteout – except for the 45 minutes we were eating lunch, ironically, when it all burned off and the sun came out. By the time we left, it was misting over again. Marvellous. If the Universe is that determined to make it that clear to me that I’m not going up the turbine, I can take a hint.

The cable car descent was delayed, but they kindly held the shuttle bus for us, which was amazingly lovely of them. Mind you, the next one wasn’t for an hour and a half…

Back in town, below the cloud line, the sun was shining like crazy so we walked to Gastown and paid our respects to the Gastown Clock, which is the only still operational steam-powered clock in the world. At three o’clock (well, five past, but who’s counting?), it didn’t chime the Westminster chimes, it hooted them through steam whistles! It was absolutely adorable! If only the cow standing next to me had been able to stop talking long enough for us to enjoy it fully. She even counted the chimes, one two, three. I kid you not. I have video with sound to prove it. Stupid cow. Seriously, the world contains a phenomenal number of mouth-breathing morons and travelling a lot, you meet a lot of them. A lot a lot.

We then wandered back to the ship and sat in the sun while dad went off in a last attempt to find a wheelchair for the reverse half hour trek back through the terminal. We eventually ended up with two. No, really. You couldn’t make this stuff up. The bloke from the ship first turned up without a chair and had to go back again! After the morning fiasco, this was the last straw and the Canadians were so embarrassed by the whole thing, that the terminal staff found one from somewhere. But the ship eventually sent their pusher back with one as well. We used the ship’s one, because that would go all the way up the gangplank, whereas the terminal one wouldn’t be allowed, but we felt bad for the nice man in the suit who had come down from the terminal office with one.

Back on board was 4.30. Heaven only knows why – we’re not due in LA for TWO DAYS! What’s the hurry? Why couldn’t we have left at 6, like we used to in the old days? I blame the Captain squarely for that. Like I said, he doesn’t care about us or our enjoyment. Not one jot.

Slept for two hours before dinner. Pushing wheelchairs is hard work.

New tablemates: Bill and Carolyn – Canadians from Vancouver – and John and Betty from Norwich. Judgement reserved for now. Ask me again tomorrow.

Overall, a surprisingly good day, considering, but let’s face it, it didn’t start well! I’m not sure whether I like Vancouver or not. The bits I saw were pleasant enough, but they have NO public washrooms and even some of their restaurants don’t have washrooms (which is illegal in the UK), and that, plus the wheelchair nonsense and the terminal trek and the not seeing the turbine, made for a rather mixed overall effect. On balance, not a place I would rush back to, frankly.

Here endeth Canada. Now we have to be immigrated all over again when we go back into the USA at LA. That’ll be nice then.

* When we got back and met our new tablemates at dinner, two of them had not only heard of the Oceanic Regatta, they had tried to book on it, but the offer advertised didn’t exist. Dodgy…