Misplaced in Europe

By Lauraine McDonald

This travel memoir chronicles my adventures on an 80-foot yacht cruising around the Italian coast, while I work as a "hostess" for a couple of elitist Monegasques.

It’s not such a bad gig really, except that, between you and me, I'm here under slightly false pretences. Having been a corporate journalist for much of my career, it wasn't much of a challenge to write the perfect job application, and it was even loosely based on fact. I can sail. Trouble is, in addition to a “bit” of sailing, a hostess is mostly expected to provide a silver service environment for the boat owners. This includes cooking, serving, cleaning, washing, ironing, changing sheets and turning down beds for any guests. How hard can it be? In fact, fudging the cooking, serving and ironing abilities is easy in comparison to learning how to adapt to a "servant" mentality.

Underlying the entire story is a growing dispute between myself and my new partner, Bob—a corporate trainer with some impressive sailing credentials—who has been employed as skipper. Bob’s early romantic attentions, quickly spiral into malevolent behaviour that eventually forces us into a sinister duel, from which there can only be one winner.

Written in the first person, the book includes local recipes, snap-shots of the colourful characters I meet along the way, interesting historic facts and amusing work-related incidents. I aim to expose the funny, poignant and sometimes sinister adventures of choosing a path less well travelled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lauraine McDonald
• Release date: May 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463745861

Lauraine McDonald

Former circus performer, solo sailor and adventure junkie. I've always been a bit of a gypsy, living in all sorts of places, from penthouses to acreage, suburbia to beachfront, on boats and in caravans. I joined a circus at sixteen as a roust-about who did pretty much anything and everything, from training animals to the trapeze. I finally grew up, returned to school and spent the rest of my working life in the corporate arena. Much of my work was interspersed with three to six month sailing adventures both in Australia and overseas, either sailing solo or as an employee. I’m now retired and live between the cutest little apartment in the heart of the city (complete with its own loft and hanging trapeze net) and a much larger home in the leafy outskirts of Melbourne (complete with its own partially completed tree-house office). I’ve just published “Misplaced in Europe” and I’m now working on “Misplaced in a Circus”. After that I’m thinking of starting a new novel called, “Misplaced in the Singles Market.”

Book preview

How It All Started

My name is Lauraine. I am a 50-something mother of two grown-up daughters, and my normal habitat is an office in Melbourne, Australia where I’m employed to provide corporate communication services, writing strategies, newsletters, Internet content and that sort of thing.

It’s great work and I love it. Trouble is, I’m addicted to sailing so when Bob invited me to pretend to be his wife so we could apply for a job he found on the Internet, I jumped at the chance.

Throwing in my day job wasn’t such a big deal because it was a contract that was due to end six months later anyway. I’d sold ‘Trade Wind’, my own 43-foot yacht that I’d been living on, simply because I got an offer that was too good to refuse. All boats, even yachts as well loved as mine, are always for sale at the right price. Both my daughters and their father, had grown up and left home years ago, so I was foot-loose and fancy free, and ripe for my next big adventure.

Living and crewing a luxury yacht around Europe sounded perfect.

Bob is a professional skipper. I’d met him when I’d employed him to help me sail Trade Wind to her new home in Brisbane. It’s a long way from Melbourne to Brisbane in a boat—742 nautical miles to be exact—or two weeks of leisurely coastal hopping, sailing from one anchorage or marina to the next, so there were plenty of opportunities for us to get to know each other.

Bob is a slim guy, just a bit taller than me, whose agile frame belies his 68 years. He’d spent the past decade crewing and skippering on various boats around the world in between occasional stints as an executive trainer at a small firm based in Melbourne.

My friend Mandy also joined us on Trade Wind for the delivery to Queensland. Her husband had just died of cancer and she was keen for a diversion from her life where everything reminded her of him.

We sailed around the coast of Australia within sight of land, with the restless ocean stretched out to the horizon in every other direction, like a monster infinity-edge pool.

It was cold, wild and stormy along the southern coast with stiff winds, which pushed the boat along at good speeds, but after we turned north at the tip of Victoria, the weather started steadily improving.

I loved it. I loved the multi-coloured hues of the sea and sky as the sun made its leisurely arc from sun rise to sun set. I loved our regular visits by cheeky sea birds and pods of playful dolphins, skimming and leaping across the boat’s bow-wave as we ploughed northwards.

I would lie on my stomach at the bow with half my body hanging over the gunnel as the water swished past below, stretching my arm down in an attempt to stroke them as they arched tantalizingly close, teasing me with their intelligent gaze to touch them if I could. Sometimes they would roll over and swim on their backs, as if inviting me to scratch their exposed bellies, all the while maintaining the same speed as the yacht with effortless ease.

At anchor, we were entertained by curious seals with gentle eyes, and the occasional noisy penguin barking its funny little bark. There was always a huge variety of fish life—big and small—ceaselessly gliding under the boat or chaotically flipping about on the water’s surface to escape dangerous predators below.

Shortly after we headed north we sailed into Eden and picked up Trade Wind’s new owner, Steve, a slow-talking Queenslander who worked as a gardener and was planning to live aboard Trade Wind now that he’d sold his half of the family home to his ex-wife after a protracted separation.

With Mandy on board it somehow transpired that we both did all the cooking. I challenged the men about this but they both ducked for cover, sprouting excuses. Any boat, even one as big as Trade Wind, was made exponentially smaller by each dispute, no matter how minor, so I let it pass.

The cockpit was relatively protected and the weather still mild enough to enjoy the solitary time we spent on deck. When boredom struck, as it did when it was too dark or we were too tired to attend to the myriad of little cleaning, tinkering or tightening jobs, we played games.

One evening Bob says, My dream is to work in Europe as a skipper on a privately owned yacht.

Sounds wonderful, I’d responded. Can I come with you?

I meant it playfully but Bob suddenly got all serious. That would be great.

He’d looked at me expectantly and I remember the atmosphere changing. I had just promised myself that it was time to pretend to be a grown-up, settle down and trade in my nomadic lifestyle for something more befitting the mother of a pair of private-school educated daughters. But heck. It had sounded enticing.

What’s involved? I’d asked.

Bob had smiled his nicest smile. Living and working on someone else’s luxury yacht, sailing it between exotic ports in Europe to meet up with them at the next anchorage. I’d be skipper and you’d be crew and maybe help with cooking, but, he hastened to add, of course we’d share everything. We’d share the pay, the skippering and any cooking or cleaning.

Although it had sounded fun, I still hadn’t been entirely sold on the idea. I had just returned from three months of sailing the Adriatic Sea on a friend's boat after my last change management contract finished in May.

When I had tried to re-enter the job market I was only offered short-term contracts or told that I was over qualified by interviewers who were barely out of their teens. Yeah right. Them and their caked on make-up. Seriously?! How much younger do they want to look? Being at the stage in life where it's a lot easier to love a favourite piece of furniture than my partner, I know I should have had Botox (or at least a couple of hundred grams of Plaster of Paris and a good finishing sanding) before the interviews but who could have foreseen a world where experience was a hindrance not an asset and where for women it’s obviously still better to be cute than smart!

I had only known Bob a short time but figured there was nothing to lose, so we put together a LinkedIn profile detailing our joint experience and offering our services as a skipper/hostess team, then spent the rest of our night-watches trawling ‘Crew Wanted’ websites.

Most were seeking husband/wife partnerships.

Don’t worry about it, Bob had assured me with a smile and friendly hug. We can just pretend.

His arms felt good and despite our careful use of water on board, he smelt good too, all salty with just the faintest whiff of soap. I snuggled closer as we flicked between sites.

He seemed normal enough and despite being more than 13 years older than me, he was fit and healthy and obviously keen on me.

He made me cups of tea every morning and evening, and we never ran out of things to discuss or debate. He was well read, well informed on politics and history, and not shy about sharing snippets of romantic poetry with me.

One night he quoted an old Buddha saying; In the sky, there is no distinction of east and west; people create distinctions out of their own minds and then believe them to be true. I was sold. This man was gold.

I thought, what a laugh. Imagine if someone actually responded to us one day?! Just imagine actually sailing for a living instead of working in the corporate world?

But that’s exactly what happened by the time we reached Queensland. Three or four Skype interviews later, we had a contract on a privately owned yacht sailing out of Monaco. Me as a hostess and Bob as the skipper!

April 14 – Living the Dream

Location: Monaco

I step on to an 80-foot yacht from the old stone wharf in Monaco with a delicious sense of anticipation. My new home and office for the next five months.

Come, come, beckons Alberto, the yacht’s owner and my employer. Crew quarters are in forepeak. Put your bags there and unpack later. I’ll show you around.

I hoist my backpack and tip-toe across the teak-lined, expansive back deck to the cockpit, step carefully over the coamings, onto the seat and floor, then awkwardly manoeuvre myself and my luggage down the five steps of the companionway into the luxurious main saloon.

Down there, Alberto says, gesturing to one of two identical carved doors, leading for’ard.

I venture through to another equally luxurious small cabin and step from its ensuite, through a door into our cabin.

It’s disappointingly shabby, especially considering the luxury I’ve just walked through.

I turn to my partner, Bob who is pushing in behind me.

Hmmmm…. pretty obvious where our position on the status ladder is! I whisper. He smiles encouragingly at me and gives me a quick affectionate kiss on the lips as he dumps his bag then immediately turns to head back to the main salon.

That’s OK. It’s all part of the big adventure.

My role (I think) is mostly to act as crew when we deliver the boat to the next location, but when Alberto and his guests (up to 4) are on board, I’m guessing hostess is a euphemism for cleaner and (hopefully only occasional) chef. Alberto expects to spend the summer flying onto and off the boat with guests in between work and family commitments, so he won't be on the boat the whole time. When he leaves, we'll have the place to ourselves while we sail to the next destination.

Back in the salon area, Alberto introduces us to his wife of 40 years, Anna.

You may call us Alberto and Anna when there is just us on the boat, Alberto says in his heavily accented Italian English. But when we have guests or if there is anyone else around you must call us Dr. Peretto and Madam.

Madam? To shake sudden images of a brothel, I politely ask, What is your PhD in, Alberto?

Alberto’s smile slips a bit and the question is left dangling in mid-air. It’s obvious that he doesn’t actually have a PhD.

Bob tactfully jumps into the silence to comment on the boat’s magnificent workmanship. HIs diversion tactic works and Alberto starts giving us an enthusiastic tour as I swallow a moment of uneasiness. Who lies about their education and why?

The yacht is pretty darn awesome. Given its size, the interior is significantly larger than a normal (40 foot) yacht. There are more living spaces and sleeping quarters and it is way more luxurious than anything I’ve ever been on before.

The understated luxury of the yacht reflects Alberto and Anna. He’s a gregarious, enthusiastic outgoing type. She’s a sophisticated and very elegant former New Zealander. After 30 years of running a successful business in Monaco manufacturing web slings used to haul ships out of the water and as conveyor belts, both have now been made honorary citizens of the country by the reigning Prince (as you do?!)

I ask Alberto what languages he speaks and he says, Italian, Spanish, English, French and German.

I already knew he spoke at least two languages because after picking us up at the Nice airport in France, he was pulled over on the way back to Monaco for doing 145km/hr in a 90 km/hr zone, and he spoke in both Italian and French to the Policeman, as he bribed him in cash to get off the fine. He then sped off again at 120km/hr confiding that he doesn’t mind speeding in Monaco because there is no road tax here, therefore he considers the speeding fines to be his contribution. But in France and Italy where there is a road tax, he hates paying speeding fines because they are just used to support corrupt government structures. In any country though, he advised that you must be nice to the policeman when he pulls you over, otherwise he charges double.

He also warned it is common practice for corrupt mayors to demand that the speeding cameras be set to 5 kilometers per hour below the speed limit or for red light cameras to be programmed to go off on the amber light, not red light, simply to make more money from fines.

Given they pay no tax here, I guess it would be easy to be laissez-faire about supporting the government using other means. Laissez-faire? Like that? Yep—I've decided to learn French in the three weeks we are here!

A view of Caroline, dressed for winter, looking aft down the length of her 80-foot deck. Later all of the covers on the dinghy, hatches and cockpit windscreen will be removed in preparation for sailing.

Caroline’s salon

Me on the aft deck of Caroline. First day of the trip. Feeling very excited.

April 15 – Exploring Monaco

Location: Monaco

After a whirlwind tour of the boat’s systems, Bob and I spent yesterday unpacking and wandering around Monaco. It’s freezing cold and I’m glad I packed my thermals.

Fitting all of our belongings into our tiny cabin is more complicated than I anticipated. On a boat every single square inch of space is fully utilized. There is storage under the settee, under the floor, behind the bulkhead at the foot of the bunk, and underneath it as well.

As well as being the most uncomfortable bed I have ever slept on, our double bunk is also the most ingenious. When we’re not using it, we can shove it into the hull to create a single bunk, with the slats supporting the mattress on one side, simply slotting in between the slats on the other side. The mattress, a flimsy piece of foam rubber all squashed and misshapen and less than one centimeter thick in places, pushes up the side of the hull, creating a sort of half-cocoon single bunk.

The worn mattress is going to be a huge problem. I spend the first night dreaming that I’m sleeping on rocks, and wake up with a dark bruise on each hipbone.

We have to get a better bed. I don’t care how far down the pecking order we are.

Agreed, says Bob dropping a kiss on the top of my head. Why don’t you ask Alberto if we can buy something to replace it with.

I feel a wave of love wash over me for this man who is my partner in this adventure, despite our slightly unconventional relationship. Bob’s serious brush with prostate cancer several years ago prevents him from functioning normally down there, but it doesn’t impede my feelings. We still cuddle when we go to bed, but instead of sexual intimacy, Bob reads aloud to me from a book of his choosing. Some books I love. Others are more challenging because they are straight porn. Despite this I always enjoy the camaraderie of these moments.

Later that day we wander down the wharf and across the road to Alberto’s office to chat about the bed, pick up the ship’s computers, telephones and our uniforms.

The Fortex office entrance is ominous. It’s via an anonymous door sandwiched between two shops on the main drag, and protected by a security camera and doorbell combination.

Once inside, an old marble staircase leads upwards to a shabby chic office suite on the first floor. Here Alberto introduces us to the company accountant, Tonia, and his very nervous, but stunningly beautiful personal secretary, Beth. Tall, lithe and well-spoken, Beth looks like she walked straight off a fashion catwalk.

Both young women are deferential to Alberto, smiling but obviously apprehensive and overly eager to please both him and us. I try to engage with them but my effort is pointless because Alberto answers every question on their behalf. I think maybe it’s a European cultural thing.

Our uniforms, which we select from a suitcase in the back room of the office carrying several sizes, are white polo tops embroidered with Caroline on the breast pocket, and shapeless tan shorts reaching down to our knees, plus one pair each of long trousers. It seems inconceivable that in just a few short weeks it will be warm enough to wear shorts, but Anna assures me that there are warm jackets on the boat as well.

Is there potential to buy a new mattress for our bunk? I ask Alberto.

No. No. What’s wrong with the old one? he replies.

It is too thin. I have bruises on each hip from sleeping on it.

Monaco is not like Australia, he says. It will be too expensive to buy a new mattress here. This is not something we can do.

I’m not giving up despite Bob frantically signalling me with his eyes to drop it.

In Australia you can buy foam mattress overlays quite cheaply. Perhaps we could get a foam mattress overlay instead of a new mattress?

Alberto looks at me from under a pair of bushy grey eyebrows. How much do these foam overlays cost?

I take a wild stab in the dark. Probably less than $100 Australian dollars.

Then buy one in Australia and have it shipped to my office, he says.

Bob gives me a quick approving glance and I feel quite proud of myself as I start chatting to Beth to get the office address.

Monaco is a magical country. Just two square kilometers, it is the second smallest country in the world behind the Vatican, squished by France onto the side of a cliff leading down into the ocean. Great sections of its shopping districts and narrow winding roads encroach heavily back into the rock wall of the cliff, and are all connected by multiple stairways and elevators.

After we leave the office, Bob and I stroll hand-in-hand along the spectacular Grand Prix route, the main road that leads from the multiple marinas fringing Monaco’s coastline, up into France. At one point half way up, it sweeps past a couple of imposing palatial buildings and around miniature parks (round-abouts) that are landscaped with beds of large colourful tulips in full bloom.

Further up the cliff, the roads narrow even more to wind their way through a maze of shops and office buildings that look as if they’ve been built according to architecture illustrations from a kid’s book of Grimm’s fairytales.

You’re not in Melbourne anymore, posts my cousin on Facebook. Cannot agree more.

April 16 – A Different Work Ethic

Location: Monaco

It has taken me three days to get my new French sim card to work—I had to walk all the way back up to the original shop where I bought it, yesterday and today, to complain before it magically started working properly.

What did you do to make it work? I ask the girl behind the counter after waiting an hour for the shop to open at 10am, not 9am as advertised on the door.

I did nothing, she says, opening her long-lashed gorgeous eyes even wider. I’ve noticed that all of the world’s most beautiful women are visiting Monaco this week.

Anywhere else in the world I would involve her in a long torturous argument until she finally broke down and revealed that yes, she really did whisper some magical incantation to make it work, and yes, she really is married to a plastic surgeon.

Instead I make do with just thanking her and glaring at my traitorous phone before reluctantly relinquishing her to the long queue of people waiting behind me.

Bob and I have just returned from Monte Carlo Casino where we had two free tickets from Alberto to L'Orchestre Philharmonique de Monte-Carlo. I dressed to impress in my ‘best’ outfit and sat next to Bob to watch a couple of brothers, David Lefevre and Alain Lefevre play Mozart and Bartholdy on their violin and piano, backed by an orchestra, in a fairly small theatre in the Casino.

Amazing, except I started enthusiastically clapping during the dead silence of a break between the first and second movements. I realized my mistake fairly quickly when several heads in the audience snapped towards me, scowling, and the silence extended.

The blood rushed to my face, my smile froze, and then slipped, as I realized what a dumb-arse I was. I glanced apologetically to the brothers on stage and was gratified to see them both smiling as they casually flipped through the music sheets in front of them before starting the next movement.

Apparently you only clap after the third and final movements! There you go?! Who would have guessed?

Monte Carlo Casino is the most famous casino in the world according to Monaco. It formed the backdrop in the James Bond film, Casino Royale and still looks just like a movie set with lots of glitz and glamour inside and jaw-droppingly expensive cars—Ferraris, Porsches, Bugattis and Hennesseys—parked haphazardly around the entrance on the outside.

Historically the casino has formed the mainstay of Monaco's economy. Funny thing about Monaco. Monaco citizens—known as Monegasques by the way, and don’t ask me how to pronounce that—don’t have to pay any tax, but in return for their tax-free status, are not allowed to gamble at the casino.

April 18 – Faking It

Location: Monaco

I’m sitting in the salon going through the photographs we took today. There’s one of me all dressed up in my best outfit, sitting outside the casino pretending to be a Montekest or Monegasque or however it is you say that word. It’s kind of difficult when you consider the average wage here is 186,000 Euros a year, but I’m subscribing to the 'fake it till I make it' theory.

There is another photo, which I took for Jagger, my daughter’s most loved border collie.

It’s a council sign stuck into a public lawn showing a big cross through a stylized picture of a dog lifting his back leg.

Jagger, a spoilt city dog who is more comfortable lounging under café tables in inner-city Richmond than in the country, still has not learnt HOW to raise his leg when doing the business.

It seems his European friends not only know how to do it properly, they can also read! Not that I'm a competitive gran'bitch or anything.

Guess what, Bob asks as he jumps down the last step from the cockpit.

You’re crazy and I’m not?

Nope. Alberto’s just given us free tickets to the Rolex Monte Carlo Masters Tennis for tomorrow he says in an exaggerated drawn-out English accent. Apparently he’s been invited by Albert and Charlene to the royal box so we have his general entry tickets.

Albert and Charlene? I question. Who are Albert and Charlene? Who would call their kid Albert anyway?

Prince Albert and Princess Charlene! The Prince of Monaco.

Woh!

Could life get any better?

April 19 – Guppy-Faced Monsters

Location: Monaco

Today we are off to see the final tennis match between Djokovic and Nadal, courtesy of Alberto’s tickets.

Even at this early hour in the morning, the weather seems especially inclement so I grab my wide-brimmed sunhat and just in case, a warm cashmere scarf.

I feel it is a good choice as I step off the boat as it is a typical Melbourne day—freezing cold rain-squalls, followed by brilliant, warm sunshine.

Where is this tennis centre? I ask Bob.

Apparently it’s across the border in France, he says, consulting his phone.

Are you serious? We have to leave the country?

Well, it’s not a very big country, he says with a smile.

He’s right, as we walk, the distance on the GPS is gobbled up quickly despite it being all up hill. I occasionally catch glimpses of my reflection in windows as we walk. I look more carefully and it dawns on me that my absolutely favourite purplish Motto outfit doesn’t quite match my absolutely favourite red-toned cashmere scarf, and neither of them match my favourite blue-striped wide-brimmed sun hat.

It also dawns on me that some of my friends, who were nagging me about the need to pack a couple of days in advance of the trip, rather than leaving it all for the day that I was flying out, maybe had a good point.

Unfortunately, their wisdom is too late for today.

It doesn’t take long before we arrive and mill around the entrance with the rest of the crowd.

I can’t help but feel uncomfortable. The men here are very open about giving me a once-over glance that could not be more salacious if I was standing naked in front of them twirling condoms around my little finger, which I feel I am doing every time they catch my eye. I am sure this type of look is against the law in Melbourne.

Just to make matters EVEN worse—yep, of course there’s down from down—two great big, disgusting, in-your-face cold-sores took up residence on my lips last night, which combined with the residual swelling of my eyes from a flying Easter egg that I missed catching after it was playfully thrown at me by my daughter on Easter Sunday, make me look like a guppy-faced monster.

More than one man gives me the once-over, then gets to my face and physically recoils in horror.

Serves them right, I think. I tell you, this living the life of Riley isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. But the match is great! Still, I can’t wait to take advantage of our free lunch tickets.

I'm sorry Madam, the waiter says when it is finally our turn to be served. This ticket does not give you entrance to this restaurant.

Oh, says Bob. Which restaurant will it give us entrance to?

The waiter wordlessly points to the other side of the grounds, then looks past us to the people waiting behind. I feel we've been dismissed and none too gently at that.

It seems to take forever to walk to the other side of the grounds and I'm glad I wore my hat. The sun is quite hot now and I’m quite hungry.

We join another queue. When we arrive at the entrance, Bob hands our tickets over.

I'm sorry Sir. This ticket does not give you entrance to this restaurant.

Bob looks incredulous. But we were just told it did.

The waiter shakes his immaculately groomed head, his eyes starting to glaze over with insolent disinterest.

Bob sighs recognising he's not going to get anywhere by arguing. So which restaurant does it give us entrance to?

The waiter points behind us to the restaurant we'd just come from.

But they just sent us here, Bob bursts out.

The waiter shrugs and once again we are dismissed none-the-wiser.

We buy a sandwich from a food van instead. It is delicious.

April 21 – Hoarding the Billionaire Way

Location: Monaco

When we are not wandering around Monaco or making good use of Alberto’s free tickets to various events, we spend our time exploring the boat.

An 80-foot boat has an amazing amount of storage compartments and I am horrified by how untidy and disorganized everything is. There are tools and sunscreen in with food and utensils. DVDs and maps in with books and medicines. Every single cupboard in the galley and adjoining storeroom is crammed to bursting with cutlery, crockery, out-of-date food and old shopping bags, while the full-length pantry is a haphazard mess of mixed foodstuffs, all stuffed on top of one another and various cooking appliances. Add to that the all-pervasive odour of an old, damp carpet, amplified by the enclosed space on the boat.

You must wash the settee covers before we go sailing, says Anna.

I pull off the fluffy big towels covering the built-in seats wrapped around the salon table, to reveal spotlessly white settees below.

Gosh. They are beautiful, I murmur. And they look very clean already, I add peering more closely and surreptitiously sniffing them to determine whether they are the source of the odour. They aren’t.

Yes, they were washed at the end of last season, says Anna. But they have been sitting all winter and must be washed before we leave.

I am confused. Beautiful luxurious settees, surrounded by mini junk-yards on every flat surface around them. And she wants me to wash the clean stuff?!

I take a deep breath.

Noooo…. problem, I say. I can do that. Do you mind if I go through some of the cupboards so I know where things are? Perhaps I could check if there’s any out-of-date food?

Anna’s smile remains the same but her eyes take on a more calculating look. I hold my breath.

Why? she asks.

Fair question really but how do you tell your employer that they have a psychological problem with hoarding, without offending them. I decide it’s an impossible ask, so resort to shrugging and feeling like a dumb-arse, inarticulate moron.

After a small pause, she nods.

Thank goodness.

April 22 – Medical Issues

Location: Monaco

Experienced my first disaster yesterday. Discovered that one of several bottles labelled 'Ammoniaca' is really gibberish for 'hydrochloric acid' and NOT something you should throw around with gay abandon when cleaning mould-spotted walls. The resulting toxic fumes forced us to quickly dress up and go out for dinner and a glass of wine, while it aired out. I’m now wondering what else needs cleaning with the stuff!

I call my sister-in-law, Diana, on Skype.

How’s it going? she asks.

It’s a lovely sunny morning. The weather is slowly getting better and I’ve just resumed running after simply ages. This morning I ran almost all the way to the French border.

You seriously ran?

Actually 'run' is a euphemism for 'walk, jog, walk, jog, walk, coffee, croissant, walk, jog'. Can't rush this process of regaining one's fitness.

Diana is unimpressed. Now run to the Italian boarder.....those croissants get my attention! That would be my kind of a run.

Nah, I reply. Bit too far, even for a pro like me. How about I sail there instead? Oh yeah! I am doing that. Next week I think.

Diana is not