I knew that voice but couldn't place it. Of course, had I been watching The Paul Henry Show on TV as opposed to listening to it on the radio, I would have got it straight away.
It was one of those "I know you" moments. When you're young these happen less, but in your 40s the sheer bulk of faces you've seen, people you've met, places you've disgraced yourself, bridges burnt and so on, means the filing cabinet is packed so tight it's hard to retrieve information. Who is she?
Henry, on the radio, has won me over as my fallback position of choice during the moments when RNZ's Morning Report gets all grey and civil-servanty. The thing chugs along at a cracking pace and Henry is having so much fun it's hard not to enjoy the morning madhouse, or pirate-ship, or sixth form common room, or whatever it is.
An essential part of the fun has been newsreader Hilary Barry, a sorbet of reasonableness to the mutton-bird saltiness of the old parrot. But she was away last week and the new voice, though just as familiar, was the one that was perplexing me.
Maybe I'd had a stroke and had missed the news that Barry had passed away or been poached by TVNZ after an assignation at the Bolton Hotel.
Who knew that our TV news execs were so sneaky, so Tinker, Tailor, Solider, Spy? Then I smelt toast. This is not a good sign for someone with high blood pressure. I've read that people who have strokes smell toast just before they collapse, but then it popped. The Vogels I mean, which I had put in the toaster.
So I wasn't going mad, but who was this woman that I felt I knew? Henry was babbling away like the happy child that he is. He had another boy in his class up against the wall and was tweaking his nipples. You could hear that he was about to knee the poor sap in the nuts.
"Len Brown you are a despicable man" he chanted. He does this most days I've tuned in to be honest, so Len must be a right little runt. To be fair he also laid into Len's classmates, or 'councillors' as he dubs them.
But Henry has a softer, more humane side. I caught a glimpse of it as he charmed and rubbed the tummy of another guest, a chap who had been dealt a terrible blow after being accused of crime that he did not, technically, commit.
A more graceless host, like say John Campbell, probably would have banged on about helicopter rides and fifty grand, cut into two digestible cheques, but Henry was giving his special guest the royal treatment.
I've seen the same carpet rolled out at Fox News, every time Donald Trump comes on.
"You have the money and the fire and the passion", gushed Henry, as the freedom fighter told of his tribulations. "My fight was too great, my legal team was too great" boasted John Banks, who always has some great lines no matter what you make of him: "They wanted to jail me, but they picked on the wrong pensioner." He may travel by forgotten helicopter, but as he says so himself, "I'm an honest traveler."
The mystery woman laughed and read the news. Gosh, she does a good news, she calms me even as she reads terrible things.
"Thanks Judy" says Henry before the motor mouth is off doing doughnuts on the verge. "Judy" - my god it's Judy Bailey, the mother of the nation! That night I was at my own mother's house for our weekly dinner-date of rump steak, onions, mushrooms, carrots, and potatoes whipped to within an inch of their life. "That woman is back on the news" she said, also not remembering her name, but I knew who she meant. Judy Bailey back reading news is big news.
Judy Bailey with Jeff McTainsh
Judy Bailey has been busy enough over the years since her legendary stint as our national news mum, fronting specials and charities and ANZAC day stuff on Maori TV. But having her back reading the news was a reminder of so much, mostly of just how good she is at it.
Her placement with Henry and his giggling fraternity had a symmetry too it. Sure, she was happy enough in the old news setting, but she sounds even better now. It helps that she has that relaxed manner that success and age tends to afford people. Bailey has also largely escaped the reputational tribulations of other former news icons: Hawkesby and his multi-million payout. Poor old Richard Long, who was tethered to the corpse of a finance company. Dougal Stevenson doing the voice over of The X Factor. Darren MacDonald.
Somehow, even though she was also paid a king's ransom to read the autocue, Judy has emerged unscathed and much loved. I listened transfixed as she read words about the Chinese hoards of house buyers, Greek financial whatsits, and Pluto.
Paul and her talked wine: "I like a nice Syrah" admitted Judy, but alas my bubble finally burst when the subject of movies came up. They started talking about one of my favourite films of last year, Mike Leigh's masterful Mr Turner.
Henry had not seen it but had heard it was "arse", or words to that effect. Surely Judy would come through for me? I knew she would, she's all class, I can see her sitting on the sofa, Syrah at hand, and Mr Turner on the 42-inch Plasma (she's too classy for a working class 60-inch LED you idiots) but no she hadn't seen it, and worse: "I hear it was incredibly boring" said Bailey, dismissing the great film on mere hearsay. Just like your own mother would.
