It’s very difficult to keep track of what I’ve written, what has managed to get onto the internet, and what can currently be read at holly-jenkins.com. The internet is worse than last time, and I haven’t synced my mailbox for six days never mind tried to google. Last year we had some interesting system where we could get our emails on a special program despite not having normal internet access. Whatever magic that was has not been extended to this trip, and in between lab work we sit in a line clicking refresh with dwindling hope, long past the point of frustration but still battling our millennial wifi addictions.
Luckily, instead of internet we have mild bullying. I think the kids on the street call it banter. Possessions have been moved and held at ransom (ever seen a video of a shoehorn with googly eyes screaming as a drill descends over it?), and many challenges have been set between teams, increasing in weirdness. Today, between nets, the people on shift had to make a work themed hat for the winch operators, resulting in an incredible fascinator complete with working winch lifting a model mammoth net up and down. Obviously this is all sandwiched between loads of hard work.
Vegan update: No complaints. Vegan meals always available, lovely chef and plenty of vegetables. A rumour that there was a previous vegan on the ship is just another sign that we’re on the increase. There was even one main meal that was the same for everyone – vegan pasta. This is a huge deal on this ship, where there is a full English every morning and a meat or fish starter and main for both lunch and dinner. My friend started a rumour that I ate a lonely piece of chocolate cake that was still lying around from dinner at 6am the next day, but this is SLANDER AND LIES nothing more 😉 Feeling bad about all the killings of tiny sea critters and I don’t want to count how many I have currently sat in the -80ºC freezer, but when I do I have decided I must save at least that many spiders in the coming few years to make up for it. So if you’re with me and you go to kill an insect, be prepared to be rugby tackled to the floor. My thoughts are with the extra chilly copepods, but I whisper to them all that it’s for their children and their futures as I douse them in ethanol or stick them in a vial. And I tell myself in the mirror every day that I’m not a mass murderer.