The Cat, the Eggplant and a Trivia Team I Did Not Ask For

I woke up at 07:00 this morning because I had the distinct sense that I was being watched. I was. At the foot of my bunk, arranged with the patience of a firing squad, sat Container and one of her less famous accomplices from the deck crew. Two cats. Staring. Not moving. Just watching me wake up with the solemn interest of a committee that had been waiting for the meeting to begin.

I have no idea how she got in. My cabin door was closed. It has been closed. I checked it twice. The porthole is the size of a dinner plate and opens six inches at most. There is no cat sized entry point that I can identify, and yet there she was, and there she remained, until I sat up, at which point she stood, turned around twice, and lay down on the folded blanket at the foot of the bed as if she had paid rent.

I now share my cabin with a cat. I do not recall agreeing to this.

The eggplant

Elena served moussaka last night. I have never been suspicious of eggplant. I have also never been particularly enthusiastic about it. I treated it as a neutral food, the culinary equivalent of a waiting room. Last night my stomach made its position clear. I will not go into detail, because this is a travel blog and not a medical record, but I will say that I have now learned something important about myself at sea: eggplant is not my friend. Neither, apparently, is the small but determined section of my digestive system that held a meeting about it at 03:00.

I apologised to Elena at breakfast. She said, "you should have told me." I said I did not know. She said, "now you know," and made a note in what I am fairly sure is a mental blacklist. I am expecting plain rice for the rest of the week.

Wednesday trivia

Priya found me on the aft walkway this afternoon. She was carrying a clipboard, which I have learned is never a good sign.

"Wednesday," she said.

"Wednesday," I agreed, because it seemed safest.

"Team quiz. Mess. 19:00. You are with me."

I should explain that this was not an invitation. This was a rostering decision. I said something about not being much use at trivia, which is true, and about not wanting to let anyone down, which is also true. She looked at me over the clipboard.

"You will let me down," she said. "Try not to let the team down."

Then she walked away.

I am now anxious about Wednesday in a way I have not been anxious about anything since I took a statistics exam in 2003. Priya is scary. She is scary in a very specific way: she is not mean, she is not loud, she is simply never wrong. I have spent the rest of the day trying to remember capital cities, Oscar winners, and the periodic table, and I have already forgotten whether mercury is a planet or an element or both.

The seagulls

They are still here. More of them, if anything. They line the container tops and the railings and the crane rails with the settled confidence of a jury that has already reached a verdict. They watch us eat. They watch us walk. This morning I saw one watching Kev tighten a valve on the foredeck with an expression of open professional scepticism. Kev, to his credit, ignored it.

Marco says they will leave us once we are properly in the Channel. I do not believe they will leave. I believe they are waiting for us to make a mistake.

Container, meanwhile, has been staring at them from the hatch cover with the same look she gave me at 07:00. I am not sure which side she is on.

Tonight

The cat is asleep at the foot of my bed. The seagulls are asleep somewhere above me, probably taking notes. Priya is on the bridge, possibly adding my weaknesses to a spreadsheet. Elena has not served eggplant again, but I know she is thinking about it.

I am in the Bay of Biscay, slightly judged, slightly anxious, and sharing a cabin with an animal whose entry method remains classified.