So this morning right on schedule we sailed into Minorca, where we´re presently docked in Mahon* right at the foot of the steps that lead up into the town from the harbor. The blue water here is very blue, the white houses very white.
I was fairly certain Dolores would not be joining me for this afternoon´s excursion to Ciutadella (the old capital) as she and the band whooped it up in the Orpheus Room until heaven knows what o´clock. I woke up this morning and found her sleeping on the floor with her legs up on the sofa and the skirt of her evening gown over her face.
Around 11 in the morning, a large bouquet of tropical flowers and a bottle of champagne arrived along with a note from the band: "Hot-cha, baby! We get a kick out of ewe!"
Over breakfast one heard about nothing else but the song stylings of that divine American sheep. A lady named Moira, who I believe is from York, leaned toward me over her kippers and whispered conspiratorially, "My dear, I´ve never been one to swing both ways, but I confess when she got up on the piano and flashed her knickers during `Begin the Beguine´ I went positively moist all over."
It put me right off my apple fritters.
Meanwhile, Galina is feeling jilted (Dolores having moved on like a freight train without a break system) and is taking it out on our cabin by leaving the pillows improperly fluffed and giving me the wrong sort of cookies on the tea tray. Hell hath no fury, you know.
P.S. to Those Who Would Pretend to Be Me: We left Rhodes behind days ago. Do please try to keep up. And they don´t drive camels there, they smoke them. I was going to tell you all about the naughty fireman in Sardinia, but now since I don´t feel I could compete with such a story I´m not. Hmph.