The death of my desert-island fantasy

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.