South of Malta

Thirty four degrees on the open deck this afternoon and the steel too hot to lean on. The walkway circuit has moved to 06:30 and 20:00 and the middle of the day now belongs to the shade side of the accommodation block.

Malta went by somewhere over the horizon to the north. I did not see it. Tiny insists he did.

Dinner tonight was the event of the week. Elena produced a roast chicken with lemon and potatoes that did the thing good food does in a room full of tired people, which is to shut everyone up for about four minutes. Nobody spoke. Cutlery only. Then a general resumption of conversation at a slightly better mood level than before.

I told her afterwards that it was the best meal I had eaten in a year. She said, "it is chicken." She then wrote something in a notebook, which I have learned means she is pleased.

Suez paperwork has begun. Marco explained that transiting the canal generates a quantity of documentation that would be comic if it were not compulsory, and that as the only passenger I am a small but persistent line item in all of it. My passport has been photocopied twice. Somebody in an office in Port Said will shortly know more about me than my accountant.

Container has reached my collarbone. There is now approximately one clear pillow width between us. The endgame is close.