Though the sea was calm and the ship vast enough to host a small nation, I still felt a peculiar movement during the night. Not the soothing cradle-rock one might hope for, but rather an unpredictable shudder, like sleeping atop a washing machine on its spin cycle. Eventually, sheer exhaustion won, and I drifted off, braced for the next wobble.

Breakfast was served in a restaurant at the stern, though eateries seem to sprout on every deck like mushrooms after rain. Service was efficient, food plentiful, though the bacon had all the chewiness of a well-worn bootlace. We shared our table with a pleasant couple from Edinburgh who, like seemingly every cruiser we’ve met, had clocked up enough voyages to qualify for their navy. They were unusually easy to understand for Scots, which was a pleasant surprise.

Afterwards, we strolled around the top deck in a warm, insistent breeze. Sunseekers were already stretched out on loungers, determined to turn various shades of lobster by lunchtime. Sue browsed the shops, tried on hats, and, most alarmingly, announced she would likely be investing in jewellery later in the voyage. I mentally calculated the ship’s emergency exit routes.

Then came another “Welcome Meeting,” this one about excursions for the European leg. To our horror, our nemesis from yesterday, the Question Woman, was in attendance. The presenter’s face visibly sagged when she took her place in the queue for the microphone. Mercifully, Sue and I had already booked our excursions online, and our tickets were waiting in the cabin. Dodged that bullet.

Lunch was taken at the aft of the ship. I foolishly overloaded my plate, convincing myself it was an evolutionary instinct, gorging when food is abundant. The problem is, this theory doesn’t account for Gala Night and a dinner jacket that barely fitted when I left the UK. If it doesn’t fit tonight, it will be the clearest possible sign that I need to reacquaint myself with salads and treadmills.

A Brazilian film crew have been haunting the ship, filming a comedy. We’ve stumbled into their background shots several times, and they politely told us we could ask not to be filmed. Not filmed? This could be my long-awaited big break, Hollywood, brace yourself!

Sue spent her afternoon happily tucked away in the library with her novel, while I embarked on White Fang on my tablet before surrendering to a civilised snooze.

Dinner was a black-tie affair. Sue looked elegant in her frock, and to my immense relief, I managed to shoehorn myself into the dinner suit without the aid of industrial winches. We could have attended the Captain’s cocktail party, but decided against it; no point in schmoozing with someone who might later need to steer us away from icebergs.

We dined once again with our Mancunian and Dorset companions, reliable company and reliably excellent food. Afterwards, we headed to the theatre for “The Three Tenors.” They treated us to a mix of popular tunes and operatic arias, with Nessun Dorma providing the emotional high point. The Italians, predictably, went wild, standing, clapping, and joining in at full volume. It was stirring, even for those of us whose opera knowledge could be written on the back of a cruise ticket.