28th June 2026

Having successfully survived the emotional upheaval of turning 60 at sea, I have decided that the second week of this cruise shall be different.

Not radically different, obviously. I am not about to reinvent myself as someone who rises at dawn, drinks green juice and says things like “my body is a temple” without immediately thinking, yes, but one with a gift shop and a slightly chaotic café.

But different enough.

The first week was about celebration. Reflection. Fjords. Cake. The quiet joy of discovering that cruise ships contain more handrails than some hospitals. It was also, if I am being entirely honest, about approaching the buffet with the focused determination of a woman who has paid upfront and intends to see justice done.

There is something dangerous about a buffet. It removes all normal social limits. In ordinary life, one would not sit down to a meal consisting of smoked salmon, roast potatoes, coleslaw, a small curry, two cheeses, something called “chef’s surprise” and a pudding selected purely because it was square. At a buffet, however, this feels not only acceptable but practically restrained.

The problem is not greed. The problem is choice. Choice is exhausting. Faced with unlimited options, the mature adult brain does not say, “I shall make a sensible selection aligned with my long-term wellbeing.” It says, “Better have a little bit of everything, in case civilisation collapses before supper.”

So this week I have intentions.

Not resolutions. Resolutions are for January, gym memberships and people who own matching storage containers. Intentions are softer. More forgiving. They allow for drift. They understand that a woman may set out with noble plans and still be ambushed by a warm bread roll.

My first intention is to hit the buffet less.

I phrase this carefully. I am not saying “avoid the buffet,” because that would be ridiculous and possibly legally unenforceable. I am simply proposing to approach it with less of the energy of a Viking raider. Fewer reconnaissance laps. Less pretending I am “just looking” while mentally building a three-course meal around a potato salad. More awareness that I do not, in fact, need to try every dessert merely because someone has gone to the trouble of making them.

My second intention is to use the promenade deck.

This, I feel, sounds excellent. The promenade deck suggests brisk maritime health. Sensible shoes. Fresh air. A purposeful woman striding into her seventh decade while the sea air tightens her pores and gulls scream encouragement.

In reality, I suspect it may involve me walking one side of the ship, realising there is a headwind, and returning indoors via the nearest automatic door.

Still, the principle is sound. Movement is important. I know this because every health article written for women over 50 says so, usually accompanied by a photograph of someone laughing alone with a salad. I do not intend to laugh with a salad, but I may walk past one on my way to the deck.

There is also, apparently, a yoga class.

I have written this down as an intention too, though in pencil, emotionally speaking.

Yoga and I have a complicated relationship. I admire it enormously from a distance. It appears graceful, calming and spiritually beneficial. Unfortunately, my personal experience of yoga tends to involve discovering that my hips have lodged a formal objection, my balance has resigned, and my breathing sounds less like mindful practice and more like a woman trying to quietly move furniture.

Still, I may go.

Maybe.

This is an important word at 60. Maybe is spacious. Maybe contains hope without commitment. Maybe allows one to pack leggings while still leaving room for biscuits. Maybe recognises that attending a yoga class on a cruise ship is admirable, but so is knowing your limits and not needing a rescue team to unfold you.

Complicating all this is the premium drinks package.

There is a peculiar psychology to a premium drinks package. Once purchased, it ceases to feel like alcohol and becomes a savings strategy. A glass of wine is no longer a glass of wine. It is value extraction. A cocktail is not indulgence. It is fiscal responsibility. Declining a drink can begin to feel almost wasteful, as though somewhere in the ship’s accounts department a small light has gone on marked “she has failed to optimise.”

This is not helpful when attempting a new era of moderation.

One cannot say, “I am making healthier choices,” while also thinking, “But I do need to get my money’s worth from the Pinot.”

Nor does the drinks package assist with my latest intellectual pursuit: learning to play cribbage.

This has become our refined pre dinner activity. Other couples gaze at sunsets, dance elegantly or discuss the day’s scenery. We sit across from each other with a cribbage board, a deck of cards and the simmering tension of two people discovering that marriage is not merely love, loyalty and shared history, but also whether one of you is trying to count fifteen when there is plainly no fifteen there.

My husband, I should say, is enthusiastic. This is not the same as accurate.

He has taken to cribbage with the confidence of a man who believes numbers are open to interpretation. He counts with flair. He counts with optimism. He counts, occasionally, as though points may be awarded for emotional effort.

I, meanwhile, have become the sort of woman who leans across a small table in a cruise ship lounge and says, “Show me where you’re getting six,” with the cold precision of a tax inspector.

This is what nobody tells you about ageing. You may imagine your later years will bring wisdom, serenity and a relaxed perspective on life’s small irritations. In fact, you may find yourself in international waters, mildly over-refreshed, arguing about pegging with the man you married.

Still, perhaps this too is an adventure.

Not the grand sort. Not the kind involving mountains, danger or a woman in a linen shirt discovering herself beneath a foreign sky. But the smaller, truer kind. The daily negotiation between intention and appetite. Between movement and comfort. Between self-improvement and the very real fact that someone has just put out fresh scones.

So week two begins.

I shall visit the promenade deck. I shall consider yoga. I shall approach the buffet with dignity and restraint, unless there is crumble. I shall drink responsibly, by which I mean with a developing awareness of both units and sunk costs. I shall continue learning cribbage, despite the clear and present danger posed by creative arithmetic.

I am 60 now.

I have intentions.

And, crucially, I know where the handrails are.