|Webdiary - Independent, Ethical, Accountable and Transparent|
The Scion, the Wheat and the Cabinet Chapter VIII
The Chronicles of Nadir
As told from the grave by Tom Lewis
Tale the First
The Scion, the Wheat and the Cabinet
Alexander, the son of Sir Alexander, actually, hadn’t actually killed anyone actually himself (as in actually causing their demise) or, as one of his aides playfully suggested to him it should be designated, re-classified. He was particularly challenged by the immediate need to re-classify this Hicks lad. Suddenly, it seemed, the US Supreme Court had started the job for him without warning or any chance of a fair hearing according to decently accepted principles of international law actually accepted by actual international lawyers actually. The Ship of State was adrift without a Ruddock.
Meanwhile, there was considerable tension amongst the other children. Peter felt it was time to reposition himself and had devised a plan for invading Europe by sending his factional ally, Bruce Baird, to the Hillsong conference (purely in a personal capacity you understand); Little Lucy was bereft because not only had the Snowy River been saved by accident but Woolloomooloo had been included in the seat of Wentworth threatening the family pension plan; and poor Amanda just seemed to have lost what she fondly referred to as her muse. Still, she thought, there are plenty of batteries in Fyshwick. As Amanda had once been told by her gym mistress, "honi soit, nous sommes s’amusent". Strange though that the gym mistress just happened to be an expert on the campaigns of the 30 Years’ War and had had a lively correspondence with her old editor, CV Wedgewood (or Cyn as she was known to her close friends). Tiffin had always been fun – such nice cups - and she knew heaps about siege warfare including fossas. In fact, she’d been up a few. The tales she had related to the gels of her travels (or the tales of her travels she had related to the gels) had enriched Amanda’s schooling almost beyond – well she was from Adelaide and she would always have that to share with Alexander.
Yet, there was definitely the smell of death in the air. That and a distinct hint of Teak oil. The price was skyrocketing. The Organisation for Teak-oil Exporting Kuwaitis (OTEK) had put its footprint down and decided on a final solution. It was pretty cashed up and had secretly been training French polishers in camps in Ottawa for many years.
Corder, amongst his many talents, had been apprenticed as a French Polisher and had even won apprentice of the year with his Campbelltown triple glaze. He was applying the finishing touches to one of his better jobs on Jeanette when she suddenly exploded in Vitriol, a small province in Papua, once owned by her late father-in-law. "Get me Clarke," she said bitterly. "Clarke?" said the aide who was permanently assigned as her appointment secretary and who had just finished the gazettal notices for the latest round of appointments to the Federal Court. "Crikey" the girl said. "None of that" said Jeanette. "You know who I mean: the lunatic in the Upper House in NSW. He has to stop THAT WOMAN." "Ah", said the aide, "Epping". "Don’t you swear at me" said Jeanette. "Tink" she spat and were this not both a children’s story and but for the fact that the tape failed at that point, the rest of her words would not be lost to posterity.
In another corner of the playground, that nice picnic area near Russell Offices (you know the one – just near the remains of the Japanese midget submarine), young Brendan had gone very quiet. He was playing with his new toy, the oral dam. It was a most unusual experience. No-one had heard him so quiet since the earring hole had healed. And there was good reason: defence had sounded terrific until you really had to do it by way of aggression. Spend big, build an empire, sky’s the limit he had thought but no-one had told him about body bags or that the zips didn’t always work – after all the poor chap had only ever been a GP and a bureaucrat – who let that bastard NSW coroner into the game? Brendan was very worried. Where were the Roslyn Rosses of this world when you needed a bit of pacifist rhetoric? Early in his career he had taken the Hypocritical Oath but even he was finding it difficult to live up to today. Christ, had Little Johnnie seen the morning papers yet? Brendan pulled his flack jacket tighter but the damned thing just didn’t seem to fit properly. Was it going to be another long day in procurements? He didn’t think he could stand another frank lecture from that Gumbey bloke. Who hired the bastard in the first place? Why didn’t he have a minder? Well, at least that would be fixed by lunchtime. Personal reasons probably. Just not enough hours in the day really. And if only he’d stuck to his guns he could be leading the Labor Party by now.
Little Johnnie on the other hand was in his element. Deep in his element. So deep in his element [we’ll just leave it there eh? Ed]. While it was unfortunate that the lads had accidentally exitmoulded the personal bodyguard of the Persian trade Minister (understandable really – they all look alike – Cronulla, Baghdad – what’s the difference?), the flack could largely be passed on to Brendan and the unfortunate Boy Dweeb. Little Johnnie was still killing himself laughing that the seat of the Boy Dweeb’s predecessor had been abolished in the recent re-distribution while his own seat had remained virtually unchanged and Little Lucy’s playmate had acquired most of the remaining members of the Communist party not living either in the Ukraine, Melbourne or North Adelaide. The Persian position had, however, freed up the possibility of lucrative trade with the Lady Jadis.
Yet there was still this problem of global warming. Not that Little Johnnie was actually warming to anyone in particular - it was just that it was causing a potential trade problem with the Land of Nadir. The Cabinet Secretary had reported that there was increasing slush pervading the back of the cabinet. Slush meant wets and wets meant moisture. Moisture meant germination. Germination meant that there were rapidly becoming more syllables than Little Johnnie could cope with.
He decided to ring Roger Ramjet, the thinking man’s leader of the NSW Opposition. Although, when Little Johnnie really thought about it, he had never been able to work out what that bloke was thinking. He got the answer machine.
"Please leave" it said, and cut out.
He made another call.
"How’s it going Pru?" he said.
A seductive female voice said: "We’re fucked."
"No, I mean the preselection." said Little Johnnie.
"Oh, is that you, bubbles?" she replied. "Sorry I mistook you for Gerard Henderson.* I think I’ll have to pull out unless we can get some pretty quick Persian support."
"I think we’re gone there" said Little Johnnie.
"It all comes down to a question of" he whispered,
* Gerard Henderson is the thinking man’s Miranda Devine **