Unfortunately, I think I’m losing them, as they appear to have stopped laughing at me, and are turning their attention to the bloody narwhal behind me.
Fuck it. I just can’t compete with a quarter-tonne of plast—
The tusk prods me in the back again, this time a little harder. I am nearly sent flying, and my feet have to do some fancy footwork to maintain my balance.
‘What the hell are you doing?!’ I wail, stumbling forward, and turn around to see what the hell is going on.
The sight that greets me is one I won’t forget for a very long time.
The rest of the parade are now a good twenty feet behind me. The only thing that is keeping pace with me is Placcy the Narwhal.
And when I say Placcy the Narwhal is the only thing still with me, I mean it – because when I look back past its massive plastic body, I can see that some of the jugglers, fire breathers and volunteers are all crowded around the grumpy old man who was piloting the float Placcy sits upon.
He’s no longer in control of the float though, because he’s lying face up on the concrete.
This means that nobody is piloting Placcy any more.
And he’s on a slope going downwards. With me just in front of him, close to the business end of his tusk.
. . . and his speed is increasing.
I watch as the tusk comes spearing towards me with ever-growing momentum. Suddenly, I’m gripped by sheer and abject panic. This is not a surprise, as having ten thousand plastic bottles wrought into the shape of an endangered sea creature coming inexorably at you is not something the human brain is well equipped to deal with.
I can’t run away in this suit! I can’t run at all! I can barely do the fucking Time Warp!
The narwhal is going to get me!
I’m going to be skewered on the end of its tusk!
Aaaargh! I have to get away from it! I have to get away!
I turn away from Placcy’s horrible pointy front end and start to shuffle along the road, determined not to be run through by a bunch of melted-down Evian bottles.
YES.
I know I could just run to the LEFT OR RIGHT, but I’m having a massive panic attack, and common sense has completely deserted me, okay?
When I feel the tusk once again brush my shoulders, I redouble my efforts to increase my speed. This is helped by the downward incline of the hill, but that also increases Placcy’s pace as well, keeping us locked in our now-frenzied chase along the seafront.
‘Stop the narwhal!’ I scream to anyone who will listen. I am the first human being to scream this sentence since the last Victorian expedition to the Arctic Circle, some one hundred and thirty years ago. That was probably the last time that narwhals posed any kind of threat to humanity. Since then, it’s been one-way traffic in the other direction.
Ah.
Perhaps this is the point.
Maybe Placcy is attempting to take revenge upon humanity – currently being represented by yours truly covered in foam rubber. He will chase me down relentlessly, until that tusk goes up my backside, in order to gain some sort of recompense for all of the pain and suffering we’ve caused his seaborne brethren.
I am to be the sacrifice that turns the tide, Placcy is no doubt thinking.
Or maybe he just can’t stand the fucking Time Warp.
One or the other.
The shallow hill we’re on reaches its bottom, to be replaced by level ground, which should improve my situation considerably, but I’m too far gone with panic to realise it.
‘Help me!’ I cry out to the crowd, desperation writ large across my face. They of course respond with nothing but befuddlement (and a few giggles from the highly entertained children), given that they know damn well I should just run off to one side to end my torment. If only one of the bastards would actually vocalise this opinion, I might stand a chance of surviving Placcy the Narwhal’s implacable attack.
I should have known he’d be implacable. The clue’s in the name.
But no such helpful comment transpires, so I continue to jiggle forward, fighting against both the foam around my legs and my rapidly failing strength.
Both give out about ten yards later, on the now level ground.
‘Aaaargh!’ I wail, as my tired legs finally get entangled in one another, and I collapse to the tarmac. This would be extremely painful, were it not for the fact that I am ensconced in a load of soft, yielding foam. Good job too, as otherwise I would have royally face-planted, and probably broken my nose. I am spared this tragedy by my single-use plastic-bottle suit – my nose just lightly brushing the road’s surface before bouncing away again.
And now I am a stranded turtle, waving my ineffectual arms and legs around as death bears down on me from behind. This is a far, far more convincing impression of a dying animal than I gave at the Worriors For The Plonet demonstration. I have truly upped my game.
I let out a low and exhausted wail of terror as I await my hideous fate. Placcy is about to run roughshod over me, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
I close my eyes, and await my doom.
When said doom doesn’t materialise within the next twenty seconds, I open my eyes again, and roll over on to my back. With arms that will barely hold my weight, I sit myself up a little, to see that Placcy the Narwhal has ground to a halt a good ten feet behind me.
The children on the ground are in hysterics, and even some of the adults are having a good old chuckle at my expense.
I don’t care. I’m not a narwhal shish kebab. That’s all that matters to me.
Several volunteers have made it to Placcy’s float, and are securing it to prevent further out-of-control shenanigans. One of them walks over to where I am still spreadeagled on the road. It’s Skye.
‘Are you alright?’ she asks, looking down at me with a half-concerned, half-bemused expression on her face.
I gaze back up at her for a moment, trying to think of the most appropriate thing to say.
Am I alright?
I’m not physically harmed, that much is true – but I have been mentally traumatised by a narwhal, and I’m so knackered I can barely raise my head.
‘Been better, Skye,’ I confess. ‘Been worse.’
That about covers it.
Skye looks around at the crowd, who are all looking somewhat disappointed that the show has apparently come to an end. They were vastly enjoying the woman in the rubber suit being pursued by the narwhal, it’s plain to see. And why not? It truly is ‘something you don’t see every day’.
Or every century for that matter. Not since the one that featured Victorians on jollies up to the North Pole at regular intervals.
Helen Carmichael’s expression is extremely hard to read.
This is probably the case most of the time, but especially applies in circumstances such as this. When presented with a woman who has just partially ruined your parade by doing the Macarena while dressed as a plastic bottle, it’s probably best advised to remain inscrutable.
I should probably say something.
‘Is the man who was driving the float going to be okay?’
Helen takes a breath. ‘Yes,’ she replies blandly. ‘He’s been taken to hospital, but it appears he just fainted.’
‘Aah . . . that’s good.’
‘The narwhal is undamaged.’
‘Aah . . . also good.’ I give Helen a shy but heartfelt thumbs up. It’s probably the least I can do.
The parade went on without me. In fact, it’s probably still going on as we speak. We all felt it best that I wasn’t involved any more. Partly because I was too tired to wear the costume, but partly because nobody wants to see me attempt a fucking moonwalk – me included.
So I find myself back in the motorhome, back in my own clothes, and back under the gaze of Helen Carmichael.
Gulp.
‘And you are . . . okay?’ Helen asks me. There’s a lot going on in that slight pause.
‘Yes. I’m fine. A little tired, and a little
embarrassed, but fine otherwise.’
‘Well, you certainly . . . threw yourself into it, didn’t you?’ Her eyebrow doesn’t quite arch, but it wants to. It can barely resist the temptation.
‘I did.’ I contrive to look apologetic. ‘I’m sorry for it not quite going to plan.’
And there goes the eyebrow. It just couldn’t help itself.
‘One wonders what the plan was, Miss Cooke,’ the woman under the eyebrow replies. ‘I’m told you were . . . enthusiastic about being at the front of the parade.’
‘Um . . . yes. I really wanted to do my part.’
If her eyebrow arches any more, it will leave her forehead and go off to live an independent life somewhere on the ceiling of this motorhome.
‘Indeed.’ Helen sits up straight. I get the impression that my time with her is coming rapidly to an end. ‘Well, I certainly can’t fault your enthusiasm, or your passion,’ she tells me.
I nod a bit meekly. I don’t want to do this, but Helen Carmichael brings out the meek in me, what can I say.
‘Look, Miss Cooke,’ she continues, ‘I can see you’re very keen, and willing to go to a great deal of effort if something is important to you . . . I admire that. And despite what happened with your . . . er . . . performance out there today, I am not suggesting I do not see the benefits of working with a company like Viridian PR. Your pitch was very good. But I have to think carefully about who we get into business with here at World Action Today. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I do. I really do,’ I say, somewhat taken aback. I’m pretty sure there was a compliment in there somewhere.
‘Good. Then we’ll part on good terms, and I will be in touch shortly with a decision.’
Helen immediately stands and offers me a hand to shake. The meeting is most definitely over.
I take her hand, and then take my leave.
Outside, I stand for a moment in front of the motorhome and take a very, very deep breath. What a very peculiar morning.
But! That sounded positive, didn’t it? At least a bit?
Maybe my enthusiasm did get through. Maybe – despite my run-in with Placcy the Narwhal – I did just about enough to convince her that she can work with us. Maybe this will all work itself out.
And we would be a good place for her to come for her public relations. Viridian PR is perfect for her cause. She wants to save all the real Placcys of the world, and so do we!
I think back on the sign on Placcy the Plastic Narwhal that told me how many plastic bottles get dumped in the ocean every second, and my blood runs a little cold.
Yes. Viridian PR is the place she should come – despite my strange shenanigans today. I’m sure she’ll realise that, being the intelligent, brilliant woman she quite clearly is.
I actually have something of a spring in my step as I go back to the car, which is unbelievable, given how tired my legs still are.
Yes. Things will be alright. We will get the business of World Action Today.
I will have done my job.
Helen Carmichael will say yes, and Nolan will be convinced that I really am totally committed to the environmental cause. I will win his approval back.
I’ve just tried to do the Macarena in front of hundreds of people, dressed in a foam bottle costume, and I did it willingly. How could I fucking not be committed to it?
Three days later, Helen Carmichael said no.
The tale of the nefarious narwhal therefore ends in abject defeat.
. . . and with you probably humming ‘The Time Warp’.
Chapter Ten
37 SECONDS
My first failure for Viridian PR, then. The first time I’ve truly let Nolan Reece and the rest of the gang down.
None of them are particularly upset with me, it appears. In fact, when I told them all about how I managed to screw up getting Helen Carmichael’s business, they didn’t look upset at all. Most of them were trying not to laugh.
Nadia Macarena-ed her way around the office like a thing possessed when I told her about it. Then Joseph found ‘The Time Warp’ on Apple Music, and everybody joined in. We had to clear the desks out of the way.
I say ‘we’ because I did it too. I’ve learned in life that when you cock something up good and proper, it’s probably best just to own it. Trying to run away from it just stresses you out even more.
But just because the rest of Viridian PR aren’t that bothered with my failure, it doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.
Alright, I couldn’t have predicted being chased down the road by a giant plastic narwhal, but I didn’t exactly display the best judgement in the lead-up, did I?
My desire to impress overrode my good sense, and look where it got me.
Nolan, bless him, wasn’t angry. This almost made it worse. I think I would have liked a good, hard dressing-down. It might have made me feel a bit better, and would have got me to ease up on the self-recrimination a little.
As it stands though, I feel quite awful about the whole thing.
My attempt to get back into Nolan’s good books has failed, and I’m having trouble dealing with that.
It’s all so frustrating.
On the surface Nolan seems fine with me, but I can tell that he still has his doubts.
We’ve only seen each other at work. He hasn’t once suggested we meet up socially. That is not a good sign for the ongoing health of a relationship, I’m sure you’ll agree.
But he really has nothing to worry about . . . absolutely nothing.
I am the person I say I am now. The old Eleanor Cooke – the kind of girl who’d date a bastard like Robert Ainslie Blake, and wouldn’t remember to take her bag-for-life shopping with her – is completely gone.
My conversion to the environmental cause has been all-encompassing. When once it was an abstract thing – a means to an end, rather than a goal in itself – it is now a vital and important part of my life.
The work I do, the people I meet – all of these things have changed my outlook on the world to such an extent that it’s a wonder I ever felt differently.
Because how could you not be converted to the cause, when you are constantly exposed to all of the information there is about the climate crisis?
. . . proper information, I mean. Not stuff on Facebook or Twitter.
It’s a little hard to deny something is going on when you have actual science types showing you actual independently verified data – rather than just trusting in a few memes, the opinions of politicians, and what @KevinTheSprout says in his Twitter feed about a vast conspiracy to destabilise the fossil fuel industry by the Israel lobby.
Kevin is neither an expert on climate change, nor a sprout. He should not be listened to.
But a lot of the clients we work with should be. They are universally in the businesses they are in because they’ve seen all that hard scientific and first-hand evidence. And it all rubs off on you, let me tell you.
It rubs off hard.
My flat now contains only ultra-low-energy LED light bulbs, which are never on when I’m not in the room. When I pop to Sainsbury’s I use three hemp shopping bags, which I never forget to take with me – and I never buy anything wrapped in plastic when I get there. I’m not quite a full vegetarian just yet, but I’m almost at that point. I’ve put a stop to all paper-based communications from every utility company and service I have. I’ve started looking around second-hand clothes shops and on eBay, instead of heading to the high street. And I drive my hybrid Mercedes as carefully as I can, to keep any emissions I might still be making as low as possible.
I know I could do even more, but I think I’ve made one hell of a start.
At work, things continue apace.
The conversion I’ve undergone has made me even better at communicating with our client base. Despite the failure to get Helen Carmichael’s business, I am still motoring along quite nicely with the portfolios we have already – my work with the O’Hares at Veganthropy, Bandy and co. at Worriors For The Plonet, and
Twelve-Year-Old Kyle from Hempawear is fun, exciting and extremely fulfilling.
Unfortunately, I have also become a right pain in the arse around the office because of my new-found environmentalism. I’ve severely restricted the use of paper, for instance. You can imagine how well that’s gone down with a bunch of people who have to do a lot of admin.
I’ve also put in strict new regulations about leaving PCs and monitors on. They use a dreadful amount of energy, and making sure they’re turned off at night is of paramount importance to me.
The fucking pot plants have never looked healthier. I’ve basically turned Young Adrian into a one-man watering machine. I’m actually thinking of getting an entire living wall installed down one side of the office, if I can work out how to afford it. It’ll be like working in the middle of the Amazon rainforest. Just think of how healthy the air will be!
My work colleagues are taking this all with good grace, by and large. Partly because I’m their boss, and partly because they know what I’m like.
There was a tight incident with Nadia last week, when I had a moan about her buying a new top on ASOS. I pontificated to her about how much better it is for the environment to get second-hand stuff on eBay, rather than buying disposal first-hand fashion. She then reminded me that I used to spend half my wages on clothes in the ASOS sale, and I went away suitably chastened.
I made it up to her by buying her a voucher for eBay. I think she was pleased. It was a bit hard to tell.
By and large though, I do think all of my work colleagues have also become far more aware of the environment since we became Viridian PR.
Like I say . . . it rubs off hard.
Joseph and Amisha at first rolled their eyes when I berated them for leaving their monitors on at night, but now everything at their combined desk is switched off before they go out the door.
In fact, everyone is doing their bit now. I haven’t really had to chivvy them along at all. And God bless them all for it. They really are a good bunch, and I am very proud to be part of this team.
So, the only real problem I have right now is my faltering relationship with Nolan.
To tell the truth, I think the problem is more the fact that I initially lied to him about my environmental credentials than it is about how green I am now. You’d be hard-pressed to think I was anything other than environmentally conscious, given how I’ve reshaped the office.
Going Green Page 21