Clanging dishes, rattling carts, a sommelier who can’t pronounce the names of the wines only he is allowed to serve and a waitress with a full-blown cold.

Is this the same Todd English we ate in two nights ago?

Unfortunately, yes. And that was just the first few minutes of our visit.

It’s not that dinner was bad. It wasn’t. The food didn’t change. But the experience, and the service, had. It was awful, and if I were going back, I would request the waiters – a fantastic duo from South Africa – we had on the first visit.

That said, the company was good, even if the wine that we finally got was just plain dull (then again, we didn’t expect greatness under $30).

Dinner was only the beginning. Tonight was the Ascot Ball. Which means that in the Queens Room, they hang a bunch of banners with little hats on them.

Totally transporting us, of course, to Ascot Day. Naturally.

No matter – there were a lot of pretty groovy hats on display, a great band, albeit with a lead singer that had no sense of timing or style. (Listen pal, don’t try to give us your own take on the classics unless said take actually stands up against the original.)

The ball climaxed in a bizarre hat parade, at 11 o’clock – a long line of ladies with silly things on their heads, streaming through the crowds in the biggest ballroom at sea. One portly Welsh gentleman joined up, donning a fez he’d bought “on a previous cruise to Morocco.” The crowd went wild. It was that kind of crowd. It was that kind of night.