The secret diary of . . . Winston Peters
MONDAY
Who am I, and what am I doing here?
I seem to be in an office. I assume it is my office. It is not a very big office. There is nowhere to sit, and the shelves are filled with cleaning products. There is a broom and a mop. Also a bucket, which contradicts my earlier claim: there is in fact somewhere to sit.
The door opens. “Winston,” someone says, “what are you doing in here?”
“I don’t like your tone of voice,” I tell them. “Scram!” I slam the door. It’s quite cosy in here. I feel suddenly very tired. It won’t hurt to catch up on some sleep, and I close my eyes.
TUESDAY
Who is this person, and why is he talking to me?
He has a shaved head. He’s not very tall. He talks a lot but doesn’t seem to be saying anything of any substance. When I smile, he smiles. When I frown, he starts talking faster. He seems very nervous and unsure of himself. I’m unsure of who he is, too, and his voice makes me feel suddenly feel tired.
Someone says to him, “Don’t forget your next appointment, Prime Minister.”
The man with the shaved head apologises, and says if it’s all right with me, he ought to go.
“You run along,” I tell him. “I’m fine here. I need to catch up on some sleep, and this chair is a lot more comfortable than the bucket in my office.”
WEDNESDAY
We waited until today to find out, for the first time, that the Prime Minister’s Office received information about the March 15 terrorist attack before the massacre took place. Jacinda Ardern should be called to the hearing and asked to explain this appalling lack of transparency to the New Zealand public — let alone to the Deputy Prime Minister and Government coalition partner.
This was a crisis event. To keep this basic information hidden is not only unacceptable it is now clearly indicative of how that office worked.
The next question is, who else inside Cabinet knew and said nothing?
THURSDAY
Sleep.
FRIDAY
Who am I, and what am I doing here?
Strange notions come to mind. Something about “taking back New Zealand”. Something about “New Zealand First”. Something about “listen, smart alec, why don’t you shut up for five seconds?”
None of these notions make any sense.
Someone says, “Winston.”
I am wearing a nice suit. Someone says, “Winston.”
It is a very warm suit. Someone says, “Winston.” The night is cold, and the ground beneath the bridge is hard. The river is running fast. It is very dark. Someone says, “Winston.” “Scram,” I say out loud, and look around.
No one is there.
I feel suddenly completely exhausted, and close my eyes.