Back at the ship they had a choice of pineapple or strawyberry ice cream. I went for the blend of the two, walked past the pool and caused a stampede into the Lido of people now wanting ice cream.

Hopefully they avoided my classic mistake. Ice cream plus sunshine plus strong wind on a tenth story ship deck means I changed my shirt after lunch.

I’d followed a woman in a wheel chair onto the ship. She’s slim, has nice legs, wore a pretty skirt but has restricted mobility above the waist too and I’m not sure what language the country she lives in speaks but she adds far too many syllables and sadly none of them are interpretable. I heard her telling off the disabled person support crew member trying to help her get from the gangway to the ship itself, a small slope unless you’re in a powered wheelchair. She hesitated and the crew member leaned forward, touched the wheelchair and got an earful. Too right, she didn’t need help.

She did half an hour later, in the lido, a small porcelain pot in her hand, a burger on a tray on her lap and a nearby ketchup dispenser, the plunger handle too high for her to reach. I made the ‘want some help?’ face, got what appeared to be a request for assistance, poured her some ketchup. As I handed it to her she said thanks. Technically she said about eight sentences, but they weren’t words and the general theme seemed to be thanks. I left her to enjoy her lunch.

Someone on the ship described Gladstone as a one horse town. Neither of us even saw the horse but it wasn’t even a good version of a small Australian town. The high street was coffee shops and bars, a few hotels, almost no shops. Near the ship a pedestal had been erected and a local luminary was giving the names of people as I walked past, two seconds a syllable, long pauses between each name. It sounded like an announcement of a military draft, but then he added, “These people have put together our..”

I didn’t catch the rest. I didn’t wait for the band to play either, they were in kilts and had bagpipes. There’s no Scotsman as Scottish as the one that wasn’t born and doesn’t live in Scotland.

The ship had parked with less than stellar view.

Not that anybody visits Gladstone for the scenery.

It does follow a curious Australian tradition of separating medical facilities into entirely disparate businesses. I’m really not sure how you drive to your surgery after being anaesthetised.

I didn’t care about Gladstone. I cared about the football, because some things matter more than life or death. The football had gone rather well, cause to celebrate.

Instead of celebrating I fell asleep. I woke up at 6pm, feeling tired, decided to skip dinner. I’d had a burger at lunchtime, on the ship, the food in Gladstone following the usual Australian approach of costing around 50% more than it was worth.

The quiz today was too loud, the voice of the American woman doing it too penetrating. I abandoned them, went to the comedy show instead, some British comedian from Liverpool. He opened with a song, badly sung, closed with another song, just as badly sung. In between he was very British, self-deprecating, bad jokes about the wife. His one-liners were funny though, and he delivered them well, so it was a good 40 minutes between the songs.

I’ve either gained weight or lost it, hard to say. The evidence is that my shorts now fall down when I walk, either because I lack the hips to hold them up or because my waistline is creating a funnel type effect they slide down. I’m going to have to start switching my belt from my jeans, or maybe tie a length of paracord through the belt loops; I can’t keep walking around looking like prisoner on suicide watch.

Despite sleeping through much of the afternoon I’ve managed to clock up 10km today. That wander into Gladstone appears to have been good exercise.