I shook my head so vigorously that my sunhat fell off. ‘Jesus, no! I was so drunk when I booked. I just paid for the first available cruise out of Sydney. Hey, at least it’s not a swingers cruise, or a nudist cruise or, god help us, a Republican Mormon float-fest.’

‘Bloody hell. How excellent!’ Emerald exclaimed. ‘And are these young “cubs” required to provide flirtation and frottage?’ she asked, tucking a ten-dollar tip down the front of the waiter’s black shorts. I gazed, agog, at his, um, effrontery. His penis seemed to be in a separate time zone from his body. The male waitstaff had clearly been hired from Rent-a-Bulge. Unless they were wearing padded underpants – a kind of Wonder-pant for men.

‘Well, it ain’t compulsory.’ The well-endowed waiter smiled. ‘But you know what we blokes say – every hole is a goal!’

‘How romantic.’ Amber glared disgustedly at the waiter before covering her retro, designer polka-dot two-piece in a thick white towel and strangling her lovely long blonde hair up into a tight bun.

‘The only thing my sister wants in bed is breakfast,’ I explained to the waiter, with an apologetic smile.

‘Breakfast I don’t have to cook for myself for once. But what I definitely don’t want is another man wanting something from me.’ Amber shuddered.

‘Speak for yourself,’ Emerald purred, peering lasciviously at the poolside meat market. Even though she was strapped into the kind of sturdy orthopaedic bathing suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on someone swimming the Channel in the 1920s, she coquettishly lowered one thick strap. ‘I knew cruises offered an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord, but I wasn’t expecting a boy buffet.’ She turned her head to watch the waiter’s peachy posterior retreat.

‘Emerald, you’re a vet. Surely you see enough animals on a daily basis,’ Amber chided. ‘I mean, he’s not exactly a conversationalist.’

‘Yes, but he does have other charms, like a ten-inch cock. Sure, we could sit around discussing the benefits and drawbacks of the adaptive unconscious, applying economic theory to sociological problems, and the difference between instinct and measured thought . . . or we could just go get laid. Hard call,’ she said facetiously.

‘Did you not hear him? “Cubs” cruise for free. That’s practically prostitution,’ Amber declared from within her terry-towelling cocoon. ‘Plus, it’s so insulting. We’re in our prime! Those boys should be paying us!’

‘Don’t kid yourself, possum. Just look at poor Ruby, traded in by Harry for a younger model. Boys will be boys . . . and so will a lot of middle-aged hubbies who should know better.’

‘Emerald’s right,’ I concluded with dull resignation. ‘Only two things improve with age: red wine and George Clooney.’

The entertainment officer’s Californian drawl rang out once more over the deck. ‘There are three categories, dudes. Dance moves, underwear modelling and a talent round. Let’s get started, ladeeezzz!’