Oh my cod

I was stirred from my slumber by screams from the bathroom, in the room I'm sharing with my sister. She'd misfired the shower into the wall at high pressure and was crying for help. At breakfast because I was being too lazy to sit upright I also misfired a variety of Scandinavian berry jam at my chest, which looked like I'd been shot in the heart.

The sister gave me an update on Love Island, which is simultaneously enough to make you want to hurl yourself off Bergen Harbour, but also strangely addictive (purely as a commentary on society, of course). The biggest basket case of this year's series seems to be a Scouse woman who prides herself on her faux ignorance. I think she believes it to be charming to have never heard the term Brexit, and to say one of the male contestants is too deep because he asked her to name her favourite animal. That her and the likes of Joey Essex from TOWIE can become feted minor celebrities doesn't say great things about who deserves applause for their achievements.

We took an open-sided bus city tour to orientate ourselves, which was rather chilly. One of the drivers used to play goalkeeper for the Romanian national handball squad. We went around the Fisheries Museum and learnt about the history of the herring and the Cod Wars between Britain, Iceland and Norway, which sounded a little tetchy.

The museum had a gorgeous wooden cabin restaurant, where we drank coffee and slurped chorizo and paprika soup from huge bowls. Food in Norway is eye-wateringly priced, yet is almost always delicious.

The museum had an amiable guy at reception who learned we are from Stoke-on-Trent and commiserated about the team's poor relegation season this year. My dad and he got into some football trivia 'bants'. It's testament to the excellent English spoken by Norwegians that he was game for such posers as 'can you name the English football teams that both start and end with the letter A?'