London's burning and the world is in major financial meltdown.
And we are very happy to be bobbing around on a boat pretending it's not happening.
Our hotshot lawyer and banker friends on board are even happier to be away from the office.
There are a lot of things that excite my darling about living on a big-bottomed boat off the Turkish coast.
One of his great delights is drinking a cheeky Turkish red wine called Dikmen.
Dikmen costs about $NZ8 a litre and even has a screwcap.
Dikmen has caused a few problems, not least some intense snoring and some very big headaches.
In fact, we bumped into a very old friend in a tiny, remote bay by chance this week.
I hadn't seen him for more than 30 years and to celebrate, everyone on Miranda and on his boat, Able Tasman got together for dinner and many, many Dikmen.
Able Tasman was also the temporary home of Emily O'Leary for the week and I know a lot of readers know Emily from her time in Queenstown.
It was not altogether surprising that our friend fell into the sea as he got into his dinghy to go home, or that he fell into the sea again as he got on to his own boat.
Andrew has spent the past 20 years or so being rich and famous in London.
He's a mad keen reader of the Queenstown Times so it's nice to know that the QT has got such an international readership.
I'm also meeting up with some Queenstown readers I don't even know - Ginny and John Foster are sailing around near here and have emailed to say they read the QT each week and want to catch up.
Now that there is such huge circulation, I am hoping for an equally huge pay rise.
Our captain is shocked to discover he is getting a pay reduction.
He had never told us he is a great cook and when he volunteered to cook dinner for us one night this week, we were too lazy to object.
We were delighted when we saw the truly magnificent Turkish feast he put together.
Now, my darling says that he can be the cook all the time and get a cook's wages instead of a captain's.
He is very young - just 26 and already married with a 3-year-old son.
He has had six years in the Turkish army and is as tough as nails.
He is also determined not to let my darling touch any part of the boat as he has already seen him in action.
On the night my sister and her family arrived, a huge wind blew up in the night and I heard some of those noises you never want to hear aboard a wooden boat - that of rock scraping on wood.
My darling, full of Dikmen, snored on and one of our guests was invited by the captain to be "small seaman", an invitation my darling has never been offered.
Two hours of anchor chains up and anchor chains down and anchor chains up and anchor chains down again plus the chugging of the motor and the whizzing of the dinghy and shouting and we were safe, not that any of it worried my darling, he slept through it all.
One of the boating adventures my darling has most enjoyed has been watching the special Marmaris boat-cleaning team of four scantily clad, but generously endowed Russian girls who come aboard and give your boat the once over.
He is a little bitter that I keep insisting Miranda that is perfectly clean and doesn't need the attentions of the bikini brigade.
I have noticed that every boat owner who has employed them stays and keeps a very close eye on the work they do.
Funnily enough, my darling never watches our crew cleaning the boat.
I doubt that even if they wore bikinis and spoke Russian, he wouldn't watch.
My lilywhite nephew - ginger English George from London - is on board.
We look like different species - his marshmallow white, soft, young skin next to my deep, dark crocodile leather makes a scary contrast.
Our Turkish boat agent came for a picnic lunch yesterday with his wife and son.
The two little boys didn't seem much concerned with their language barrier and played a sort of charades that worked far more effectively than any attempts we adults make at communicating with one another.
It's infuriating how easily children can speak together without any common language.
Living in Turkey gives you daily reminders of World War 1 - statues of Ataturk, the father of modern Turkey, are in every small town and there are photos of him in every home and office.
There is a special relationship between Turkey and New Zealand because of Gallipoli, and New Zealand passport holders are exempt from paying for an entrance visa at the airport.
Afraid of flying, Daniel and his wife Nancy head to the Galapagos Islands when the plane crashes.
If you ever have scary thoughts about flying, the description of the crash is probably not good reading for you - it's very powerful stuff.
No-one knows how they would react in that situation and Daniel makes a bit of a dodgy call.
Something he sees gives him reason to question his atheism and some old letters from his grandfather make him realise his grandfather went through some similar experiences during the first great war.
It is a little melodramatic, but gripping for all that.
Thanks so much for all the feedback this week and even though I haven't replied to everyone, I really enjoy hearing your thoughts about the books (and the other little bits of the column).
