The Secret Diary of . . . Judith Collins
MONDAY
I drove through rolling country on the election trail today and it reminded me that I was born in a state house on a dairy farm. The windows didn’t shut and neither did the farm gate. A cold wind used to blow through the house and the herd would wander in and sleep in the lounge. I would trip over them in the morning but I didn’t complain. I’m not a complainer. I’m a fighter. Everyone knows that.
I tell you what, though. We had it tough. The herd hogged the bathroom, too, and they’d take ages in there. And when they were finally finished, they used to leave such a mess. But that’s just the way it was and still is on dairy farms across New Zealand. I know. Trust me, I know.
TUESDAY
I took one look at Jacinda Ardern at the leaders debate tonight and knew that I was going to win because she was born in the lap of luxury and I was born in a shoebox in t’middle of a dairy farm. The lid didn’t shut and it would blow off in a strong wind, and the herd would just walk right on in and take up most of the room. But I didn’t complain. I’m not a complainer. I’m a fighter. Everyone knows that.
I tell you what, though. We never went without. There was always meat and three veg on the table at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and for when visitors arrived. Even if they asked for a scone, we’d give them mutton. It made for good times and the house used to ring with peals of hysterical laughter, mostly my own.
WEDNESDAY
I was born under a wandering star. I go from town to town to on the election campaign, and the people leave their homes in their hundreds of thousands to see me, to touch me, just to be near me. I understand their longing. They were waiting for a long time for me to take over the National Party, and so was I.
But I didn’t complain. I’m not a complainer. I’m a fighter. Everyone knows that.
I tell you what, though. Imagine what it would be like if Bridges was still leader. Or Muller. When I took the knife out of Bridges’s back I kept it ready for Muller, but I didn’t even need it in the end. It’ll keep for someone else. There’s always someone else.
THURSDAY
I was born in a crossfire hurricane, and howled at the driving morning rain. But it’s alright now. In fact it’s a gas.
FRIDAY
The polls show that Labour could govern alone and that National has gone backwards since I became leader. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair. It’s an absolute disgrace and it oughtn’t be allowed. I don’t know who’s behind this but I’ll find out and when I do, there’ll be trouble. I’m going to make myself heard. I’m going to make a complaint. I tell you what, though. At the end of the day, when I rock backwards and forwards in my rocking chair up in the attic of the luxury shoebox that I own in trust, and hold my porcelain dolly Judy in my lap, and sing to her, I know that everything’s going to be alright. Judy looks back at me with her big blue glassy eyes and when I pull her string, she says, in such a sweet and heartfelt voice, “It’s all about you.”