I woke up at seven in the morning in a rather disgruntled manner, due to the loud clattering and screaming noises that were going on in the corridor. Whenever I miss half-an-hour or more of precious sleep that could be enjoyed, I become rather angry, so I was none too pleased on that fine grey morning. The racket continued unceasingly for the next fifteen minutes, so, in the belief that the culprits were the Year Sevens next door, I jumped out of bed, unlocked the door and popped my head into the corridor with the intent of shouting threats at them. An empty corridor.

Those damn Year Sevens were going to pay, utter nuisances that they were. I lay in wait for any further noise. The high-pitched voices returned, but, senses sharpened by irritation, I realised that the children weren't English. Unaffected by this knowledge, I again threw open the door to deal even deadlier and more vicious threats on their lives. Another empty corridor. I slumped back into bed. The foreign Munchkin-speak recommenced to vex me further. 'Go and kill yourselves,' I said quietly with a vindictive glee.

Breakfast took an eternity to come. As Clio, Meghan, Rebecca and I walked up to the dining hall, Meg asked it we'd heard somebody say 'Kill yourselves' in a strange voice earlier on.

'Oh, I thought I'd dreamt that,' said Rebecca. She had completely given up on her English accent at this point.

'Sorry,' I apologised. 'That was me talking to the loud foreign children outside.'

'What?' exclaimed Clio.

'You know how I like to talk to inanimate objects?'

'No, but carry on.'

'Well, its' to do with not getting responses. This was sort-of the same.'

'Whatever. It really freaked me out.'

'You heard it too? That makes all my roommates. Great.'

'You're completely twisted.'

'Thank you.'

The dining hall was crowded when we arrived, and there was a lengthy queue to the breakfast buffet. As we drew up to the buffet table, I let out a groan.

'What's wrong?' asked Clio.

'Noitce anything?' She looked at the food.

'Oh,' she said.

'We had breakfast for dinner!' I cried. Nobody could face fish again, so we all had either bread and jam, cornflakes or muesli. Afterwards, Clio, Meghan, Rebecca and I tried to kill time in our room. Clio skimmed through the Youth Hostel information booklet, occasionally coming up with the odd gem of knowledge.

'Hey, there's a table tennis room in the basement!'

'Oh, the tap water's drinkable.'

'Breakfast is served between half-seven and half-nine - we don't have to wake up so early!'

However, we soon became bored, so we put together our Bergen sight-seeing kits (Krone, camera, waterproof jacket) and went to se the boys two-doors-down. We entered after our knock granted us unhindered entry.

'Hello,' I said. 'You're far too trustworthy. Got any playing cards?' We ended up playing Cheat, whilst the silent Tony sat on his top bunk reading a complicated maths book, the type that I refuse to fathom in case my brain overheats and I keel over to my death. Soon, Bobby turned up with a second pack of cards, and there was an easy progression to Snap. With the onslaught of Snap, I had finally found a game that I could win, which became rather entertaining for me, to much consternation from, Xander and Clio.

When 10am came, we wandered off to the entrance hall to find out where we were meant to be for the 'Ten-hundred-hours-Depart-For Bergen' military itinerary entry. It turned out that we should have been on the coach for the trip into Bergen. We hurried. The twenty-minute journey into the town centre was shadowed with dark rainclouds. By the time we reached the street where we were to disembark, rain had already begun to fall, and puddles were forming rapidly. I took out my waterproof jacket and put it on loosely. Other people were doing the same, or taking out umbrellas. This was going to be fun.

'Morning, everybody.' Valerie Day was addressing us on the coach mic. 'Please be back here for noon: you are free to do what you want in town now.' I rubbed my hands together in anticipation. 'However, apparently the shops aren't open today-'

'Okay, this I can handle,' I said to Clio. 'I hate shopping.'

'-And mindless vandalism is not permitted.'

'Damn,' I cursed.

'Oh yes, and will Annabel Canterbury, Rena Craven and Laura Davison please stay with us at all times.'

A resounding 'Aw!' went up throughout the coach for the baby Year Sevens, then we stepped into the grey street to contemplate an hour-and-a-half in a rainy Norwegian city with closed shops. Clio, Meghan, Rebecca, Steven and I immediately clumped together, and we set off across the main road to the markets on the opposite side that backed onto the beginnings of the harbour. It had begun to rain heavily, so I zipped up my raincoat and put on a sunhat for good measure. Everybody should embrace the Stevie Way. We browsed through the main market at first, most of the shoppers and tourists ducking under the meagre shelter offered by the jutting roofs of the makeshift stores. Rebecca and I, however, decided to walk around freely, determining that we weren't wicked witches and we weren't going to be melted by the water. A couple of cutesy little glassware stores were picked out by out eagle eyes, but there wasn't much else of consequence - mainly touristy tack that you find in street markets all around the world.

Some burly boys from our orchestra who skated stood clustered around a hippy accessory store, where they were all saying things like ' Bad necklace,' 'That necklace is wicked,' and 'Cool beads.' When asked my opinion on the necklace, I could only agree at its 'coolness.'

'Let's go and see the fish,' I declared after this episode. 'It's raining, so it won' t smell too much.'

'I don't know if I want to go with Stevie,' whimpered Meghan. 'She might ask me to go and kill myself again.'

'Huh?' said Steven.

'Long story,' I replied, and the others were steered towards the fish.

There was a huge amount of stores, each stocking several varieties of fresh fish. This was the real thing - not the inland imports that we have to put up with from supermarket chains. A pinkish-orange hue was emanated from the roofs of the makeshift stores blending with the rows upon rows of Norwegian smoked salmon. Fascinated by their diversity and density, I began to take pictures of the fish bedecking every storeholder's table. It was at this point that Rebecca, Steven and I lost Clio and Meghan, although I strongly suspect that it was they who lost us. I looked up from a particularly arty shot of some prawn sandwiches next to a crate of mussels.

'Where's Meg and Clio'' I asked.

'Beats me,' offered Rebecca.

'We're going to come back here later and we're going to find them still shouting our names, aren't we'' said Steven.

'Probably,' I agreed, laughing. Walking further along, I found an enormous fish whose mouth had been prised open to display a full set of what were more fangs than teeth. It was like the child of an evil sea monster that had had a bit-part in 'Stingray' or the lake scene in 'The Phantom Menace.' To Steven's disgust, I photographed the mutant monster-fish.

'Can I help you?' asked a tall, dark, handsome Norwegian man behind the counter.

'No, thank you,' I replied. 'I'm just admiring the size of your fish.' If he was British, the very least that he would have done would have been to raise an eyebrow. However, he simply offered the three of us a sample of salmon. It tasted delicious, as Rebecca agreed with me. Steven was unable to back us up as he declined to try any, wuss.

The three of us explored the main street that ran along the harbour. Thought the shops were meant to have been shut, every shopowner along the road was open for tourist trade. We did all the proper tourist things - visited every shop, handled every trinket, selected multiple postcards to send home, examined the texture of the woollen cardigans that graced every shop.

Once in a while it's nice to be completely out of you depth and be utterly pleased with your state anyhow. At least, for me. On one of the buildings on the main street was a plaque written in Norwegian. I glanced at it briefly, and I was about to walk away in search of stamps when Rebecca asked as to what it meant.

'It's some kind of heritage centre that's been there for hundreds of years,' said Steven. 'It was restored last century by some architect.'

'How did you know that?' asked an astonished Rebecca.

'I read the plaque,' replied Steven simply. We looked around. It wasn't very interesting, just a cluster of wooden structures that had become rather damp from the rain. Soon, we moved on.

Somehow, we managed to find the entrance to a German dining house. I tried my hardest to persuade Steven and Rebecca to visit, but they dismissed my desire as boring.

'You're crap tourists,' I pouted, and we moved on. On the opposite side of the street from our coach stop, we ran into Mr Morris outside a grey, stone building with a large wooden door. On the door was a poster advertising all of our concerts in Norway, the Bergen dates highlighted.

'This is where we're doing our concert tonight,' said Mr Morris.

'This is the Central Methodist Church?' I inquired.

'Yes.' 'It's rather small, isn't it?'

Mr Morris just sighed in sync with Steven. They have both given up on me. Glancing around randomly, I spotted a poster advertising some woman playing 'The Four Seasons.' I looked at the date and time. Her concert clashed with ours that night. I pointed at the poster.

'Some woman's trying to upstage us tonight,' I moaned. 'We won't have an audience.'

'Never mind,' replied Mr Morris. That man is far too optimistic about the wrong things for his own good. After an hour-and-a-half of doing absolutely nothing in Bergen, we found ourselves back on the coach to the Youth Hostel, reunited with Meghan and Clio. As we waited for most of the rest of the coach, we heard three male voices progressing up the pavement and into our coach singing 'On the Boardwalk,' barbershop style. Jim Winterbury appeared with Phil Farrah of trombones and Damien Halley of horns. The majority of the coach was now made up with the arrival of their groupies.

It appeared that we were still waiting for people, though.

'What did you do today, Steve'' asked Laura, the little Year Seven cellist sat behind Steven and Bobby. I realised that she must have been addressing Steve, and quickly intervened before he had a chance to answer.

'He's not a Steve,' I called across the aisle. 'My bass guitar's called Steve, and he' s cool.'

'Oh, cheers,' said Steven dully.

'Your guitar's called Steve?' said Meghan, puzzled.

'Yeah, after Steve Flett, the Ooberman bassist.'

'Doesn't that get really confusing?'

'Only for other people. They think that I'm talking about myself.'

At that point, Pat, Damon, Xander and Tony turned up. They had the grace to look embarrassed. After they had found their seats, the other coach was alerted that everybody was alive and well, so we set off back up the hill to the Youth Hostel.

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