The Secret Diary of . . . Paul Goldsmith
We Goldsmiths are not very strong in the head, particularly at breakfast time; and I was conscious of a dull ache between the eyebrows. “Jeeves,” I said, “it seems I am having one of those peculiar sensations again. The ones that I experience every two or three years and only brings yours truly a lot of fuss and bother.”
“You know what I’m talking about, Jeeves,” I said, and tapped my head. “Would I be correct in stating that sir has had one of those notions often referred to as ‘thoughts’?” “Precisely, Jeeves.”
“May I inquire as to the substance of this latest ‘thought’, sir?”
“Well, Jeeves, it’s popped into my head that M¯aori are better off for colonialism.”
“Yes. Better off. Their lot has improved. All things considered.” “At the end of the day, sir.” “Well put.”
He shimmered out, and shimmered back in again, bringing a silver platter. He uncovered a plate of boiled eggs, and toast cut into soldiers.
“Jolly good,” I said. “But where’s the silver spoon, Jeeves?”
“It’s already in your mouth, sir.”
I was anxious to hear what kind of reception my latest “thought” would receive among the fellows, and took a carriage to the Drones Club. “What-ho, Goldie,” said Barmy Luxon. “You’ve an odd expression on your face.”
“It’s because I’ve had a ‘thought’, Barmy. Hear me out. You know I’m a historian of some considerable stature; everyone knows about my years as a humble scribe, writing biographies of such admirable fellows as Alan Gibbs, John Banks, and Don Brash.”
“They don’t make ’em like that anymore,” observed Barmy, sinking into an armchair.
“Well,” I continued, “as a result of these inquiries, it’s occurred to me, looking back on our history, and sizing things up as they are today, that M¯aori are better off for colonialism.”
He rose out of his armchair like he was on fire, and disappeared. Whatever was that about?
I took a carriage to the Drones Club, and found Mullet Bishop.
“You know,” I said, “it’s occurred to me that M¯aori are better off for colonialism.”
He’d been asleep on the snooker table, but leaped off and disappeared.
“Not so much cannibalism!” I shouted. “The alphabet! Jurisprudence! Lamb chops!”
My words echoed down the empty corridors.
A telegram arrived from the Duchess of National, and chairwoman of the Drones Club, Dame Judith. It read, “Please shut up.”
“Morning, Jeeves,” I said, as that good man drew open the curtains revealing another spiffing day in the green and pleasant land of New Zealand. What a wonderful country we live in! An island nation where all can prosper, thanks to early colonists, who brought culture and heritage with them in the cargoes of their great fleets that sailed from England.
“Kia ora, sir,” he replied. I gazed out the window. The sky was grey, and it looked set to rain.