 we were two days into the Atlantic crossing. And as the victims went down, so the balloon went up.
You saw it first in the self-service restaurant. Instead of passengers helping themselves to piles of eggs, bacon and beans for breakfast, waiters in surgical gloves doled out the portions themselves, which led to interesting discussions between bow-fronted gentlemen from Birmingham and ultra-slim youths from the Philippines on how many sausages constitute a reasonable helping.
As cases mounted, one restaurant was closed, and guests were obliged to eat in the more formal dining rooms, where they were served by more Filipino waiters who presumably had been hosed down with Lysol.
Temporary entertainers like me are treated by
P&O as 'crew', so when Norovirus struck we received the following orders: We must not associate with passengers. We must not frequent passenger areas. We must not use passengers' facilities. We must not appear on deck. We must not fondle rich widows looking for husbands.
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Okay, I made the last one up. But I was getting a bit niggled by all these 'must nots' when a more experienced hand pointed out that the company was not protecting the passengers from me. It was protecting me from the passengers.
So I accepted the restrictions with a renewed sense of self-importance. I ate in the Officer's Mess (a cafeteria). I drank in the crew bar. I took my exercise at five in the morning on the deserted promenade deck, without actually touching anything.
Each morning at breakfast we asked the graceful medical officer if things were any better, and she told us wearily that she thought yes, they were getting better, and we knew they were getting worse.
But all credit to her and the ship's company: the bug was defeated. The vomiting and squirting stopped. And I was once again allowed - indeed, instructed - to resume contact with the passengers.
When we left for home we ran slap into an Atlantic storm. Sea-sickness - that's another thing they don't mention in the brochures. 
FIRST POSTED JANUARY 30, 2007
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