DR MICHAEL BASSETT
I got up and put on the kettle and then my slippers, and walked to the letterbox. It was still dark. I had to be careful: the frosts make the garden path slippery underfoot. I took out the morning paper and a leaflet from Noel Leeming. Noone writes letters anymore, do they?
Back inside, the kettle had boiled, and I made myself a cup of tea. My preferred method is to pour in the hot water first, then rest the teabag on top, and watch as it slowly capsizes, staining the water in a slow, even manner.
I wait approximately 120 seconds before very gently squeezing the bag against the sides of the cup with a teaspoon, and then removing the bag and adding the milk.
I drank it standing up. I know some people who sit around and wait for the phone to ring but my philosophy is that it’s better to stand.
The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking. I thought back to the constant whirl of noise and activity when I served New Zealand as a government minister. Many people remark that it’s a dreadful oversight that I haven’t received a knighthood but I give it no thought.
Certainly I made conditions better for the country during the era of Rogernomics. I performed my duties to the best of my abilities, and that is what it counts. So few people understand what public service truly means.
I analysed the newspaper from front to back, and then inspected the leaflet, making notes in the margins about inflation and import tariffs. Before I knew it, it was midday.
I was about to put on the kettle again when I nearly jumped out of my gown. A strange, shrill noise started up. It emanated from a small black object on the kitchen table. I picked it up, and said, ‘‘Hello?’’
‘‘Michael,’’ said the caller. ‘‘Don.’’