I’ve started losing track of time and not managing to write every day. I’m exhausted. Not just once in a while – all of the time. I don’t have a minute to myself. One day, which I shall dub Meatball Day, I didn’t leave the galley for 18 hours except once to use the facilities on land (aka, the shore head). Twice as I was writing entries for this blog, I fell asleep – once while typing on my iPhone with my sleeping bag pulled up over my head for warmth and then again last night, as I was resting up at the home of old friends. But what is it really like, you ask? It’s dirty! I’ve already started developing calluses along both index fingers, a combination of dry skin and constantly using my chef’s knife. My nails look disgusting, as if I were out working on deck. My hands are swollen, Lord knows why.
Last night the old family friends I was staying with before starting this job came and took me away with them to celebrate my birthday. I also had a doctor’s appointment in Chelmsford this morning (an appointment the new relief captain, Captain Might, seemed to doubt the validity of).
Even after only a week, I already place a high value on being served food rather than making it. Last night my friends fed me soup and sourdough bread for lunch and then took me over to their daughter’s house for dinner. She’d baked a triple-decker chocolate sour cream cake with layers of real whipping cream and stewed cherries. It was phenomenal. It made me want to do something like that for the crew on their birthdays. The whole family sang and the three little girls blew out the candles. It was lovely.