bloody Vicky’s Secret underwear for my new Adam Driver–ish boss – and I still have half a bag of Minstrels in the cupboard which I do not intend to waste!
Not having a clue when the protest is meant to kick off, I figure I’d better get down to Whitehaven as early as possible. In my experience, public events tend to happen more in the mornings than the afternoons, so it’s probably a good bet that things will start not that long after I arrive.
And if not, I can always get a Costa coffee and do some light shopping while I wait. There’s a roll neck from FatFace I’ve had my eye on for a couple of weeks now, and I definitely need some new tops for sleeping in too.
Whitehaven Shopping Centre is a monument to Western consumption that sits just off the motorway, for maximum ease of access. Each and every one of the seventy or so stores is housed in massive, grey identikit buildings that are 100 per cent glass-fronted, and have about as much personality as a maths teacher’s wardrobe.
They’ve tried to inject some character into the place by dotting a few trees and benches around the broad plazas in front of the monolithic grey shops, but it’s a token gesture at best. The goal here is to get you into those shops and spending, not hanging about smelling the flowers and having a nice time outside.
I get to Whitehaven at just gone 9 a.m.
By half eleven I’m bored to tears, jazzed on coffee, and my car boot is full of several roll necks from FatFace, a myriad of sleep tops from Next, a particularly fluffy pair of slippers from M&S, and, for some reason, a kitchen utensil pot with a picture of a whale on it. I bought it in that weird Scandinavian shop – the one whose name no one can ever entirely remember once they’ve walked out of the doors. It sells thousands of different products, while at the same time being completely chock-a-block with nothing but memory foam cushions and kitchen utensil pots featuring pictures of aquatic mammals.
This protest had really better get going soon, before I end up spending the rest of my month’s shopping allowance in one morning. There’s only so long I can hold out before I just have to buy that fluffy green onesie in Primark.
Luckily for my bank balance (and sense of self-worth . . . mark my words, the wearing of a onesie puts you on a very slippery slope), at about eleven forty-five I start to see and hear a commotion coming from the main central plaza that sits right in the middle of Whitehaven, where two of the broad pedestrian streets intersect with one another.
Coming out of Primark, I see that a small crowd has started to form in front of about a dozen people. This group is an eclectic bunch. Half hippy, half middle-class ex-prep school – they aesthetically mix about as well as milk and olive oil.
Two of them are currently erecting a large banner, strung across two very heavy-looking metal stands. When the banner is taut enough to read, I can see that it says Warriors For The Planet. The a’s in ‘warrior’ and ‘planet’ are stylised to look like the planet Earth. This means that the banner actually reads Worriors For The Plonet, which is a little unfortunate. Quite why they chose to convert the a’s and not the o’s is beyond me. Sounds like they need a good PR company to handle their branding.
I’m definitely in the right place, though. That much is certain.
The question is, where is Nolan?
I crane my head to look at the crowd that’s fast gathering around the Worriors, but there’s no sign of my new boss as yet. Perhaps he’s only coming once the protest is officially underway.
Never mind, this gives me the chance to ingratiate myself with the protestors a little. That way, when Nolan does arrive, it’ll look like I already know them. This will help cement my climate-friendly credentials.
I sidle my way up to one of the Worriors who is decidedly in the middle-class camp. Nobody else in the world could – or would want to – pull off a chunky-knit blue cardigan and a dark-green blazer. They both go well with the thick spectacles, wavy brown quiff and pinched expression.
‘Morning!’ I say brightly, affecting my most friendly of tones. I really want to get on this chap’s good side.
He looks quite startled.