PICTURE it. The lounge of the Monterey. Palm trees, plush red velvet, polished wood and brass.
It is approaching midnight and the climax of the ladies' dancing competition. We are en route to Tangier and all ladies onboard have been invited, in five languages, to take a dance card and to ask as many gentlemen as possible to dance; each gentleman who dances with each lady has to sign his name on her card. And - you've guessed it - the lady who dances with most gentlemen in the time allotted wins. A cash prize. Well, actually a voucher to be spent in the ship's jewellery and tobacco boutique.
The excitement builds. Outside the picture windows, the moonlit Mediterranean swishes by. Marco and the Blue Notes slide out their silky tangos and rumbas, slow, smoochy waltzes. The exhortations of our multilingual host, Kiko, grow ever more hysterical. The piercing grey eyes of our benign and smiling Captain from Central Casting (who also has perfect teeth and silvery hair) miss nothing. Your correspondent's checks boast a hectic flush as she races from man to man, trying not to be insulted by xenophobic refusals. She concentrates on the most geriatric, figuring they'll be flattered and she is right. Little bent men, whiskery 4711 scented men, men with limps who swing their bad legs and kick her ankles. She gets her entire card filled and almost has to be carried back to her seat.
She does not win.
The voucher is presented to a languid Italian, perfectly coiffed, who, to your correspondent's certain knowledge, has danced fewer than half of the sets. A great lesson here. Her card is filled. This is an Italian cruise.
Your miffed correspondent now refuses point blank to go to the casino, to take part in the karaoke competition, even to partake of the Midnight Ice Cream Buffet. She will certainly not watch the Shoreline Ballet and Max and Pippa can take their Magical Entertainment elsewhere as far as she's concerned.
And what is more, she is now considering her options in the matter of Stretching With Sylvia, on the aft deck at daybreak. Another Daiquiri, Madame? Forget it!
It all started in a suburban livingroom. One of the great escapes from the stresses of modern life has to be a long relaxing browse through the special travel offers on Aertel. And one Thursday morning, there it was. A special offer from Tony Roche Travel. Cruise The Mediterranean for one week for £499. Flights to and from London included.
I mean, would you be without one!
The problem was, departure was 36 hours hence and was from Genoa.
The deal was transacted within two hours of the first conversation with Tony Roche himself. As time was of the essence, money changed hands in a car park down by the quays. A leap of faith was required because there were no tickets. Trust me, said Mr Roche.
The trust was well placed. Tickets and documents were magicked from under counters and out of briefcases all the way from Dublin to the Ramada Inn at Heathrow, to Milan to Genoa and into our outside cabin - as big as a hotel room, the best power shower we've ever encountered, oodles of wardrobe and drawer space. And a smug ineradicable smile at the notion that in the cabins on either side of us were hapless folk who had paid £1,100.
Neither of us having been on a cruise before, we were slightly hesitant at the Captain's Sailaway party. We need not have been. As there were only 16 English speakers among the 550 passengers on board, we could quite happily blend into the furniture and learn the ropes (or even the hawsers?).
At a conservative guess, 500 of our fellow cruisers were Italians, congregated into huge, cacophonous family groups. In the lazy days that followed they spread themselves all over the outdoor jacuzzis and happily displaced tonnage in the swimming pool and talked, ate, talked, ate some more. They played cards and dice and ate. They shot clay pigeons off the deck and crammed into the cinema and ate. They played deck tennis and quoits and helped the harm en mix their own cocktails and ate. They snoozed and sunbathed and jangled their gold. They were a lesson in how to enjoy.
As for us, we did very little. Exploring the ship did not take all that long, she's an elderly little queen, custom re built for cruising on the base of a freighter which used to ply the Caribbean. But the restaurants glitter with cleanliness, the tables groan with the best of Italian and Mediterranean food which is on offer six times a day - buffet or full silver service - and the crew is cheerful and friendly to an almost extreme degree.
We got off at Barcelona and Tangier, but stayed on board at Cadiz and Malaga where we took advantage of the empty spaces - and the silence.
One of us - not your correspondent, alas jogged on the running track and went to the gym occasionally. The other read six books in as many days and spent too much money in the Tangier souks, had afternoon naps and dosed in the shade. She took photographs of a school of dolphins, she stood at the stern to watch the wake cream away to the horizon. She imagined herself swimming with the fishes.
What did you do on the cruise, Mammy?
Nothing. It was wonderful.