Beneath the surface 10

Once our passports were handed in we were unable to leave the ship until we received a crew card - a kind of forced imprisonment. What’s more that card was kept in a locked box for arrival in port, it enabled the ship to know whether you were on board or not. What’s more without a passport individuals were unable to abscond into a country and disappear. Essentially all crew were imprisoned until the crew purser manufactured a card with their passport number on it. I was not concerned, in fact I was quite happy just to sit on the ship for a bit. It was the first peace I had had in months.
As I was escorted along the corridor I had my first realisation: I was no longer a civilian. From that moment forward I was to be dressed in uniform for the majority of my time. Regulation and discipline were instilled and conformity was a must. My hair had to be tied back. I was expected to wear make-up and discard individuality. What’s more I was told specifically not to question any decisions made by officers or managers. That was somewhat of an issue for me. I would have to bite my lip until it bled. My mind was to be closed, unquestioning and non-rebellious. Another reason to write a diary. The rebellion had to go somewhere!
I was lead down to a dungeon-like area three floors below the surface of the water. The metallic depths of the ship resembled a labyrinth. Each section was lit with a pale green fluorescent lights and there was no day light. The atmosphere was stagnant and around every corner was a water-tight door. Each had a red emergency leaver and a ringing bell which warned of danger. Every time we met high seas a symphony of bells sounded alerting the crew to the fact that the ship was entering dangerous waters.
That stark location was where the uniform cupboard resided. Every ship I have ever worked on had a rather small Philippino in charge of the crew the uniform. His title was the ‘Uniform Master.’ The JedI Master of uniform combat. What a title for a man who spent hours alone amongst uniforms in the depths of the ship.
As soon as the Uniform Master saw me he frowned. That is never a good sign. ‘Oh dear… Oh dear,’ he said tutting. ‘I don’t think we have clothes big enough for you. You are a very, very big girl!’
Shall I work naked? Would that fall into a seven star deluxe service?
Admittedly I was close to six foot so my dimensions followed accordingly, not that I was six foot wide or round. I was just on the chunky side, big bones, with flesh surrounding those bones…
After a lot of thought the Uniform Master kindly handed me numerous items of hideous uniform; each item purposely constructed to enable the wearer to feel fat, look pallid and resemble a granny. The designer had a thing with prison uniforms and the fifties - it was repulsive! What’s more not one item fitted and the green polyester shirt restricted my arms - not too useful when you’re a photographer. Maybe I could photograph using my feet. I doubt that would go down well on the most exclusive ship in the world, especially as I was expected to wear a skirt the majority of the time. Shame. Actually what was going on? Why would I wear a short skirt and high-heels if I was a photographer? Something just occurred to me, it was no accident! The patriarch!
The more I looked at the attire, the more repulsed I became. Whoever had designed that uniform was bitter and cruel. In terms of attractive/sexiness, no sausage would twitch a response. Every single man who gazed upon uniformed individual would most definitely think of their grandmother. Since the ship was primarily packed with guests in their seventies maybe there was method in the floral madness.
The uniform master handed me a jacket to try on, it had a functional problem no arm movement. A photographer had to be able to bend, squat or crouch. What’s more we had been advised to wear stockings with the short skirt - how was I supposed to photograph people sitting on a white background on the floor? Should be interesting. Memories of re-birth?
The main issue for me was the jacket. There was nothing in stock that would enable any arm movement. I can tell you this now - I never thought that clothing could be such an issue. I tried numerous jackets and one had to be cut off! Talk about humiliatio! Finally I had an ill-fitting set. With the full uniform in front of the mirror I came to the conclusion I resembled a floral granny, in a tarty short skirt, stockings and a straight jacket. Brilliant!
‘We don’t usually have women as big as you,’ said the uniform master attempting to console me.
I tended to disagree. Yes I am tall but I had noticed some South Africans and Scandinavian women working onboard the ship. Most of them could happily weild an axe!
‘Can’t I just wear a man’s jacket?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re not a man,’ he responded.
He was keen with his observation, but there was still no answer. Eventually a cardigan two sizes too small, that constricted the blood to my arms was provided. Brilliant!
I already knew I was in trouble. If the hotel manager saw the mess of ill-fitting uniform I would be called in and disciplined!