Ooh, I thought. There she was, briefly: Rhiannon, red in tooth and claw. Hiding in the shadows, waiting for her moment. You can lead a whore to Malta but you can’t make her quit wanting to toss people overboard.

I tried to ping Dannielle Fairly a text but it wouldn’t send. No signal at sea, it would seem.

I went back to my cabin and flicked on the TV. Breaking Bad was on – it’s quite good once Walter White stops fucking coughing. I ordered room service – a burger, a mojito and a bowl with ‘mixed herbs’ – thinking I’d give the sitz bath a try.

Where I splitz, I sitz.

I told the steward it was for my sinuses. I boiled the kettle and I sat there in the middle of the floor watching bald white people shoot each other over bags of blue crystals while bathing my hoochimagooch. When I went to bed, it felt numb. I felt numb. Inside and outside.

And numb was an improvement. On this occasion, numb was good.

Thursday, 3 January – Gibraltar

1. Parents on cruise ships whose kids take the decorative carrot goldfish on the salad before I can get to it
2. Waitress called Vicci, which could rhyme with Ricky or itchy but I’ll never know cos I’m not speaking to her again. She didn’t laugh at my Poseidon Adventure joke.
3. People who slam doors without a thought for those in the next cabin
4. Outside broadcasts on morning TV – when the presenters go outside to test supercars or barbecues. Get back on your sofas, you pricks.
5. People who Instagram Every. Fucking. Moment. Of. Their. Holiday. ‘Here we are, walking up some stairs. Here we are, walking back down the stairs. Here we are, eating breakfast – toast today lol.’
6. The Real Housewives of Anywhere

The following day the ship docked in Gibraltar but seeing the Prossers talking to another family in the endless buffet queue outside the Caravel, I ducked out and headed for the quieter Brigantine restaurant. Irritatingly, a lot of other fuckwits had the same idea and the queue was twice as long.

When I did finally get in, people attacked the buffet like vultures, taking handfuls of whatever was on offer. I couldn’t get near anything, save the last croissant and a glass of tepid juice. I took them both outside to eat.

The speakers out on deck were playing Carpenters classics that day. ‘Ticket to Ride’. What a mournful song that is. I don’t remember it being quite so depressing when the Beatles did it but I suppose they weren’t in the throes of anorexia. There weren’t many people around, save an older couple in M&S summer gear chatting over quoits. Friends laughing. Happy holidaymakers. The Titanic, pre-Iceberg. Thoughts of Kate Winslet flinging herself off the starboard bow flittered into my head as I chewed my stale croissant. I wondered if I should do the same.