Diary of an Acclimatised Beauty: Neckering
You know how some mornings you wake up with your mind empty—and not a care in the world? It’s absolute paradise. But that wasn’t today. And despite waking up in actual paradise (Necker Island), thoughts of work had scissored in and out of my dreams until finally I opened my eyes in defeat.
Still… defeat in paradise was not so bad. On my side of the island, I was given a standalone room which is even more secluded than the stunning Great House Rooms. But the tween-agers in residence avoided waking their parents by coming to my side and conducting themselves as absolute savages. If only I’d smuggled a plastic straw into my luggage it could have served as a makeshift blowgun.
I’m not generally so unkind but the bad parents of the world are pressing on my last nerve. And if you’re in airports you see them—prodding those pajama-clad imps who will never become pursers, or pilots, or software salesmen, or any of the other professions whose travel they obstruct.
Ironically it is for future generations that I am saving the planet. A generation that includes one Seattle schoolboy, who has taken it upon himself to attack the carbon footprint of the private jet set… (aka my clients), and the very people who are actively engaged in saving our planet. Thankfully topping the list of eco-offenders were the Kardashians, but two of my clients were also in the top ten, and unhappy doesn’t even begin to cover it. The difference obviously, is my clients are in service of the planet; and this kid just wants to fault us for trying to do our jobs.
It was nearly 11:00 before I’d made any headway and hoped that people would think I was intermittent fasting rather than sleeping or watching Netflix, especially since I’m not here entirely for the holibobs.
With the pre-teen terrorists out of my 180° view, I stepped onto my veranda and witnessed the storied flock of 500+ flamingoes that have been bio-engineered back into inhabitance. Never before had I seen anything so breathtaking. I was mesmerised, and wanted to bathe my eyes in their shocking-coral beauty as long as I could. Lunch and clients would have to wait.
Eventually I made my way down and embedded my mobile in the bottom of my raffia tote. The tween-agers were now swarming around the sushi and fresh crab claws—well of course they were, and ordering specialty slushies and french fries, and the adults were hitting golf balls into the Caribbean , which suits me just fine as my game is limited to one decent big swing anyway. Despite the target being a vast azure sea… two men were debating a Golf Digest article on why the flagstick should be pulled out 99% of the time. I took this as a sign to fish out my phone.
I was craving a Bloody Mary but coming into focus was that dreadful man from Beef Island Airport. I’d assumed we were headed to different places as he boarded a boat and I arrived by helicopter but alas, he was here. I plunged my hand into my bag and fished out my sunglasses but to no avail. He’d seen me and so I put my phone to my ear and began an entirely imaginary conversation. Just my luck, the phone rang while I was talking and I had to do the whole how weird that we got disconnected routine.
It was daddy alerting me to the fact that Al Gore might be booted from the board at Apple. ‘Yes, we are on top of that’, I said in a voice that told my father I clearly was not.
‘Yeahhh… I didn’t think you’d seen it’, he said picking up on my tone. ‘It was done by exempt solicitation, which is likely why you missed it. Or maybe you got sunscreen in your eyes at the office…’
Typical Daddy. ‘Indeed’ I said, and thanked him profusely for ringing me.
Lunch was over—I had work to do. I took two steps toward returning to my room and ran smack into the annoying man, who was somehow even more off-putting in less clothing. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked.
‘Helicopter!’ I said, and made my exit.
Back in the paradise that is my room I opened my laptop. It was bad. ‘Gore’s political activism not worth his limited skill set’... ‘Was never qualified to serve on Apple’s board in the first place’... ‘Playing “Chicken Little” for global warming…’ OMG! Global warming?? We’d dropped that term ages ago! Like I said—bad.
I scanned the internet for anything linking Richard Branson to Al Gore and found Mr Branson putting forth a prize for anyone who could extract carbon from the atmosphere. Crikey! The interview was decades old but there they were—side by side for all the world to see. When asked if this carbon trap was a gimmick Gore replied, ‘I don’t think so’. You don’t think so? Ugh! It was a blood bath… with Gore preening like someone who clearly doesn’t know he’s going to be proven wrong in the years to come. I couldn’t save him and also save the planet. It was crunch time.
Four hours later I sent time codes and a press release to my assistant and dressed for dinner. What a day it had been! Joining the other guests, the chatter was light and lyrical under a canopy of perfect sky, and not a mobile in sight. With the exception of our host that is. I could see him nervously checking on Gore’s possible ouster. He needn’t have worried though, as I’d successfully partitioned him and eventually telegraphed a smile and a thumbs up.
The finished press packet was brilliant. It ended with a clip of that fated interview wherein the host asks, ‘Is Al Gore a prophet?’ And Richard quips, ‘How do you spell profit?’
Now I can relax.