Without a log, I mostly reminisce.  On Monday, November 8, we certainly travelled from Greece, west across the Mediterranean towards Italy.  No doubt we did the usual things: breakfast, classes, lunch, deck games, dinner, dancing, hot chocolate and cookies before going to bed at 9:30.  I must’ve met a few boys by then and spoken to at least one because he (Colin?) made his way to my home in Winchester about a month later to ask me out.  I was aghast!  He arrived by train early one Saturday morning from a town called Andover.  He had my address; at least, he made the 7-minute walk from Winchester Railway Station and found our house.  My 13 year-old sister opened the door and told him to wait on the front steps.  She woke me up to say,

“There a boy called Colin to see you.”

“Who?  Where?”

“Colin.  At the front door.  What shall I tell him?”

I didn’t know any Colins.  Wait…from the cruise?  Visiting me?!  I didn’t want to see him.

“I don’t want to see him,” I said, thoroughly panicked.  “Make him go away.”
 
“What do you mean, make him go away!  How do I make him go away?”

“Tell him I’m not here.”

“He knows you’re here.  I told him you were here.  You’ll have to think of something else.”

“Tell him I’m asleep.  No…wait…say I’m sick.  Get his phone number; say I’ll call him.”

So that’s what happened.  As soon as she closed the door on him, I ran to the front window; watched him walk back towards the railway station and out of my life.  Poor Colin!  I felt truly sorry for him.  I was grateful on the one hand that he was keen on me, terrified on the other because I’d no idea how to behave with a boy who was keen on me.  I couldn’t have rung him even if I’d wanted to because we didn’t have a telephone.  And I wouldn’t have rung him even if I could’ve…because, after all, what on earth would I have done with him?