20th March 2013

We treated ourselves to a lie-in and only surfaced for breakfast at 9 am. Outside, the sea rolled gently beneath a bright blue sky streaked with fluffy white clouds. No white horses today, just a pleasant swell. Sue excitedly spotted her first whale, first the spout, then the creature itself, keeping pace with the ship for a good five minutes before slipping beneath the waves again. She’s convinced it was a lone male, presumably on the lookout for romance.

The morning was spent in the ship’s library, where we endured a game of Scrabble on a German board. Let’s just say the letter distribution was not in our favour, try spelling “QUIZ” when you’ve only got umlauts. Afterwards, coffee on Deck 10 proved far more rewarding, not least because we bumped into Ray and Glynnis and had a good natter. They kindly gave Sue a copy of the Express, which kept her busy for the afternoon. I finished my book and attempted to download another, only to discover that Google Books had developed a glitch. Typical, technology promising the world, delivering a blank page.

Lunch was a civilised affair with Jonathan (his mum was laid low by the swell). We solved most of the planet’s problems over salad before dispersing to our chosen forms of leisure. With Casablanca not until tomorrow, the rest of the day was pleasingly lazy. By mid-afternoon, I found Sue back on Deck 10, where we indulged in coffee and paninis before strolling the ship. Despite the cloudless sky, there was a definite chill, and sunbathers were wrapped in blankets like deckchair mummies. The further north we drifted, the less “Mediterranean cruise” it felt. More whales were spotted; the word had got around.

Dinner was billed as Italian Night, which explained the dress code of red, white, and green (we were slower than most to twig). Cue much waving of napkins, women whisked off to dance with the waiters, and a conga line winding through the restaurant. An especially enthusiastic Irish passenger stood up to serenade the Italians, loudly. We were destined, it turned out, to see a lot more of him over the coming days. My attempt to repay our waiter’s earlier magic trick with one of my own backfired spectacularly, and I was lighter by €2 for the effort.

The evening’s theatre entertainment was Mike Pidone, a one-man show with an extraordinary voice and impeccable stage presence. His tributes to Sinatra, Pavarotti, and Ray Charles were spellbinding; his “Ray Charles at the piano” impression had the audience roaring in appreciation. His encore of Nessun Dorma was the sort of performance that makes you forget you’re in a floating holiday camp and convinces you you’re at Covent Garden.

But then… our Irish friend struck again. Having met Pidone in the bar earlier (hardly a shock), he was recognised in the front row and invited on stage for a verse of Moon River. Big mistake. Once up there, he refused to relinquish the spotlight. He belted out the whole song, thanked the audience profusely, and even wrapped his green towel around Pidone as if bestowing a knighthood. Eventually, he was persuaded back to his seat, or possibly lured back to the bar, but the damage was done.

After the show, we shared a lift with an Irish lady who apologised for her fellow countryman, insisting she was mortified. Proof, then, that not all Irish people are armed with Guinness and a repertoire of unsolicited ballads.

We rounded off the night with coffee in the restaurant alongside Jonathan and his mother, where none other than Mike Pidone himself dropped by for a chat. Charming, multilingual (apparently fluent in five languages), and refreshingly down to earth. A class act, both on and off the stage.