The Parallel Four: Unlocking the Secret of the Multiverse

The Parallel Four Book One Part Two Chapter Two

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

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• 17:47 (Cont.) The Parallel Four: Unlocking the Secret of the Multiverse
• 17:47 (Cont.) The Parallel Four: Unlocking the Secret of the Multiverse

Transcript

The Parallel Four Book 1 Part 2

Chapter Two.

When the big day finally arrived—the one circled on calendars, whispered about in school corridors, and dreamt about every night—I woke up feelin’ like I’d swallowed a whole colony of butterflies.

And then it was go time.

Dad’s colleague turned up outside our house in his trusty old Standard 8, a motor so dinky it made a sardine tin look like first-class on the Orient Express. The sort of car where you didn’t get in so much as fold yourself in.

With military precision, he popped the boot—more like a pocket with a hinge—and wedged my battered brown suitcase inside, wedgin’ it down like it was a live grenade that might bounce back out.

Then, right on cue, we popped next door to collect Johan and his lot, and suddenly the Standard 8 was transformed into a mobile game of human Tetris.

There we were:

– Legs tangled,

– Elbows in ribs,

– Bags balanced on laps,

– And the ghost of personal space left behind somewhere in the driveway.

The air was thick with the aroma of cracked old leather, boiled sweets, and just a hint of pipe tobacco—a scent cocktail I would later come to associate with “adventure in progress.”

This was it.

We were off.

Seven years old and already feelin’ like a travel veteran.

By the time we screeched to a halt outside Hitchin railway station, our knees were numb, and Johan’s mum had developed a sixth sense for catchin’ falling luggage with one arm.

Out came this porter—cool as anything—pushing a rusty old barrow like it was his faithful steed. He gave us the kind of look that said, “Seen it all before, love. Bring on the chaos.”

We flung our suitcases onto the trolley like it was a supermarket sweep and we were bein’ timed. I’m surprised we didn’t get points for style.

But honestly, sayin’ goodbye to Dad’s mate was a doddle compared to the earlier emotional boot camp back at home.

That morning, I’d been marched down the family line, standin’ on the pavement like I was leavin’ for national service. Kissin’ and huggin’ every relative like I was about to be posted to a far-off land with no postboxes.

Nan cried.

Phoebe flounced.

Susan offered me a soggy biscuit like it was a diplomatic parting gift.

I half expected someone to start playin’ the Last Post from a bedroom window.

So when we finally made it into the station, I felt like a soldier escapin’ the trenches of farewell theatre.

We wheeled our wobbly barrow across the forecourt—suitcases rattlin’, wheels squeakin’ like mice with megaphones—and began the hunt for the right platform.

King’s Cross awaited.

London first—then the big leap across the sea.

This was it.

The first proper chapter of the Swedish saga.

And I was ready.

Well… mostly.

As long as Mum hadn’t packed me itchy trousers in with the emergency marmite sandwiches.

After what felt like a bleedin’ lifetime—roughly four eternities in seven-year-old years—I finally clocked it.

That sound.

That thunderous chug-chug, followed by a hiss so fierce it nearly took me eyebrows off. The whole platform shook as the steam train came roarin’ in like a fire-breathin’ dragon on wheels. It snorted, it huffed, it belched out black clouds o’ charcoal smuts that stuck to your coat, your suitcase, and—in my case—me freshly brushed barnet.

I was instantly smitten.

Proper in love.

Me and Johan dashed up the platform like a pair o’ over-caffeinated spaniels, eyes peeled for the big golden number twos on the carriage doors—our proud claim to second-class luxury, if your definition of “luxury” includes no legroom and suspicious sandwich smells.

Once aboard, we crammed ourselves in with the rest of the day’s bargain travellers, wedgin’ the luggage between our knees, tossin’ lighter bags onto the rack above and hopin’ none of it came back down mid-journey and knocked someone out cold.

The door shut behind us with a lovely clunk—like the sound of an adventure officially beginin’.

Then came the guard’s whistle, the flash of his green flag, and just like that—

We were off.

London-bound.

Two scruffy little explorers off to foreign lands with cheese sandwiches, itchy socks, and dreams of Vikings and cinnamon buns.

The train’s steady clickety-clack had this weird magic to it—sort of hypnotic, like it was tryin’ to lull us into some railway trance. Even the loudest kids on the carriage started noddin’ off.

Well… for about five minutes.

Me and Johan were tryin’ not to laugh as we watched Ingrid’s head bobbin’ about like one o’ those dashboard noddin’ dogs, doin’ that slow forward dip before snappin’ back up like a startled owl. She fought it, bless her—but the clickety-clack always wins.

I soon discovered I’d made a critical error in wardrobe choices:

Short trousers… on tartan upholstery.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever sat down on itchy train seat fabric with bare legs, but I’ll tell ya—it’s like plonkin’ yourself on a hedgehog wearin’ a kilt. I tried shufflin’, shiftin’, squirming—nothin’ helped. The seat was winnin’, and I had no chance of walkin’ off that train without a rash that looked like I’d fought a plaid porcupine.

Desperate for distraction, I started foggin’ up the window with me breath, drawin’ what I considered artistic masterpieces—a castle, a Viking, a rather good impression of Mr. Peters from school with his nostrils flared.

That was until the nearby passengers—the kind that treat public transport like a sacred cathedral—started givin’ me that look.

You know the one.

Frosty glares, tight lips, a well-practised “Tut” that could curdle milk.

My window gallery got shut down real quick.

Artistic expression, apparently, is frowned upon when it blocks someone’s view of Hertfordshire hedgerows.

Me and Johan had our noses glued to the window like detectives on a stakeout—eyes peeled, lips twitchin’, brains workin’ overtime.

To pass the time, we launched into what would go down in history as the most chaotic game of “I Spy” ever played on the British rail network.

And not just any “I Spy”—nah, this was bilingual.

We were flippin’ between English and Swedish like the UN in short trousers.

“I spy with my little eye… somethin’ beginnin’ with ‘B’.”

“Bus?”

“Nope.”

“Bil?” (that’s ‘car’ in Swedish, for the uninitiated.)

“Also no.”

“Birch tree?”

“YES!”

We were on fire, I tell ya.

With the whole countryside rushin’ past us, it was like playin’ bingo at 60 miles an hour—hedgerows, tractors, sheep starin’ like they owed us money—it was all up for grabs.

Then, just as Johan was windin’ up his next clue—disaster struck.

The train gave one of those deep, chest-rattlin’ WHOOOOOOs from the front end, and next thing we know—we’re plunged into a tunnel.

Dark.

Loud.

And within seconds, the carriage filled up with a thick, clingy coal-flavoured fog, like someone had let off a Victorian smoke bomb for a laugh.

Harry—quick as a flash—lunged for the window and slammed it shut, but not before the soot made its move.

A big ol’ lump of smut came flyin’ in like it had a vendetta and landed smack on Ingrid’s cheek, perfectly placed like a moustache drawn by a very cheeky toddler with a marker pen.

Harry, bless him, leapt into damage control mode.

Out comes the handkerchief—bit of a lick for luck—and he starts scrubbin’ at her face like he’s cleanin’ a windscreen.

But it was too late.

The black mark just smeared, goin’ from “cheeky soot blob” to abstract charcoal swirl, like someone had tried to finger-paint Picasso with their eyes shut.

Ingrid’s glare?

Mate…

It could’ve frozen lava.

I swear the temperature in the carriage dropped by ten degrees. Even the other passengers went quiet, like they’d just witnessed a diplomatic incident.

With the calm fury of a woman who’d raised three boys, endured public transport, and once cooked a three-course meal during a power cut, Ingrid retrieved her powder compact from her handbag—slowly.

Deliberately.

Like a knight drawin’ a sword.

She opened it with a snap so sharp it probably woke a sheep three fields over, and began repairin’ the damage with the grim precision of a general preparing for battle.

Even the mirror flinched.

As the light crept back in and we trundled into London, the train’s rhythm changed—gone was the soft clickety-clack of countryside calm. Now it was all clunk, screech, rattle, and the faint suspicion your carriage wheels were bein’ held on with bits of string and hope.

Faces started appearin’ on the platform—staring in through the windows with a mix of curiosity, confusion, and just a touch of mild horror.

Fair enough.

From their point of view, we probably looked like a travelling circus act.

Especially Ingrid, bless her—still mid makeup repair, dabbing soot with the determination of a woman who refused to arrive in the capital lookin’ like a coal miner in pearls.

Me and Johan sat up proper sharp, straightened our collars—both of which had acquired charming smudge patterns—and gave each other a look that said: Right then. Dignity. Engage.

The train came to a shudderin’ halt, and we leapt the dreaded gap like proper commuters—or at least tourists pretending not to be tourists, tryin’ not to stack it headfirst into a briefcase.

We’d made it.

King’s Cross

The real deal.

A temple of travel, noise, and more pigeons than a Trafalgar Square postcard.

With all bodies accounted for and the suitcases retrieved—each one weighin’ roughly the same as a medium-sized elephant—we set off across the concourse like a well-meaning herd of travel-weary donkeys.

I’d never seen so many people movin’ at once without actually crashin’ into each other.

It was like a very British stampede—all muttered apologies, umbrellas at half-mast, and briefcases swung just low enough to endanger small animals.

We rallied behind our groanin’ luggage trolley, squeakin’ along like it’d seen better decades, and headed in tight formation towards the next challenge:

The Circle and District Lines.

Now, if you’ve never tried to navigate the London Underground in the mid-’60s with a suitcase, a sleep-deprived Swede, and a tin of emergency boiled sweets—you’ve never truly known stress.

Down we went.

Concrete staircases that seemed to stretch forever, tunnels tiled so shiny you could do your hair in ‘em, and signs that pointed in every direction at once.

Between Harry, Johan, and me, we somehow summoned the strength of Samson—or at least a slightly overconfident Scout patrol—and heaved those cases through the maze.

We must’ve looked a right picture:

– Me red-faced,

– Johan luggin’ a bag like he was smuggling treasure,

– Harry barkin’ directions like a man tryin’ to reverse a steamship in a phone box.

But somehow—miraculously—we made it through the tiled labyrinth.

The adventure was still on track.

And next stop?

The docks.

Where the real journey—the sea voyage to Sweden—waited just over the horizon.

There we were, waitin’ on the underground platform, surrounded by posters for Milkybars, Man from UNCLE., and a bloke playin’ “Roll Out the Barrel” on a harmonica like his life depended on it.

Suddenly, the air shifted.

A warm, dusty gust swept down the tunnel, and you could feel it comin’—the beast.

Like a rock star with zero chill, the train blasted past us, all wind and thunder, coat flaps flappin’ and newspapers flyin’. Then—screech!—it stopped… just far enough ahead to make the whole platform shuffle forward like confused penguins late for bingo.

The doors sighed open and we squeezed in, elbow to ribcage, bag to shin, into a carriage packed tighter than a tin of sardines at a sumo convention.

I ended up wedged beneath the armpit of a man who clearly believed that deodorant was a government conspiracy.

I’ve smelt better dustbins.

Still—silver linin’—I wasn’t completely flattened. And my suitcase only hit one person on the shin. Result.

So there I stood—practisin’ shallow breathin’, starin’ at a “Mind the Gap” sign like it held the secrets of the universe, and wearin’ me best “I’m fine” face, which probably looked more like a slow-motion panic sneeze.

Miraculously, the ride was brief. We spilled out at Liverpool Street, red-faced, sweaty, and victorious.

One last train to go:

The overground to Harwich.

That bit was less chaotic—more sit-down-and-recover—and before long, we were steamin’ into the station with the scent of salt in the air and somethin’ massive risin’ over the horizon.

Then I saw it.

The ship.

I stopped in me tracks, mouth open, suitcase hangin’ off one hand like I’d just remembered it existed.

It was colossal.

Titanic—but without the unfortunate ice cube.

It loomed over the dock like a floatin’ skyscraper, big and bold and bristlin’ with adventure, mystery, and the tantalisin’ promise of a buffet.

This weren’t just a boat.

This was the mighty ferry—the beast that’d carry us across the roarin’ North Sea to Gothenburg.

Me first-ever trip abroad.

My escape from custard creams and curtain-climbers.

I stood there like I was lookin’ at the Eighth Wonder of the World, imagination runnin’ wild—spy missions, Viking treasures, cinnamon buns the size of steering wheels.

Then I felt an elbow in me ribs.

Johan, of course.

Back to reality, mate. You’ve got a suitcase to carry and a deck chair to claim.

This was it.

The real adventure was about to begin.

And it came with a funnel, a flag, and more lifeboats than a boy could count.

From the moment we stepped aboard, everything switched to Swedish—well, at least they did.

Me? I gave it a go.

But some of those words felt like my tongue had joined a gymnastics class it hadn’t trained for.

Rollin’ R’s, vowels doin’ somersaults, sounds comin’ out that I’m not sure were entirely legal in Britain.

Still—I was determined.

Threw meself into conversations with the enthusiasm of a dog at a dinner table.

Even if my replies mostly consisted of:

“Ja!”

“Inte säker, men okej!”

(“Not sure, but okay!”—a phrase that got me through most social situations, actually.)

I was about on par with Harry, to be honest.

Now, Harry had been married to Ingrid for years, but he still treated Swedish like it was a mildly annoying house guest—tolerated it at mealtimes, didn’t engage much, and hoped it would leave quietly without causing a scene.

Between the two of us, we understood far more than we let on, which made us highly suspicious conversationalists and utterly useless in an argument.

“What did he say?”

“No idea. Might’ve called you a cabbage.”

“Right. Well... best not respond then.”

The ship itself?

Massive.

A proper floatin’ city, with all the charm and layout of a confusin’ IKEA showroom.

Decks stacked like a wedding cake, all neat layers on top and mysterious dark ones underneath—just to keep things spicy.

Corridors twisted round like a bad plumbing diagram, lined with identical doors that made you start doubting your own memory.

“Wasn’t that door 212? Or was it 221? Hang on… who’s this bloke again?”

Room numbers became our only hope—little glowing digits in brass frames, like lighthouses in the fog.

Me and Johan had a cabin just next to his parents. Cosy, neat, and, miracle of miracles, not shared with twelve strangers and a pile of luggage.

We only got lost twice before we found it.

Though I’m fairly sure we passed the same fella three times, lookin’ increasingly desperate and clearly still searchin’ for the loos.

Poor sod looked like he might try knockin’ on a lifeboat next.

We were seven.

We’d barely managed to take our coats off before the explorer impulse kicked in and we legged it down the corridor like we were late for a treasure hunt.

That cabin?

Nice enough.

But when you’ve got an entire floating fortress to explore, you don’t sit around folding socks.

We escaped the beige door labyrinth, turnin’ corners like confused delivery boys, until we reached this massive grand hallway—all shiny chrome, velvet ropes, and a pair of glitterin’ staircases that looked like they’d been nicked straight out of a Bond villain’s lair.

There were lifts, too—proper posh ones, with little light-up floor numbers and buttons that glowed like they knew secrets.

We piled in, hit the button for Deck 5, and waited.

Jolt. Ding. Whoosh.

The doors opened… and we stepped out like royalty.

Royalty in scuffed shoes and hair stuck up from static, but royalty nonetheless.

The carpet underfoot?

Plush.

Red.

So soft it felt like walkin’ on marshmallows in your socks, which, frankly, should be the standard for all flooring everywhere.

But then… we saw it.

Straight ahead—just beyond the thick glass and velvet ropes—was a scene so out of this world, I half expected someone to shout “Launch the missiles!”

Men in crisp white uniforms sat in front of glowin’ screens, fiddlin’ with dials, flippin’ switches, and squintin’ at charts like the fate of the planet depended on accurate compass readings.

Some had headphones clamped to their ears, noddin’ and mutterin’ like they were takin’ calls from the Moon.

Others paced back and forth inside a glassed-off control room, lookin’ deeply concerned, possibly about navigational safety—or biscuits gone missin’.

I stared, gobsmacked.

It looked like the control deck of a Cold War spy thriller.

Or one of those “How Things Work” books from the school library—only in full 3D and smellin’ faintly of polish and sea air.

Later, I found out this was called the bridge.

Which was a bit of a shock, to be honest.

Up till that point, the only “bridges” I knew involved:

– Trolls,

– Old ladies playin’ whist,

– Or those rusty walkovers by the canal that smelled of soggy chips.

This one?

This one had charts, radios, and possibly lasers (though I never confirmed that bit).

Now this version of a bridge—not the troll-dwelling, card-playin’ kind—was a right hive of activity.

Buttons flashin’, charts sprawled out like pirate treasure maps, and men runnin’ about with that serious “Europe’s countin’ on us” energy.

There were tide tables pinned to the walls, like secret naval codes, and shelves of colour-coded files standin’ there like they were in uniform too.

Blokes were furiously drawin’ lines on sea charts the size of carpets—straight faces, compass whirlin’, rulers slammin’ down like they were playin’ the most intense game of Battleships known to man.

I was stood there, proper gobsmacked, takin’ it all in… until my eyes caught a sign in big, bold, no-smiles-here letters:

“NO PUBLIC ACCESS”

Ah. Right.

Me and Johan did that slow-motion backward shuffle all guilty-like—the one you do when you’ve just nicked a biscuit before dinner and Mum walks in.

Then—BANG—we were off.

Leggin’ it down the grand staircase like startled deer, dignity flappin’ behind us like a loose scarf in a wind tunnel.

We didn’t stop till the air smelled less like navigation charts and more like… perfume and panic.

We’d landed in…

The Onboard Shop.

A place that felt like someone had mashed together a duty-free, a market stall, and Woolworths on a sugar high.

Posters everywhere shoutin’ “HALF PRICE!” like they were tryin’ to sell you a telly in the Blitz.

Racks of slightly wrinkled T-shirts stood about lookin’ confused, like they weren’t quite sure if they were souvenirs or emergency pyjamas.

There were perfume counters smellin’ like a celebrity boxing match—all expensive and overpowerin’, like two posh aunties havin’ a row at a wedding.

And then—the booze section.

Oh, mate.

It looked like the back of a Co-op, but if the Co-op was run by cowboys.

Blokes were struttin’ out, grinnin’ like they’d just robbed a saloon, draggin’ bags full of Marlboro multipacks like they were plannin’ to build a fort out of ‘em.

I swear one geezer winked at his carton like it was about to help him win a poker game.

Then I clocked the ladies’ corner—a whole glitterin’ galaxy of trinkets, bangles, and spaghetti-string necklaces twistin’ on them little rotatin’ stands.

Women hovered over the glass counters like seagulls over chips, pickin’ stuff up, puttin’ it down, pickin’ it up again like they were auditionin’ for a role in a retail opera.

It gave me a proper flashback—Mum draggin’ me round the shops, tellin’ me “just five more minutes”, which we all knew meant I’d age a whole school year before we left the store.

Just near the tills, where wallets got nervous and grown-ups suddenly remembered their budget, there stood an oasis of comfort.

A glorious display of chocolate bars, stacked like sacred artefacts.

And next to ’em—those posh tins of biscuits, the ones with embossed lids and painted cottages that made you feel like opening them was a crime against art.

I made a mental note:

Steer Harry this way, sharpish.

He might not be fluent in Swedish, but he spoke Chocolate.

And since kids had to be accompanied in the shop, what better designated adult than a fellow choccie sympathiser?

Down the deck we wandered, led by our noses.

The air changed—thick with cigarette smoke, a whiff of cheap lager, and some poor soul’s aftershave battlin’ for its life.

I reckon it was losing.

Whatever it was, it smelled like it’d been bottled in a back alley and labelled “Manpower.”

We followed the scent symphony and landed at what could only be described as…

A pub, but make it space age.

No door. Just a smooth open plan zone, with padded high-back sofas, floors so shiny you could shave in ’em, and a jukebox blarin’ out Buddy Holly like it was havin’ a one-man concert.

We loitered casual—like miniature Rockers with nowhere to be and not enough hair grease between us.

Soakin’ in the sounds, we gave it just long enough to look cool, then scarpered before someone decided we were too young, too nosy, or just lookin’ for unattended crisps.

Then—Deck 4’s secret gem.

Tucked away at the far end, behind a plant that looked suspiciously fake and a lamp with a wobble, was a library.

Yeah. A proper one.

Well-stocked, nice and quiet, and smelt like old pages and polite disapproval.

Only one fella in there—hiding behind a newspaper so big, I half-suspected he was building a tent or spyin’ on someone.

Either way, he weren’t botherin’ us.

So we slipped in, whisperin’ like undercover agents, and started plot-tin’.

Not for sweets. Not for books.

For freedom.

Operation Fresh Air:

Our mission to reach the outside deck.

To breathe in real sea air.

To feel the wind in our hair.

And hopefully not lose a limb to some angry steward or a particularly enthusiastic door.

We gave each other a nod—the serious one, the kind that says “if I don’t make it, tell me mum I died brave.”

The next stage of the journey?

Underway.

Now, before we get too deep into heroics—let me remind ya—Harry had warned us.

In that same voice he used when tellin’ tales from the war… or how he once fixed a boiler with nothin’ but a spoon and sheer willpower.

“Those big steel doors?” he said.

“They’ll snap your fingers clean off, they will—slam shut like a guillotine if you ain’t careful.”

He was clearly picturin’ us as a couple of overconfident chimpanzees with a death wish.

Naturally, we took his warning very seriously.

And by that, I mean…

We ignored it completely and came up with a clever workaround.

See, Harry had also declared—“Children must be accompanied if goin’ outside.”

Well… he never said by whom, did he?

So we stationed ourselves in the port side corridor, keepin’ one eye on the door and the other on potential accomplices.

To pass the time, we played a few rounds of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

I won most of them, obviously—strategic genius that I am.

And then—bingo.

Our golden ticket appeared.

A loved-up couple, gigglin’ their way down the corridor like they’d just won a prize draw.

She was twirlin’ her engagement ring like it came with a spinner, and he looked like the sort of lad who’d say “after you” even if a fire broke out.

He reached the door, all chivalrous-like, and swung it open with flair for his beloved.

And that—that was our moment.

With our most angelic faces on—innocent as kittens—we strolled right behind her, duckin’ under his arm like we were ushers at their weddin’.

“Tack så mycket!”

(Swedish for “cheers, mate”—or close enough.)

And just like that—we were outside.

The air hit us like a blast of pure freedom—salty, crisp, fresh, and carryin’ the scent of mystery, diesel, and whatever they were servin’ in the crew’s canteen.

Mission: Accomplished.

Now, you’d think the danger would be gettin’ out there.

But no, mate.

Turns out, the deck itself had it in for us.

I barely got three steps into my nautical victory lap before I nearly tripped over a deckchair—a rogue bit of folding furniture that, I swear on my mum’s Sunday roast, lunged at me unprovoked.

I gave it a glare. It didn’t move.

But I know what it did.

Still, shaken but unspilled, Johan and I made our way to the railin’—miniature sea captains peerin’ out over our salt-sprayed kingdom.

And what a view.

The land was still visible, just clingin’ to the edge of the horizon.

Massive cranes loomed up like robotic giraffes, stretchin’ their necks for containers, while forklift trucks zoomed about like caffeinated ants, buzzin’ from one pallet to another in some weird industrial ballet.

We were mesmerised.

Spellbound.

Like someone had switched on BBC One’s Shipping Forecast—but live, in full colour, with added diesel.

We watched as the grey warehouses, puffin’ chimneys, and toy-sized terrace houses started to vanish—dissolvin’ into sea mist like someone was rubbin’ them out with a great big chalkboard rubber.

All very poetic.

Until…

RRRRRRRUMBLE.

That sound?

That was my stomach, lettin’ me know it was feelin’ neglected, abandoned, and possibly ready to file a complaint with the ship’s catering department.

Johan looked at me. I looked at him.

We’d either missed a meal—or possibly three.

Time to head back in.

Easier said than done.

See, there were no grown-ups in sight.

Which meant we were on our own with…

The Door.

The same heavy steel beast Harry warned us about.

The one that looked like it could moonlight as a medieval drawbridge.

We tackled it like two underfed knights, grunting and pushin’, tryin’ to crack it open just enough to squeeze through.

After what felt like a twelve-round boxing match, we wedged it—just wide enough.

Now here’s where I got clever.

I thought—I’ll use me foot as a doorstop!

Yeah.

Well.

Let’s just say:

Pain. Instant. Radiatin’.

I slipped through, hobblin’ after Johan like a wounded pirate, tryin’ not to cry and also tryin’ to look cool in case anyone was watchin’.

And right then and there, I made a vow—

A solemn, lifelong vow:

Never. Underestimate. A door. Again.

Then—there it was.

The Clue.

A flock of passengers, glidin’ past us all slow and elegant like ducks in formation—

All done up in smart clothes, hair slicked, perfume cloudin’ the air like they’d just walked through Boots backwards.

Clearly, they were on a mission.

And naturally, we fell in line behind ’em.

Prayin’ to all the saints we weren’t followin’ them to a funeral or some painfully quiet piano recital.

Luckily—praise be—we were in the clear.

They led us, bless their polished shoes, straight to the main restaurant.

Just as my poor foot—once crushed by door-related ambition—made a miraculous recovery.

Funny that, innit?

Hunger: the best doctor this side of St John’s.

But then it hit us.

We were stood there lookin’ like we’d just escaped a chimney sweep convention—

windswept hair, salty socks, and enough soot between us to fuel a small locomotive.

No way we were walkin’ into that restaurant lookin’ like two shipwreck survivors on day three.

So we sprinted back to the cabin, fast as you like.

Burst in through the door—and there were Ingrid and Harry, pacin’ like expectant parents outside a maternity ward.

Ingrid’s face said “I knew it” and Harry’s said “I told you about the door, didn’t I?”

We got the silent once-over—no shoutin’, just that parental telepathy that makes you feel guilty right down to your socks.

Then came the transformation scene.

I jumped into me smart new trousers—the ones that made me walk like a lad in a BBC school documentary.

Jacket on. Comb through the hair.

The tie, however, was a whole other battle.

That knot fought back like it owed me money.

Eventually I tamed it—sort of—and caught a glimpse of meself in the mirror:

60 percent formal.

40% panic.

And a solid 10% “please let there be chips.”

Ready or not—dinner was callin’.

So there I was—seated at a round table so fancy, it could’ve doubled as a dental theatre.

Honestly, the amount of cutlery laid out—you could’ve performed minor surgery without even gettin’ up.

I eyed the forks like they might start whisperin’ instructions.

“Start from the outside in, lad… and pray you pick the right spoon.”

Johan and I sat up straight, stiff as rulers, determined to look like we belonged.

Four other guests were already seated—well-dressed types with expensive-smellin’ perfume and accents that made you feel like you’d walked into an episode of Panorama.

One of ’em smiled and said,

“Well don’t you both look like proper little gentlemen!”

And I beamed.

I beamed so hard I nearly strained a cheek muscle.

Then came the waiter—all grace and style, like a magician who’d traded in rabbits for roast beef.

He flicked open me napkin like a stage curtain at the Palladium and—ta-da!—plonked it onto me lap with such elegance I half-expected applause.

Then he handed me the menu.

Now—this thing was full of French gibberish.

I’d have had better luck readin’ a Swedish phone book backwards.

Panic started climbin’ up me collar—

Till I spotted it.

Tomato soup.

A familiar face in a sea of culinary chaos.

“I’ll start with that, please. Cheers.”

Then came the mains. I went safe:

Steak, chips and peas. A roll. Bit of butter.

Simple. Classic. No regrets.

I caught a nod from Ingrid across the table—the kind that said, “Well done, lad. You’ve avoided international embarrassment.”

Now, about that steak.

This thing… it was built like a military ration block.

Tougher than me boots and twice as stubborn.

I refused to ask for help—no way was I lettin’ anyone cut me food up like a toddler at a birthday party.

So I tackled it meself.

Knife in one hand, fork in the other—I went at it like a lad tryin’ to fell a tree using cutlery from Woolworths

Chewed every bite with the grim determination of a champion.

Me jaw locked up halfway through, but I weren’t quittin’.

Not in front of the cheese board brigade.

Which reminds me—Harry, true to form, ordered a cheese platter.

Brie, Stilton, all that pongy grown-up stuff.

I mentally labelled it:

“Boring adult territory.”

Me?

I went for the Black Forest gateaux.

Why?

a) It sounded posh.

b) It had cherries and chocolate.

c) I had zero self-control.

When the slice arrived, I swear it cast a shadow.

It was massive.

Like a hill made of whipped cream and cocoa ambition.

I gave it everything I had.

Fought through three layers of sponge and a snowstorm of chocolate flakes.

But with just an inch of cream left—I surrendered.

Defeated.

But full.

Properly full.

Leanin’ back in me chair, I gave Johan a look that said:

“If I don’t make it, tell Mum I went out happy.”

That meal, right…

It felt like I’d been teleported into one of Mum’s glossy salon magazines—the ones stacked next to the ashtray in front of the big hairdryers.

You know the sort: all perms, puddings, and people wearin’ pearls just to make toast.

I’d spent many a bored Saturday flippin’ through those pages while Mum had her rollers in, listenin’ to her and the stylist natter about “how Brian’s useless with the hoover” and “the state of Vera’s fringe.”

But now—here I was, livin’ it.

An actual posh pudding moment… for real.

I kept thinkin’:

Tim ain’t gonna believe this.

I mean, the boat,

the steak battle,

the napkin magic trick,

the gateaux the size of a bungalow…

And best of all?

It was still only day one.

If this was the opening act, I couldn’t wait for what Act Two had in store.

Now, by rights, it was well past bedtime—

what Mum would’ve sternly declared “a school night situation.”

But then came the twist:

Ingrid and Harry—the ever-watchful sentries of routine—surprised us.

“You boys can join us in the lounge bar for the evening show.”

But… there was a condition.

A serious one.

“If the show turns out to be a bit… risqué,” Ingrid said with a raised eyebrow,

“you’ll be frogmarched out faster than you can say ‘ventriloquist dummy with dodgy material.’”

Fair enough.

So off we trotted—me and Johan squeaky clean, slightly bloated, and full of gateaux-fuelled excitement.

We arrived at the lounge, a place so sparkly it looked like someone had decorated it with the contents of a fancy biscuit tin.

We found a table next to another family, all facin’ the stage like it was the Royal Variety Show.

And there it was…

Centre stage sat a drum kit, glintin’ under spotlights like it knew it was the loudest thing in the room.

There were microphones everywhere,

and wires.

So Many. Wires.

It looked like the sound man had lost a fight with an octopus, and the octopus had legged it with his dignity.

Harry gave the cables a wary look.

Ingrid pulled her chair in with military precision.

And me and Johan?

We leaned forward, wide-eyed, waitin’ for the magic to begin.

Right then—the house lights dimmed, the hush fell over the lounge, and we were off!

A ripple of polite applause broke out like someone had just entered the Dog and Duck through the back door—subtle, but expectant.

And then—on he strolled.

The compère.

Blimey.

Decked out in a dinner jacket so shiny, he looked like he’d been gift-wrapped in Bacofoil.

Every step he took caught the light—

You could’ve fried an egg on his lapels with all that dazzle.

With a dramatic sweep of his arms and a voice like he’d just stepped out of the BBC World Service, he welcomed us aboard what he promised was

“A night of world-class entertainment!”

Well—he weren’t wrong.

First up: the comedian.

Harry started chucklin’ before the bloke even spoke—always a promising sign or a sign of too much sherry.

I followed along, laughin’ mostly on instinct—though one joke about a fella called Macmillan left me blinkin’ in confusion.

“Who’s he then? A magician?”

“Prime Minister, son,” Harry whispered.

“Oh… right. Still sounds like a magician.”

Didn’t matter though.

The audience loved him.

Jokes flew, giggles soared, and Harry looked like he might require medical attention if the bloke didn’t wrap it up.

The comedian took his final bow to thunderous applause, mopped his brow with a hanky, and waltzed off like he’d just won the FA Cup.

Then came the feathers.

A line of dancers glided onto the stage like a flock of tropical peacocks, heads crowned with feathers so tall, they probably needed planning permission.

And their outfits?

Let’s just say they had the grace of ballerinas,

but the wardrobe of extremely brave flamingos.

I leaned over to Johan and muttered,

“If they sneeze, we’re gettin’ glittered.”

The routine kicked off with music I vaguely recognised—something straight out of one of Grandma’s dreaded tea dances.

You know the ones—

held in a musty church hall, full of beige cardigans and the scent of boiled mints.

The sort of place you only danced if someone threatened to confiscate your sweets.

But this?

This was different.

This was a firework display in heels.

Sequins spun. Legs flew.

At one point, I swear one of ’em bent backwards like she’d lost a spine.

“Let’s try that later,” I whispered to Johan.

“Last one to fall over wins.”

He grinned.

I already knew I’d lose.

But at least I wouldn’t have to wear feathers.

Now, just when I thought the show had peaked—after the feathered flamingos and Harry nearly wetting himself over a Macmillan joke—the house lights dimmed again, and the band struck up a dramatic drum roll so thunderous, I nearly dropped me napkin.

And then she arrived.

She didn’t just walk onto the stage—

she glided, right?

Like somethin’ outta a Hollywood film.

Glamorous with a capital bleeding G.

Hair piled up like a whipped ice cream, a dress that could blind passing ships, and the kind of heels that made me worry for her ankles.

“Blimey,” I whispered,

“that ain’t just a singer—that’s a miracle in sequins.”

The men in the crowd?

They erupted into wolf whistles like someone had set off a car alarm.

Ingrid?

She stiffened like a lamppost in February, arms folded, eyes narrow.

Clearly wonderin’ if we’d wandered into the wrong kind of cabaret.

But then…

She opened her mouth.

And instead of scoldin’ the whistlers—which, let’s be honest, she had every right to—

She sang.

And cor blimey, what a voice.

It came outta that petite frame like a steam train wrapped in honey.

Rich, smooth, powerful enough to knock me socks clean off—and I’d tied ‘em tight.

She belted out ballads and old classics, and even threw in a bit o’ opera for good measure.

I didn’t understand half of it, but I was mesmerised.

Every note was like magic, driftin’ through the lounge and straight into me bones.

Now and then, some geezer in the back tried to join in—

tone-deaf enough to summon every cat in Harwich—

But I silently begged ‘em to shut it.

“Let the lady sing, will ya?!”

I just wanted to soak it all in,

her voice, the sparkle of her dress, the way she held the room like royalty with a microphone.

That night?

That night changed somethin’ in me.

It was like someone had flicked a switch and suddenly I was in love—with theatre, with sequins, with women who could hit a high C without so much as a blink.

There and then, I knew I’d never see the world quite the same again.

Back in our cabin, cheeks sore from grinnin’, brain buzzin’ like a jellied eel on a hotplate,

I climbed into bed feelin’ ten foot tall and cultured.

And I slept like a log.

Not a peaceful, floaty log mind you.

Nah, more like a log dropped off a cliff.

Next mornin’, still dazed from me epiphany in sequins, I thought I’d treat meself to a proper grown-up wash—

Not a splash about in a tin tub, oh no,

A shower. A real one.

Now, up ‘til that point, all my experience in the hygiene department involved either:

A lukewarm slosh in the battered tin bath back in Poplar—

usually in front of the fire and under strict time limits,

or

The iron monster at home, a great cast-iron thing you had to share with the siblings like it were a team sport.

Which made bath time less “relaxing soak” and more “naval warfare.”

But this?

This was a revelation.

Hot water on demand.

No floating bits.

No soap that looked like it’d been through the Blitz.

And best of all—no Susan bangin’ on the door yellin’,

“Mum! Stephen’s usin’ all the hot again!”

I stood there lettin’ the water rain down like I’d discovered the Fountain of Youth.

Honestly, if I’d known showers were this good, I’d have written to Harold Macmillan himself demandin’ one for every home in England.

With chrome knobs and everything.

After I finally dragged meself out—lookin’ like a raisin in a dressing gown—we headed to breakfast.

Now, the Swedes, they don’t just have breakfast.

Nah, they’ve got “smörgåsbord.”

Sounds like something you’d yell at someone in traffic, don’t it?

But turns out, it means “ridiculously posh breakfast buffet.”

I looked at the options and went full diplomat—

Smoked salmon. Prawns. Scrambled eggs.

All stacked up like a royal picnic.

Very classy. Very Scandinavian.

Very “not what me stomach’s used to.”

Back home, prawns were reserved for:

Anniversaries

Royal weddings

And that one tin of prawn cocktail you cracked open at Christmas and immediately regretted.

Smoked salmon?

That was a mythical delicacy.

Right up there with unicorn steak and hot school dinners with seconds.

Still, I gave it a go.

Sat there, tryin’ to look sophisticated, cuttin’ tiny bits off me toast like I was on Mastermind: Breakfast Edition.

But deep down?

I was pining for me bowl of soggy cornflakes,

ideally eaten in me pyjamas while watchin’ Captain Pugwash.

So there we were—Johan and me, faced with a crucial decision that fine morning aboard the S.S. Fancy-Pants:

Do we attend the “Ladies Keep Fit” class—which, to be fair, we were half-tempted by purely for the comedy value of star jumps in curlers,

or

Do we sit through the soul-stirrin’ talk on “Advancements in Car Tyre Tread Technology”?

Tempting stuff, I know.

But we made the only sane choice two young adventurers could make.

We legged it to the library.

It was like steppin’ into an explorer’s dream—books, globes, atlases bigger than our heads.

All that was missin’ was a parrot and a treasure chest.

Armed with nothin’ but a bendy ruler, a blunt pencil, and enough blind confidence to captain a pirate ship,

We plotted our grand course to Gothenburg.

Not a compass in sight.

No sextant. No navigational degrees.

Just two lads in scuffed shoes tryin’ to calculate longitude on a map that might’ve been printed before the war.

“Right,” I said, drawin’ a dramatic line through the North Sea, “if we follow this, we should end up near... Denmark?”

Johan nodded, serious as a weatherman,

“Ja, unless we get eaten by a kraken.”

Solid plan.

We were so wrapped up in our nautical daydreams, we didn’t even notice the lunch gong.

Which, on a ferry, is a culinary crime.

Missing lunch? Unthinkable.

But never fear—Ingrid and Harry to the rescue.

They tracked us down like two seasoned M I 5 agents, just in time for afternoon tea—which, as it turns out, is basically:

One sandwich the size of your thumb

followed by

A slab o’ cake the size of your face.

“Fair exchange,” I said between bites,

“and no sprouts in sight.”

As we nibbled and sipped—trying our best not to look like two feral squirrels at a garden party—the band started up again.

Waltzes, foxtrots, the lot.

Ingrid’s foot was twitchin’ under the table—you could tell she was ready to drag Harry into a twirl.

And just then…

She appeared.

The singer from the night before.

Floatin’ past like a glittery dream—smile brighter than a car showroom, voice like caramel, and a dress still sparkly enough to dazzle lorry drivers.

She stopped at our table.

Our table!

Chatted with us like we was old mates from the launderette.

Didn’t act famous at all.

In fact, she reminded me of me Aunty Shirley—if Aunty Shirley had been dipped in glitter and could belt out a ballad like she was channelin’ Vera Lynn on a night off.

I asked her a million questions.

And bless her heart—she answered every single one.

“Where did you learn to sing?”

“Do your feet ever hurt in those shoes?”

“Is it true you have a dressing room with snacks?”

By the end of it, I was a goner.

Proper smitten. Again.

My first showbiz crush, and I was only seven and a half.

“You’re gonna marry her,” Johan teased.

“Oi,” I said, “I ain’t ready for marriage—but I’d definitely carry her microphone.”

So there we were—tucked in at our now-regular table in the lounge, napkins folded, eyes fixed on the stage, and me still battlin’ a mild sugar coma from the cake earlier.

The lights dimmed.

The band kicked up.

And out she came…

The Songbird of the North Sea,

shimmering like a tin of Quality Street under the spotlight.

She was halfway through her openin’ number, belting out some torch song with enough soul to make Dusty Springfield blush—when it happened.

She winked. At Harry.

Now, normally, a cheeky wink’s no big deal, right?

But this weren’t any ol’ audience.

This was Ingrid territory.

I swear to you, I felt it. The tremor.

The table shuddered like a dodgy tower block in a gale.

Ingrid’s foot—clad in a polished sensible heel—shot out and connected with Harry’s shin like Stanley Matthews takin’ a last-minute penalty.

THWACK.

Harry tried to keep it classy, bless ‘im.

Flashed a smile that looked like he’d just bitten a live wire.

“Lovely performance,” he croaked, eyes waterin’.

Next up was a ventriloquist—proper old-school—suited, slick-haired, and flanked by a dummy that looked like a posh uncle halfway through a bottle of port.

The puppet had a monocle that wouldn’t stay on and a voice like he’d nicked it off Noël Coward’s tipsy cousin.

“My word!” he slurred, “‘Ow positively dreadful!”

Then he burped.

I nearly choked on me lemonade.

Johan and I were howlin’. Honestly, we laughed so hard Ingrid had to give us the look—you know, the one that could freeze soup.

I leaned over to him and whispered,

“If they ever get famous, I’m claimin’ it.

I saw ‘em before they were on Opportunity Knocks.”

And then, the grand finale.

The dance troupe swirled back on stage, now dolled up like they’d been mugged by a haberdashery and come out jazzier for it.

It was West Side Story time.

Soon as the music started, my heart did a somersault.

“When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way…”

I knew every bleedin’ word.

Mum used to belt it out while doin’ the ironin’—right there in the front room, steam risin’ like fog over the Thames and shirts occasionally sufferin’ minor scorch casualties.

“I feel pretty, oh so pretty…”

Even when she hit the high notes like a foghorn in heels, I thought she had a decent voice—not that I’d ever tell her, mind. She’d be up the youth club signin’ up for cabaret nights by Tuesday.

As I sat there, watchin’ the dancers fly across the stage—legs kickin’, hips swingin’—I thought:

“One day… that could be me up there.”

Well, not with a feather boa.

Probably.

Although… never say never.

Next mornin’, I wanted nothin’ more than to stay wrapped up in me bunk like a pickled onion in a napkin. Honestly, I could’ve slept through a brass band marchin’ past me ear’ole. But no—Harry had other ideas.

“Shake a leg!”

he bellowed, like a sergeant on manoeuvres.

The door rattled in protest.

I groaned, flung one foot out of bed like it was makin’ a run for it, and dragged the other along behind, sulkin’ like it’d been grounded.

I shuffled into the bathroom lookin’ like a soap opera star after a bender—splash of water, bleary eyes, hair standin’ up like a cockatoo on payday.

Toothbrush? Nah.

At seven, I still had a full set of pearly whites that hadn’t written any complaints yet, so I gave ‘em a well-earned day off. Just smiled into the mirror and hoped for the best.

Then came the Great Packing Panic.

We had about twelve minutes to evacuate the cabin, and I’d only just found both me socks. One was under the bed, covered in mystery fluff, and the other was wedged behind the loo roll like it was hidin’ from national service.

I launched into a one-man sweep of the room like I was in the Sweeney—rummagin’ under beds, behind curtains, even inside me own shoe at one point. Found:

A jelly baby fossilised to the floor,

Me toothbrush (cheeky thing was behind the sink),

And a sweet wrapper with no memory attached. Definitely not mine. Probably.

With the grace of a chimp facin’ a zip-up suitcase, I crammed the lot in, wrestled the catches closed, and whacked me brown name tag on top like I was headin’ off on national tour.

That battered bit of card danglin’ off the handle suddenly made me feel proper grown-up—like I should be wearin’ a trilby and negotiatin’ trade deals.

And truth be told—

Yeah.

I was a bit homesick.

Just a tiny smidge.

Missed Mum, Tim’s cheeky grin, and even Phoebe’s high-pitched screamin’ from the garden.

But I weren’t about to admit that.

Not with Sweden on the horizon and a pair of mysterious Swedish girls waitin’ on the other side of the sea.

Before we dared step into the grand unknown of Sweden—land of meatballs, reindeer and girls who ski to school like it’s no big deal—we made a tactical pit stop: the self-service café.

And when I say tactical, I mean I loaded that tray like I was off on a five-day survival trek, not just nippin’ across the gangplank. Piled it high—eggs, toast, a suspicious sausage, and somethin’ green I hoped was just enthusiastic spinach. Johan went for the safe route: scrambled eggs and rye bread. Classic Swede.

“You’ll regret that mystery meat,” he said, in perfect deadpan Swedish-English.

“Only if it regrets me first,” I shot back, channelling me inner Bond. Well, Bond’s slightly scruffier little brother.

Then came the moment of truth: Customs.

Cue the music—slow, suspenseful… maybe a bit of harmonica.

Heart goin’ like I’d smuggled the Crown Jewels in me socks, I approached the booth like a kid about to be judged by Saint Peter—with a bowl cut and sticky fingers.

The Swedish passport officer was built like a wardrobe and had the kind of stare that could melt toffee at twenty paces. He looked at me. Looked at me passport photo. Looked back at me.

I gave my most innocent face, like “Who, me? I’m just here for the cinnamon buns.”

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t blink.

He just stared.

Then… THUD!

Down came the stamp like a judge handin’ out a pardon.

I nearly saluted. Honestly.

I nodded, dead serious, like I’d just been made a junior ambassador or knighted by the Queen.

No cuffs.

No interrogation.

No being dragged off to a dark dungeon by fellas in trench coats and dodgy moustaches—which, let’s be fair, was a real cinematic possibility after watchin’ too many black-and-white thrillers on Saturday mornin’s.

Instead, I was officially in Sweden.

Land of snow, saunas, and small blonde girls who could probably knock me out with a spinning back kick.

And I was ready.

Ready for anything.

Well—anything that didn’t involve more queuin’ or scary blokes with rubber stamps.