I was on the back seat of a golf buggy being driven down to the marina from my beachside villa through grossly exotic tropical gardens. From the many seaside and sporting activities the resort had to offer, I had opted this morning for the ‘island adventure’. I would be whisked away by speedboat and deposited on a desert island to snorkel or relax, then picked up again two hours later. Driving the buggy was a tanned, virile-looking young man with short hair. Smoking wasn’t allowed on the island, and I was dying for a fag. Sticking to my theory that people with short hair must always be told the truth, I leant forward to ask him if he minded if I had a cheeky fag on the way down.
He was one of those busy, ultra-civilised personalities with about five motivations to my one. I think he had quickly intuited that my pay grade was roughly that of an illegal immigrant in a cash-only nail bar. ‘Nobody has ever asked me that before,’ he said. ‘I’ll make a call and find out.’ He speed-dialled someone owning greater authority and without preliminary courtesies put the question. The answer was no. On arrival at the marina I would however be permitted to stand in a place designated by my driver and smoke my cigarette if I kept the butt with me and put it in a bin. The buggy driver reported this back to me as if it were a rare concession from the top.
At the marina he yanked on the brake and we both baled out and he pointed to a spot on the asphalt next to a newly cultivated flower border. Why I had to stand here, rather than anywhere else, was a my-stery.
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