I have an excellent relationship with a neighbour where-by I give him my copy of The Spectator and he gives me the arts section of The Times. In the books section there is a review of a book by an astronaut called Scott Kelly - no, me neither but these days there are so many of them! - entitled Endurance: A Year in Space, a Lifetime of Discovery. Mr. Kelly, it appears, tells it like it is! They might call it 'a space station' but the fact is that it's a smelly, noisy, dump-truck with CO2 levels often three times higher than the USN allows in its nuclear subs, and the inhabitants need to be careful to avoid inadvertently swallowing mouse droppings (from mice sent up for experiments) or their own urine globules. Yeeeeees, quite!
Mr. Kelly sounds like quite a character. A rough man from a rough background who only just qualified as a navy pilot. As the reviewer puts it, NASA might blather on about the "multi-disciplinary crews for the trip to Mars but most of the human guinea pigs it sends up for long stints on the ISIS are still tough-as-tungsten military types." Mr. Kelly sounds dead right and whilst I might not want to spend a year with him locked in an inter-stellar cell, my admiration for him, and all the others, is enormous.