The ship I am on is careening through choppy waters somewhere off Geiranger in Norway. Uncommon at this time of year, such choppiness, I’m told by the acupuncturist peppering me with needles to nip any incipient nausea in the bud. Outside the room I’m in, the swimming pool sloshes around, cordoned off to avoid slippage and, beyond the spa, the fjord which would generally offer protection from the weather looks on, grey and impervious to the storm.
I emerge after an hour to find the anti-emetic session has worked, and I leave without the wobbly legs or sweaty palms I entered with, which, given that I am severely emetophobic and therefore opposed in the extreme to vomiting, is a blessing.
