Breakfast in Bed

Part of the “package” we booked for our holiday included breakfast in bed for a couple of the mornings en-route. Today was one of those mornings. So guess who was up at 7am, tidying the cabin so the porter delivering breakfast wouldn’t think badly of us?

The breakfast was ridiculously huge – with a stack of plates containing every kind of continental breakfast you might possibly imagine – fruit, yoghurt, pastries, cold meats, cheese, coffee, tea, orange juice, and rather strangely a bottle of champagne. Who on earth drinks champagne at breakfast? Perhaps I’m too much of an amateur at all of this. I was quite happy with a croissant and a mug of coffee.

So. Today is another sea day, as will be tomorrow – as we head east across the Mediterranean towards Palermo, Italy. I’m sitting in the “Raffles” coffee bar – having arrived early enough to bag a seat. Later arrivals are grumpily surveying the tables filled with battleship-haired dreadnoughts, and stomping off towards other lounges. It’s unexpectedly entertaining.

The fiery East Asian lady that barked orders from the cocktail bar the other evening now finds herself wearing khakis and a striped shirt – churning out speciality coffees here in much the same manner. She never stops moving.

I’ll make my escape soon – I’ve finished my coffee – before the Sauron glare of those looking for tables focuses upon me.

Back at home it’s my daughter’s birthday today – twenty six years old. The first birthday we’ve not been there for. She’s heading out on the town this evening with friends. In my head she will always be seven years old, browsing the pens, pencils and novelty erasers in our local stationery store.