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."
"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?