Jog On

Would you believe on such a leisurely pursuit as cruising there is such a thing as a rush hour? Well I can assure you there is it might be that we are pre programmed to rush about like Lemmings from 8am to 9am, it's called schoolus runus syndrome. As we prepare ourselves for the coming battle with tropical storm "Ian" there will be limited access to certain areas over the next 24-36 hours (according to Captain Ludo and his seaweed) so I thought I would take a limp around the promenade deck before access is restricted because of high winds and rough seas. Naively I didn't allow for the massed ranks of the Royal Regiment of Power Walkers whose motto is we stop for nothing or move sucka (thought I would do a bit of gangsta for younger readers). They hare around the deck singly and in groups of varying sizes sweeping all before them, determined to do the eight circuits that makes a mile. The serious practitioners look as if they have outfits put together by Gok Wan garish fluorescent colours that assault the senses and scare wild animals, you may even see the odd devotee coming back after injury on crutches adorned with various humorous stickers and a go faster stripe. Whoa betide anyone who gets in their way, deck crew included, they take off with the urgency of someone with Dehli Belly looking for a Loo and sweep all before them. If you are a newcomer to this pastime or more precisely,religion or if you just want to stroll, look at the waves get a breath of fresh air and try to go round the deck right handed you are in deep poo, there is a code as precise as using the Magic Roundabout in Swindon. Mutterings of ancient Anglo Saxon expletives rent the overcast sky asunder if you break the code. Then as if by magic 9am chimes out and they disappear only to be replaced by the clan of the Deck Quoiter and Shuffle Boarder, but that's a whole different religion and story. Just when I thought I had escaped the cult of the Power Walker I sat down for breakfast when a "stampede" ( the collective name for a group of power walkers) sat at the table adjacent to me as I quaffed my muesli and toast, only to be joined by a Lady of ample proportions dressed in layers of coloured Lycra, probably a high priestess of the coven, who lent over the table deep in conversation with the others while she surreptitiously adjusted her undercarriage from the exertions of her walk. To my untutored eye, I have no idea as to what underwear lives in this part of the female power walkers body, it looked like a ferret going down a rabbit hole in search of a meal. Perhaps this were we get the expression to have a good old ferret around. After that experience I am off food and need to lie down in a darkened room.