Paul:
I watch a pod of dolphins leaping out of and into the sea on the starboard side whilst listening to a 70 year old woman, smartly dressed chatting up a young male ship's waiter aged about 23 years. By the time the dolphins have passed she has invited him to live in her house in Oklahoma and promised to find him work as a gigolo. I ate a huge breakfast: pastries; English, and Special K to get me through to 1530 when Amanda and I can experience the famous high tea in the Britannia room.
The last of the line dancing: I finally decide to discard my old Harris tweed as being too hot to dance in. Amanda winces at the Country music as we stomp, tap and twist our way through several cowboy tunes. The 1970s disco hit Do The Hustle is a welcome relief to Amanda who already has been congratulated on her dance style by a Richmond couple. It is enormous fun and requires a lot of effort, physically and mentally; I will miss this. It's 13:04 and a French silver haired foursome are having a small difficulty ordering Pernod from Erika who doesn't speak French. They point at pictures and say Pernod more loudly; just like the English really. I am putting off a number of chores but they are unavoidable before we disembark tomorrow: packing and form filling.
The photos taken by the man yesterday are over exposed and we won't be buying any so I buy a few things for my folks and sisters in the shop.
Packing I try to avoid as long as possible but it only takes an hour to gather all my stuff divide it into what's coming to California and consigning the remaining posh clothing to Newham. It is an established practice to tip those staff who provided us a personal service; for us this is Christopher our steward, Maixim the sommelier and Arnal our waiter.
After a short drama in which Amanda misplaces her Cunard credit card we spend an hour in the Commodore club bar. Some American women in their 80s are tipping young cocktail waiters and cigar staff. The women drink infused creme de menthe foam; god knows what that is: mostly air I reckon.
The final dinner: I surruptitiously write Arnel's name on the envelope under the table after Amanda cast some doubt on my spelling. Arnel's recommendations are spot on with the wine I have chosen and Max agrees. Lots of Pinot Noir. After dinner we repair to the Chart room bar for more cocktails before the final packing. A little tipsy I wonder to the toilet. A man breaks off from a conversation with his friend to wish me well and a forward trip; I have no idea who is though. In the single cubicle toilet I hum my recently learnt line dancing tunes. Someone is rattling the door and I shout I won't be second. Opening the door it's dancing cowboy man. "Howdee!!" he is a bit drink but recognises me from line dance.
Luckily the clock goes back another hour so it's only midnight. Must get up at 0430 to see the QM2 duck under the Verrazano bridge.
Amanda:
I am sad to be doing our last of - well, everything but especially the line dancing! I don't think I'll be buying The Boots (scarlet, black and silver lizardskin not being my thing) but I'd like to find somewhere to do this at home. Can't be any weirder line dancing in London than on board a gently rolling art deco ship. The couple behind lean forward to tap me on the shoulder and tell me that I'm a good dancer: this emphatically did not happen in ballroom. Seems I'm more honky-tonk than elegant y'all. I am not quite put off by The Hustle which is a bizarre combo of line dancing and 70s OTT disco, including odd whooping noises (women: whoooo) and grunts (men: hwoar) and invocations to John Travolta, spoken aloud. No, really. I prefer the Cotton Eye Joe or the Boot Scoop.
We are determined to experience the afternoon tea dance. Although I am shocked, shocked!, to report that they serve whipped cream with their scones and jam. I take a deep breath and think of our bank holiday weekend in Devon where this particular memory will be laid firmly to rest.
We watch the usual characters demonstrating on the dance floor. The gawky inelegant flinging of limbs by the odd American gent and his be-walking booted Chinese bride strikes me as the equivalent of painting by numbers - they have the equipment but not the prowess. One of the professional male dancers who are hired to dance with the laydees tries to catch my eye; he looks exactly like a Tintin baddie so I give him a quelling look which freezes him momentarily to the spot. Whatever would Snowy say?!
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