Dreamed I was being chased across a field by a dark and foreboding cleavage.
"Don't hurt me," I whimpered. "Please don't hurt me!"
Every time I turned around I saw a button twirling on its blouse, coming undone, exposing yet more cleavage. Loose threads lashed at me likewhips and the button hurtled towards me like a fiery comet.
"Leave me alone," I cried. "Please leave me alone!"
But it loomed ever closer. It was as though I were walking through the valley of the shadow of death, which was a strange way to think about cleavage.
Just as I was about to be smothered, the alarm woke me up. I had set it for 3am to prepare for a the week of turmoil that lay ahead. The DGL board, the shareholders, the media … I need to stay focused, eyes on the ball, fully alert. One false move could make the situation worse. I'd made a foolish mistake with the comments I made about Nadia Lim. They were unwise and damaging. I shouldn't have said anything. Okay. But what's done is done. The important thing now is to maintain damage control and take care with each step.
And so I sat down and studied my to-do list. I got through 1-17 by 8am, and stopped for breakfast. Number 18 on the list – "Say sorry to Nadia" – could wait.
Delivered a message of heartfelt apology to Nadia after supper.
Monday's tasks: Number 18 on the list - "Say sorry to Nadia" - could wait. Photo / Doug Sherring
WEDNESDAY
There seems to be a problem with my apology. Incredibly, it hasn't actually been delivered.
These things happen. The flip-side of communication is miscommunication. The way we talk to each other can sometimes be misconstrued – and so can the method. Look at social media. It's easy to get the tone wrong and unleash the forces of cancel culture.
But at an even simpler level, how often have we composed an email that referred to an attachment, pressed send, and forgot to actually add the attachment?
A similar thing seems to have happened with my apology. I sent it by the fastest and most effective form of communication, but the pigeon must have got lost.
THURSDAY
The pigeon showed up. At last! It also wrote my signature.
FRIDAY
Dreamed I was being chased across a field by a sensual ball of Eurasian fluff.
"Don't hurt me," I whimpered. "Please don't hurt me!"
Every time I turned around I saw it rolling ever closer, smelling of miso-poached chicken with soba noodles and Asian greens, made with one tablespoon of sesame oil, 30g of finely grated ginger, 100g of teriyaki sauce and a drizzle of oil.
"Leave me alone," I cried. "Please leave me alone!"
But the aroma grew even more delicious. I pictured countless New Zealanders sitting down to eat it after a hard day of work and school, grateful that someone with brains and beauty and drive and determination and a brilliant, world-class business plan had made it all possible.
Just as I was about to be drowned in miso, a loud knock on the door woke me up. I dragged my sorry arse out of bed, opened the door, and walked back to the kitchen with a delivery from My Food Bag.
