Day two: crash victim

Worrying about Sprog 2″s not insubstantial weight crashing down on me from her bunk bed led to a fitful night’s sleep. The bunks lower from the ceiling  (nifty!), but they don’t have a safety rail. I’m presuming they expect parents to break the fall for their beloved offspring. It’s also unsettling to feel the boat sway and creak, accompanied  by occasional unidentified clanging noises. Well all woke early this morningto watch the ocean zip by our porthole, then enjoyed a spot of Nickelodeon on cable TV before beginning the festival of food for another day. I reckon by day 18 the passengers will look like they belong on the fatty spaceship in Wall-E. There’s something scarily enticing about “free” food. It’s still blowing Sprog 2’s tiny little mind. She got horribly grumpy at dinner last night when I made her order an entree and a main. “I don’t want two things,” she grouched. I told her to get them just in case she didn’t like one because they were “free” (in quote marks for two distinctly different reasons). And she was like, “Free?”. Yes, I nodded. “FREE?” she repeated. Yes, I nodded. And so the sanctioned first-day junk free-for-all continued with chicken noodle soup, pizza with a side of fries and jello. Sprog 1, bless her, chose a fruit plate and grilled chicken and veg (pity about the bonus gravy). Everywhere we turn there are more “free” food opportunities. The continuous soft-serve bar, the hotdog stand, the pastry cabinet at the coffee shop, the endless buffets, the late-night dessert bar. Oh my gawd. Hence my trip to the gym this morning for a fab abs class (surprisingly brutal, I was expecting elderly-people-style cruisy), while my parents took the Sprogs to breakfast. Then the Sprogs begged (begged!) to go straight to kids club afterwards. I caved eventually (straight away). But it won’t be all reading Tina Fey’s Bossypants around the pool with a cocktail. You see, I screwed up our US visas. I thought you just had to register, not actually print something out. Fortunately, they let us board anyway, with strict instructions to print them immediately. Unfortunately, I had left our visa access numbers back at home. Fortunately, my sister was running late for the ship and was still sending panicked messages about whether she should pack beach towels. No. But could she swing by my house and search for a little post-it note with numbers scrawled on it? Unfortunately, she didn’t have a key. Fortunately, I remembered the cleaners were there (see, I knew there was good reason I kept them despite me being unemployed and perfectly capable of cleaning myself). So  I have the access numbers now, but I haven’t printed the visas. I was too busy having a hissy fit at the realisation I can’t upload photos on the ship’s computers. Fark.