The secret diary of

I SAID to Karen, ‘‘Let’s go on holiday.’’ She was up the ladder, fixing a new cut-glass crystal to the chandelier. We’re forever chipping away at our do-up in Herne Bay. She said, ‘‘Suits me, darling. Where to?’’ I said, ‘‘Small-town New Zealand. Someplace nice and quiet, with country values, where Labour’s message resonates with middle-income Kiwis and more vulnerable Kiwis.’’ I made a few bookings, packed, and we drove to the airport. It felt good to be getting away. I need a break. A lucky break, a break in the weather – any kind of break. Nothing seems to go right.

Karen said, ‘‘You did remember to bring the skis, didn’t you?’’ I headed back, got the skis out of the garage, and we set off again. We just made it in time to catch our 2.15pm flight to Queenstown.

TUESDAY

There was a five degree frost this morning, so I turned over and went back to sleep. I really needed the rest. It’s been a stressful last few weeks. Months. But obviously, when you come in as leader there’s a wave of enthusiasm before reality sets in and there’s a lot of work to be done, and . . . wait on. That’s what I said in an interview the other day with Paddy Gower.

After lunch we headed to Coronet Peak. It was teeming with Australians and Jafas. I found myself next to some kid on his school holidays. We got talking. He said he was from Parnell. ‘‘Race ya, Commie,’’ he said.

‘‘I must say I don’t fancy your chances,’’ I said. ‘‘I exude a confidence which some find offputting, but the fact is that it’s built on a foundation of proven excellence. What I’m trying to tell you is that I’m going to win this race, you rich little shit.’’ We set off. I started well but then reality set in. He was a difficult opponent. Hopeless on the left corners, but strong on the right, and very fast