such situations.
Adrian’s book tells me extreme project management requires improvisation, the ability to relax controls and keep the process loose. I must remember my life is no longer a waterfall, it is more like a scrum. I must stay on my toes – be prepared, but not over-prepared, alert but not alarmed. Okay. That is the way to tackle Lucas Nilsson. I breathe deeply. Alert, not alarmed.
The Extreme Project Manager doesn’t get bogged down in extraneous facts. Okay. Don’t worry about facts. I concentrate on breathing deeply.
There is no point in trying to remember details about boring ice holes, measuring ice flows and whatever else it is that glaciologists do. Not only are ice holes boring, they are tedious and dull. I can do this, I tell myself. I can.
I smile at my reflection and articulate clearly; ‘Ice is of great interest to me. Do you like ice?’ I sound like Eliza Doolittle: the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. I imagine there will be a lot of people in Antarctica who like ice. Why else would you go there?
Penguins, I suppose. ‘I like penguins too,’ I say to my reflection. ‘Ice and penguins are two of my favourite things.’ Now I sound like Maria from The Sound of Music. I shouldn’t be channelling musical stars, I should be channelling Cougar. How do I do that? I narrow my eyes and purse my lips like a supermodel with indigestion. A bolt of inspiration strikes. I put one hand on my hip and raise an eyebrow. ‘You can take your ice and your trampy penguin and get out of my igloo.’ Yes, Alexis the bitch queen is a perfect match for Cougar.
I did attempt to study glaciology yesterday afternoon, but got bogged down in facts: reams of information about sea ice and sea level rise, ice shelves and icebergs. Who would have thought there was so much to learn about ice? I’ve decided it’s best to keep it to two key messages – ice and penguins – for the time being. Later on, I can expand my repertoire to snow and seals.
I tilt my head to one side. I have the glaciology part of the equation mastered, but how about the appearance? After a visit to the chemist, my brown hair is now black and my pale skin brown. There is definitely a resemblance to Cougar Gale. It’s like one of those separated at birth things. I’m the twin who was brought up in the trailer park and spent her leisure hours watching television, while Cougar went to a private school and had elite training in gymnastics from an early age. I’m glad Adrian can’t see us side by side as I wouldn’t come out of it well.
Clothing-wise, however, I’m right on top of it. I’m wearing stylish quick-dry shorts and a tank top. Underneath I have a quick-dry bra and knickers. I glance at my bed where a huge mound of clothing sits waiting to be packed. My visit to the outdoor shops yesterday afternoon was a revelation. I’ll have to share it with Marley. I open my laptop and write:
To: Marley Lennon Wright
From: Summer Dawn Rain Wright
Subject: You should have told me this!
I had never ventured into an outdoor shop before. I’d imagined them as hard core affairs, frequented and staffed by earnest hairy types in Birkenstocks or walking boots. I expected they would not give the time of day to someone who’d never tramped through thigh-deep mud like the guy in the poster on the shop window.
So I pushed open the door to Outdoor World timidly, like a stranger entering a wild west saloon bar, half expecting the shop to fall silent as the hairy types eyed me with suspicion. Nothing was further from the truth. I wonder why I waited so long. Outdoor shops are an Aladdin’s Cave of goodies, staffed by sensitive, muscular, handsome, men who are also good at sales. Why did no-one ever tell me this?
I’m not sure what happened there in Outdoor World. My memory is hazy, as if I’d had a big night out. I’ve never had much interest in shopping – our hippie upbringing I suppose. That anti-consumer ethic is hard to overcome. But buying outdoor gear isn’t the same – you can consume, while being anti-consumer. You’re buying the simple life. It’s a win–win situation. Wielding a Channel Five credit card also helped.
Not only did I leave the store with a down jacket, mittens, down booties, thermal underwear, quick-dry casual wear, a puffy sleeping bag, walking boots, sunglasses, a nifty outdoorsy toiletries bag, karabiners, crampons, a rope and much, much more, I also left with the phone number of my helpful sales assistant, Dave.
I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the karabiners, crampons and rope, but Dave seemed to think they were essential equipment for a glaciologist embarking on a journey to Antarctica.
‘You’ll be wanting to climb some glaciers, I imagine,’ he said, fondling the rope in a suggestive manner with his manly, muscular hands.
I nodded decisively. ‘Yes. Absolutely. The more the better.’ I was pretty sure my relationship with Dave went beyond his desire to earn sales commission. There was a meaningful connection going on. Something about the way he held my feet when he fitted my crampons reminded me of Owl from Lukla. His broad shoulders stretched out his ‘Save the Dugong’ T-shirt. His hands knew exactly what they were doing.
Yes, I flirted. A little. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that, Marley. I needed to restore my confidence. It was nice to feel acknowledged as a woman. Let’s face it; Adrian wasn’t exactly a powerhouse of lust. I never felt like he was overwhelmed by desire. A conscientious performer is what I would have written on his report card. But Adrian has other strengths that are much more important and I do miss him terribly.
After we’d concluded our business Dave handed me a card with his mobile phone number scribbled on it. ‘In case you need any after sales service. I teach rock-climbing if you’re interested. It’s good to know how to tie knots.’ I was definitely picking up on some double entendre. It seems like everyone’s talking about bondage these days.
‘You don’t play guitar, do you, Dave?’ I asked as I was about to go.
‘Yes. How’d you guess?’ he said.
‘A woman’s intuition.’ I dropped his card in the bin down the road. As you know I have good reason to avoid guitar-playing men, Marley.
You are the exception to the rule.
My cameraman, Rory, knocks on my door at eleven am. He blinks when he sees me. ‘Wow. You look different.’ Rory is about six foot three with flaming red hair and chubby pink cheeks. I expect his ancestors excelled at caber tossing and bagpipes. Rory himself plays the drums in the Inner West Marching Band.
Rory and I don’t know each other well, but we have a water-cooler relationship revolving around him showing me pictures of his cute two-year-old twins, Rory Junior and Beth. Like most cameramen, Rory affects an air of worldly cynicism, as if he has just emerged from the trenches of Afghanistan. His evenings are spent changing nappies and playing peek-a-boo though, not carousing in bars or dodging bullets. I suspect the thing he is most looking forward to on this expedition is a good night’s sleep.
‘So, Summer, I never knew you were an igloo-building expert,’ says Rory. ‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It’s all around the station. Changed my whole impression of you.’
‘Why, what sort of an impression did you have before you knew I could build igloos?’
‘You just seemed normal. But now I know you build igloos, I realise you always did have this mystery woman air about you.’
‘Yes, well …’ I spread my arms out. ‘There you go, igloo-builder extraordinaire – that’s me.’ There is no accounting for the aura that comes from being an igloo-builder.
‘That’s a cool skill to have. I wish I could build igloos. Not that you get many opportunities, I suppose …’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘We’re meeting Alicia and Mary at the airport, by the way.’
I grimace.
‘I know,’ says Rory.