The secret diary of . . . The Prime Minister
Yet another day of coalition talks with Peters and Seymour at the Cordis Hotel in Auckland.
“It’s starting to wear me down,” I said to Amanda this morning after I ran down and fetched her iced matcha with coconut milk.
She pressed 60kg in a set of 20, took a sip of her matcha, and said, “I’ve noticed you seem a bit . . . low, recently.”
“A bit depressed, you mean?” “No. It’s not really your mood. It’s more your . . . appearance.”
I checked my watch. “I better go,” I
said. “But just quickly, what do you mean, my ‘appearance’? Have I lost weight or something?”
“Something like that,” she said, and started a set of 40kg dumbbell bicep curls.
TUESDAY
Yesterday’s talks were exhausting.
I needed to keep my strength up, so I started the day with a bowl of 10 Weet-Bix.
I don’t think it helped.
By the time I got home, I felt even more exhausted, and noticed that my suit was hanging off me.
Even my pyjamas seemed roomier. “I must be losing weight,” I said to Amanda.
“Well, yeah, a bit,” she said, “but it’s more than that.”
“What do you mean?” “You’re losing height,” she said. “What?” “Christopher,” she said, “you’re shrinking.”
WEDNESDAY
I knew things had got bad when I showed up at the Cordis to find that Peters was towering over me.
As for Seymour, he looked like a giant.
I quickly sat down.
My feet didn’t reach the floor. I swung them helplessly as Peters and Seymour talked about which of their policies the Government had to implement.
I tried to get a word in but they ignored me and did all the talking.
THURSDAY
I ate an entire box of Weet-Bix, then clambered up into the kiddie seat in the back of the Government limo for the ride to the Cordis.
Peters and Seymour argued about which of them should be made Deputy Prime Minister. At one point they came up with the idea that it should be decided on who could spin me around in my chair the fastest. I don’t know who won but I felt nauseous afterwards.
I was desperate for a beer when the talks concluded in the afternoon but the barman said, “I’m not even gonna ask for your ID. What are you, 10? 11?”
FRIDAY
We all handle pressure in different ways, the specialist explained.
“Some of us rise to the challenge and gain in authority. Others feel confused and lose control.
“And then,” she said, “there’s your case, which is a bit . . . extreme.”
Amanda looked at me through a magnifying glass and gave me an encouraging smile.
“The good news is that now the coalition talks are done and the pressure is off, you’ll grow back to your normal stature very soon. But,” said the specialist, “it might pay to avoid stress in the meantime.”
We met in her home.
Just then the cat door opened. A large tabby saw me, and bounded — it must have thought I was some kind of mouse.
I had to act fast. I climbed to the top of Amanda’s matcha, dived in, and held my breath.
Gosh, it was cold.