Chapter 8

Hi Amy,

Forgive the somewhat less than salubrious subject line to this email. I was aiming for something that would stand out in your inbox, but thinking about it, this will probably stand out for the wrong reasons. But penguin poo has very much been the theme of my day as it has caused severe upset to one of our illustrious guests. I don’t want to give the wrong impression of the guests on board at the moment. Most of them are delightful, a fascinating bunch of people ranging from someone who’s been saving up for over a decade to come on this experience, to a multi-millionaire (perhaps even billionaire?) tech bro whose name I legally can’t divulge due to the NDA his PA made us all sign before he got on board. My crew mates inform me that on every voyage there’s always that one guest who likes throwing their weight around for the sake of it. The general consensus was that Mr Tech Bro was going to be the difficult one, especially given our dodgy internet and his reputation for being glued to his phone at all times. But no, he’s a gent, a fellow photography geek who’s happy to nerd out about focal lengths and composition all day, every day.

Alas, the crown for the most challenging has to go to the influencer who’s here on a free trip and is meant to be documenting it all so his thousands of subscribers book their next voyage with us. He’s absolutely charming when he wants to be, but he has a tendency to think the rules don’t apply to him. I’m up for being free spirited as much as the next guy, but the rules on this continent are here for a reason: to maintain its relatively pristine state and to ensure that there’s at least one place left on the planet where humans have minimal negative impact, and sadly he doesn’t get it. Highlights so far include him trying to fly a drone up to some sleeping seals (the fact that it’s not legal to fly a drone in Antarctica without a permit left him unmoved. We only managed to stop him by saying the seals would eat his kit.) and today’s hissy fit about penguin excrement.

We’d disembarked at Port Lockroy, otherwise known as the home to the world’s most southerly public post office. We’re lucky enough to be visiting it twice on this trip, and I’m already looking forward to our return visit, although I’m also trying not to think too much about that as it will signal the start of our journey back to South America. It was quite the surreal experience being able to purchase postcards in such a remote area and put them in an actual letterbox. The post office is manned by a team of four at the moment—people, not penguins, just to be clear—and once they’d done their job of selling souvenirs to our eager captive audience and telling us all about the amazing conservation and heritage work they do, we ferried the team back to the expedition ship so they could enjoy hot showers and flushing toilets (I believe buckets play a pivotal role in their normal hygiene routine. Probably too much information, but I find the whole idea of such remote living fascinating, and I’m once again making the assumption that you might be interested too.)

Anyway, I have a feeling this fact will definitely capture your attention, knowing your love of penguins. Here at Port Lockroy they outnumber people about a hundred to one. It’s very much their island, and the staff at the post office told me that quite often their fifty-yard commute to work can be significantly delayed by penguins in their path who won’t move. It’s a relatively small amount of land for the number of birds that hang out there, so there is a lot of penguin poo about, and it has its own special kind of aroma, not quite the immaculate environment many people were expecting.

I’d been roped in to help the influencer get some shots of himself wandering around the island, staring artfully into the distance and doing bizarre dances, that kind of thing, while chief photographer George dealt with the rest of the guests. It was quite the balancing act trying to go along with the influencer’s demands while stopping him literally grabbing at the penguins for selfies. But the crunch point came when he decided he wanted an ‘angel’ picture. You know, where you lie down in the snow and move your arms up and down to create angel wings. Unfortunately, being the spontaneous kind of guy that he is, he absolutely went for it, and flung himself down on the ground before I could shout a warning. You guessed it. He ended up in an extremely large pile of penguin poo and started waving his arms around before his nose had time to properly process what it was he was lying in.

Now anyone would be upset by that, but what I didn’t expect him to do was to start scooping up the stuff and throwing it in the penguins’ direction. I dived to put myself between the penguins and him. I’d like to think it was a Matrix-worthy move, but I’m pretty sure I looked distinctly less cool than Keanu Reeves. Thankfully the influencer’s aim was terrible and none of the penguins were in any real danger, but you try stopping a spoilt social media-ite in the middle of a rant. There was a moment when I questioned what on earth my life had come to, being a human target in the world’s worst game of dodgeball, but the penguins were okay, so that’s all that matters. In fact, I swear a couple of them winked at me.

Sadly, my lovely red coat is not so lovely any more, but the steward team have promised to find me a replacement. George grabbed me after dinner and whispered that he’s got the whole incident on video. I think the influencer is of the type to believe that any hits are good hits, and would probably be rather thrilled to have the footage, but as I’d prefer not to go viral as the penguin poo protector, I’ve asked George to keep it to himself. So that’s been my interesting day. How’s yours been? Have you thawed out yet from busking? Whatever you’ve been up to, I sincerely hope it didn’t involve having vast quantities of guano chucked at you.

All the best,

Cameron

PS: the influencer has now said sorry for his behaviour, although if you ask me, it’s the penguins who deserve the apology. We’re all bracing ourselves for what the next incident might be and the captain says he’s considering banning anyone who calls themselves an influencer from coming aboard again. We think he’s joking, but it’s sometimes rather hard to tell. The captain’s word is law on this ship, and they’re very strict on respecting rank. Do you get to decide your own path as a musician, or are you answerable to a conductor? Being your own boss is the dream, right?

Hey Cameron,

I’m not really sure where to start with my response to Poo-gate. You poor thing! That is definitely what should be called a crap day at the office. But I’m glad that you can see the funny side. Thankfully, whatever the trials and tribulations of my job might be, at least they don’t involve having penguin poo flung at me … yet. Your situation shall forever more be my ‘well, at least I’m not…’ scenario! In all seriousness, I hope you don’t have to encounter the wrath of the influencer again on your voyage and I shall look out for upcoming Antarctica social content with interest.

The honest answer to your question about who musicians are answerable to is that there’s always someone above you whose word is law. Disregarding the power of the audience and reviewers, the conductor’s usually the one leading the way, whether you’re an orchestra member or a soloist, although I’ve been lucky that the conductors I’ve dealt with have always been very supportive and helped to bring the best out of me. The most memorable one so far was when I was a teenager. I was lucky enough to get a place in a youth orchestra with kids from all round Europe and the UK. Because we lived hundreds of miles apart, the only time we got to practise together was in the week before a concert, when we’d all converge in whichever country it was taking place. But in the run up to that rehearsal week, we all had regular emails from the conductor and chats explaining exactly what she wanted, and our poor teachers had to find a way of interpreting that and putting us through our paces so we were ready. It always seemed like an impossible task, but somehow, when we came together, it worked, and we could spend the week finessing the performance—and having a whale of a time in whichever European city we happened to be in.

I did the youth orchestra for three years on the trot, and my final year with it was definitely the best as the concert took place here in Edinburgh. Actually, when they first announced the location, I was really disappointed as I only lived less than an hour away in a little town on the coast, and I was hankering after going somewhere exotic and exciting and most importantly, abroad. But it turned out to be the most amazing experience. I stayed in a youth hostel in the city centre with the other orchestra members, and although we supposedly had a curfew, we of course found ways of getting around it, sneaking out and pretending to be students to get into the union bar, or blagging our way into gigs at the Corn Exchange.

There were official events to entertain us too, like the night we went on a ghost tour. Naturally we were full of bravado when we set off from the Royal Mile, all pretending we were far too cool to be interested, but the guide’s tales of witch trials and bodysnatchers as she took us down the city’s darkest wynds and cobbled closes soon had us captivated and clutching on to each other in abject terror. Even though normal life was carrying on around us, the way she told the stories transported us back in time until I imagined I could hear the sinister clip-clopping of horses’ hooves picking their way along the steep streets, or see the shadowy figures flitting past the weathered tenements. It still sends a shiver down my spine thinking about it now. The tour ended in Greyfriars Kirkyard where I had been super excited to enjoy a mini Harry Potter pilgrimage (several of the characters’ names were apparently inspired by inscriptions on the gravestones there, e.g. Tom Riddle) but by that stage I was really on edge, then one of the trumpet players jumped out from behind a statue and I was done for! I may have shrieked and needed a medicinal hot chocolate to calm down…

Thankfully I managed to recover from my trauma as our final concert was in Greyfriars Kirk itself. At the beginning of the rehearsal week, it had seemed impossible that we’d ever master the piece we were due to perform: Tchaikovsky’s ‘Symphony No. 5’. But somehow we got there, and that final performance was something else, the light streaming through the stained-glass windows and the building packed with a proper paying audience, not just the usual families and friends affair. The acoustics of the church were incredible and the way the audience held their breath as the final note echoed around the beautiful stone walls before bursting into applause gave me the biggest thrill. I think it was at that moment I knew I absolutely had to become a musician, and that I had to come here to Edinburgh to pursue that dream.

Ha, one of the cats just walked over my keyboard and in doing so typed out a load of gobbledygook. I’ve deleted it, in case you’re wondering whether all of this email is the product of Eliza delicately tip toeing her way through qwerty. I think it was her way of hinting that I’ve been wittering about my youthful orchestral experiences for far too long. Sorry about that. Since their stay with me, the cats have been popping over regularly, which is lovely. It’s good to have surrogate pets since I don’t have my own. I reckon there must be a certain stage of success where you can get away with bringing animals to your place of work. Something to aspire to.

Another advantage of looking after my neighbour’s cats is that he has very sweetly given me a giant tin of shortbread to say thank you. I’m trying to save them, but they look too delicious not to be eaten straight away. Speaking of shortbread, what’s your favourite biscuit? Warning, this is a test!

Amy x

Chapter Eight