at them dance and caper! The bloke on the other side of the narwhal is going as far as playing with the kids he passes, ruffling their hair and singing songs at them. What a bastard. He’s making me look deeply pedestrian and dull by comparison. I must do something to up my game here . . . otherwise my contribution will be forgettable, and that might not bode well for my chances of convincing Helen Carmichael that Viridian PR is the right company for her to work with!
. . . quite how I’ve reached the opinion that I need to dance around in a foam fancy-dress costume to persuade someone to go into business with me, I can’t quite fathom. I have become caught up in the moment to such an extent that rationality has begun to desert me somewhat. I am so keen to prove to Nolan that I am a changed person that I am willing to do some quite ridiculous and extraordinary things to accomplish it.
I must stand out from the crowd!
But how? I can’t fire breathe, juggle or walk on stilts – and I’m not sure I’m comfortable enough yet with The Sticky Things to go and interact with them.
I have to think of something else to get myself out in front.
Out in front.
That’s it! If I can get myself out in front of the rest of the parade, then surely I’ll be noticed!
Helen will be super impressed!
Not only will I have volunteered to wear the suit in a show of extreme solidarity, I will also have distinguished myself – by calling even greater attention to the evils of single-use plastic bottles by gyrating around at the head of the parade!
Hah! Take that, bloke on the other side and your stupid hair-ruffling!
There’s every chance having my head squeezed through the hole in this foam has cut off the circulation to my brain. That’s the only way I can justify this current train of thought.
With a plan fixed firmly in my mind, I start to bop and shuck my way towards the patch of road in front of the narwhal. As I pass the guy piloting the large plastic mammal, I can see that his misery has compounded itself even further in the half-mile or so that we’ve been going along the road. Poor chap. What he needs is the thrill of watching a bopping bottle.
And he’s about to bloody well get it!
Increasing my pace so my little legs are motoring away under the costume, I speed past a fire breather, a couple of the steel band, and the legs of one of the stilt walkers, emerging from between them to come alongside Placcy the Narwhal’s long pointy tusk.
As I do this, the float starts to power up a slight incline in the road, forcing me to puff and blow a bit to get ahead of the end of the tusk, and take up my place at the head of the march.
Once there, I look around to see that the crowd is looking at me with a degree of confusion on their faces. As well they might. A plastic bottle has just erupted from the rest of the parade like it thinks it’s the star of the show. But there’s nothing to distinguish it from the rest of its foamy blue brethren, so why the special attention?
I have no doubt that my fellow parade members are looking just as confused, given that this is not part of the plan. I bet Mr Hair Ruffler is particularly put out.
Shit.
What have I done?
What am I doing?
I didn’t really think this whole thing through, and now I either have to do something big and bold enough to justify this move to front and centre, or I have to slink back to my previous position, with my tail metaphorically between my legs.
What would Helen Carmichael do?
What would Nolan Reece do?
What would a version of Ellie Cooke not desperate to impress do?
Fucked if I know.
I guess I’ll just start doing the Macarena.
Whether, in the grand scheme of things, doing the Macarena dressed as a foam bottle in front of a giant plastic narwhal is the greatest strategy ever invented, I will leave you to decide. It’s probably not up there with the Roman conquest of Britain. But my options are limited here, and I can’t remember all the moves from the Whigfield ‘Saturday Night’ dance.
Also, I’m not really doing the Macarena, because that dance involves a lot of rhythmically wiggling your