It turns out that even scenic river banks and gourmet food can get boring on a lacklustre cruise, writes Moreen Simpson.
Those midweek dumps of snow fair caught us by surprise.
As it dinged doon, I was suddenly aware of all the holiday ads blastin’ from the TV and radio, particularly for cruises, to which some folk seem to be addicted.
My pal and her hubby in stockbroker Surrey are so much a’bobbin’ aboot on the ocean wave, they must have “sea legs”, like the crew of Drake’s Golden Hind. Not just the Med and the usual cruising spots, mind you, but dangerous routes like round Cape Horn and the Arctic, far they aye discover they’re sharin’ a ship wi’ some other adventure-seekin’ tars fae the Neest – like my best friend’s neighbour, even, off the coast of Korea. Spik aboot sma’ seas.
For some reason, I’ve a deep-seated fear of deep seas. Everything about huge expanses of water is terrifying. As a quine in the 1950s, I was traumatised by the first film of the Titanic, A Night To Remember, which I’ve dutifully never forgotten.
One look at an ocean and I imagine hideous creatures lying in wait after the storm that’s dragged me under. How I used to, and still do, hero-worship trawlermen who face the gigantic waves and howlin’ winds of the North Sea in little tin cans.
Just to top off my phobia, I’m a martyr to seasickness. Once went all spewy-lewy just standing on a pontoon waiting for a Thames boatie.
“Ah, but, Mo – you’d love a cruise once you got on board,” was the constant nag from ocean-going mates. That’s why, a pucklie years ago, I succumbed. Not to anything deep-sea, mind you. But, I was persuaded into a nice, gentle tootle doon the Blue Danube, which – for the record – is actually fyuchie green, would be tempest and oceanic ogre-free, as well as reasonably nae up-and-doonie.
I insisted on lashing oot on the best: cabin with balcony, lest my claustrophobia kick in, gourmet meals, luxuriously “appointed”, as they say. Pool, even. I was fair excited.
Quite apart from the pool – size of small paddler – being oot of action, the voyage left much to be desired. Every day, we’d disembark on to bussies for whistle-stop tours.
Stunning Salzburg in 70 minutes: tourist audio guides clamped to oor sweaty heidies, scuttlin’ to keep up with the guide, plootered in the heat, couldna stop even for a tiddle. Now, how relaxing was that? Ditto, wondrous Vienna – only faster.
On the first night, me and my pal were befriended by a couple, who’d obviously identified us as virgin cruisers, to show the ropes. Sadly, they – who stuck to us like glue – turned oot to be the most irritating folk afloat.
Ken is? I even grew bored of all those scenic river banks and gourmet food. Niver again.
Indecent exposure must be taken more seriously
Serious questions are raised by former Met Police officer Wayne Couzens’ appearance in court this week on indecent exposure charges, two of them just before he raped and murdered 33-year-old Sarah Everard.
Crucially, we have to know whether this type of crime is treated seriously enough by police. Is so-called “flashing” still considered a bit of a joke? A minor offence, not necessarily involving a jail sentence?
In my late 20s, walking back to my car from a meeting in the Town House at around 9pm, towards me came a guy in his early 20s, exposing himself under a raincoat. He barged right into me and I shoved him off, more angry than frightened.
Back home, I told my husband and, to my shame, we both had a wee laugh about it. Not so when I into the office next day and told colleagues, all appalled I hadn’t reported the incident to the police. Especially when the HQ was just a few hundred yards away.
OK, I was lucky. My car was nearby and I just ran to it. But what of the next girl he came across? Or the next?
Feeling guilty, I rang the cops and, within 30 minutes, two arrived in the office for my statement. I was driven down to HQ to try identify the sod from photofits. It’s a blur from there, but I think they eventually got him.
I wonder if so much effort goes into these cases today. Why aren’t those dangerous men automatically jailed instead of being “registered” as sex pests? And what on earth protection does that give?
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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