Yesterday was like something from a horror movie. Picture an old pirate ship, me in a ragged old nightdress, pinned to the bed, swig of rum and a dirty rag in the mouth. Big saw produced from underneath the rust stained bed, shipmates holding you down, blunt saw hacking away at your flesh until it hits the bone. It was EXACTLY like that, absolutely zero exaggeration.
Okay maybe a little.
But it was terrifying. The insect bite on my leg reached a whole new level yesterday and I began to seriously panic. After an hour of hyperventilating, screaming, crying and what I can genuinely label as the most painful experience I have ever endured (I was drugged up to the eyeballs with painkillers and pretty much out of my tree for most of it but can still remember the pain oh so clearly and will probably have PTSD and flashbacks for the rest of my life) I finally managed to get a little bit of precious sleep last night.
This morning however I woke up with a searing burning pain, like someone was twisting a hot knife round and round inside my thigh. After pressing down gently on the skin around Mount Vesuvius there was finally somewhat of an eruption, for those who have sick fetishes about spot squeezing (mum) you would be in heaven and you can watch similar videos on YouTube, but for my readers currently eating their breakfasts, I’ll spare you the details. Pretty gross. But thankfully the pain has seemingly subsided and I’ve been off duties today, I had planned to get all my Chiefy adminny stuff done today, be really efficient and organised with my time, but it wasn’t until 3pm that I realised I’d seriously procrastinated all morning, faffed around, chatted shite to all my visitors, had some cuddles and genuinely avoided doing anything professional (caught myself researching the entire dating history of Rod Stewart at one point) and that I actually needed to do something productive.
The fresh fruit and veg order I made came yesterday. It really is the best day ever when that little truck turns up, opens its doors and boxes after boxes of big beautiful fresh veggies gets carted into my cold room and I can yet again make yum things. Not that what I’ve been making isn’t tasty, but after four weeks of cooking for 22 twice a day the fridge starts looking pretty sad, and now it’s full of colour and smells incredible. I ordered big bunches of fresh basil (yeah the pesto!) and sage (my new favourite herb), the carrots look like they’re from Avatar and I copped a feel of the juicy melons I ordered to make up for a lack of my own.
A few of us watched a documentary last night called Fantastic Fungi and it was honestly THEE best docco I have ever seen. As obviously stated in the title, it’s about everything Fungi. Not just about mushrooms and not just about hallucinogenics, but about every aspect of the amazing things they do for us and our planet. David Carpenter of Forbes said ‘A must see for anyone interested in life, death and the pursuit of the planet’s well-being.’ Definitely a bit of me. Not only is it visually stunning, it’s unique, quirky and incredibly inspiring. It’s mind-blowingly educational and afterwards we all could not stop talking about it, I am now completely in love with mushrooms and spent a good two hours after watching it researching everything they talk about but in twisty-tunnel depth detail. Sort of like when your mind goes down a rabbit hole and before you realise it you’ve delved into areas way past your mental capacities. Watching it makes you realise how magnificent human knowledge can be, how intelligent people are, and how there are people discovering all these incredible things about the earth and the human brain and I’m just over here asking what 3x 180 is so I can make a cake (maths is not my forte).
The other day the deck team found two polished nuggets on the bathroom floor. Two tiny turds. Someone had gone to the bathroom, pulled down their underwear, taken a dump and then somehow (trust me, myself and a few others have spent a solid amount of time discussing how it is PHYSICALLY possible) missed the bowl and dropped a couple of ferrero rocher directly onto the floor below the lip of the seat; they looked hideously well positioned, I hasten to add. They then either didn’t notice or even more horrifically, decided to LEAVE the nuggies there for someone else to clean, pulled up their trousers and continued about their day like nothing had happened. I was then scolded by a few Snowflakes for attempting to solve the mystery by writing ‘who nugged on the floor in the heads? Reward: Detailed coaching on how to take a shit properly’. It was then that I decided the priorities onboard are very wrong indeed if what we are more worried about is offending said Pooper instead of highlighting the fact that we are currently living with a member of crew, who is a fully functioning adult and member of society, yet cannot complete the most basic primal activity of taking a dump in the correct designated area. Fascinating.
My second chef and I found a little green caterpillar amongst the corn and we took him under our wings and named him Fergus. Fergus likes Dire Straits, my singing, and eating carrot. He is currently in a deep slumber in his dark brown, crusty cocoon which is 100% not a self made coffin to end the torture of listening to Sultans of Swing yet again. RIP.
Myself and two Aussie girls, The Band of Brothers (or Celine and The Moles, our stage name, yes I am Celine due to my vocal talents, sorry Ferg) have won the medal for the most hated trio on the ship. Individually, we are kind, calm, polite and actually somewhat lovely. However when the three of us are together, we become adolescent schoolboys with fowl mouths, rude jokes and much to our foreign crewmates disdain, whole dictionaries of Aussie/English slang that half the time doesn’t even make sense to us, but is highly amusing just the same. We recently created a whatsapp group for the three of us where we just send voice note after voice note ourselves saying the word Baseball in the most ridiculous way possible, then wetting ourselves for two minutes after each one is played. It’s a real skill to be able to amuse oneself in times of trouble with utter nonsense and tomfoolery; I take great pride in my ability to do this with impressive success.
I also spent a good half an hour trying to explain to a Frenchman what ‘she’s got a kick on her’ means after writing it on the spicy Sri Lankan curry I had made for dinner. Now every time someone gets sassy onboard he leans over and whispers to me ‘She gut e keek on ‘er’
What weird stuff have you found yourself doing this Quarantarantino?