He asked me how old my daughter was, which was odd. I told him and asked him how old his was and he told me.
"Mr Simpson, I fail to see the relevance of this conversation," I said.
"Look," he thundered, "My wife comes from one of the founding families, the Nova Scotia boats that came out from Scotland."
"Are we going back 200 years now Mr Simpson?" Lost, I shrugged.
"Look, she knows everyone in Northland and is related to half of them and you will find that there are a lot of people who back me and think I am doing a fantastic job," he said.
I agreed that there probably were and hoped they would write lots of letters to the editor.
What I didn't say was that I hadn't been aware that Northland had a landed gentry or that they held any special privileges.
If that were the case, I wondered if Mr Simpson had considered that some of the founding ships had actually been called waka and perhaps Mr Harawira should be informed of his true status.
"You have slagged me and hurt me and my family," he roared.
This was getting more random by the minute and I hated to interrupt but I had never mentioned his family: He had and he had started the conversation by mentioning my daughter. In South America that alone would be a call to arms.
A small voice in the back of my head said: "You're not in Guatemala now Dr Ropata".
I told it to shut up.
Maybe this is the way things are done up here. Who knows?
It's nice to know that I can wander into Mr Simpson's office unannounced and with no appointment to randomly give my opinion on council decisions as Mr Simpson had just done to me. Surely the arrangement is mutual and all citizens can do this.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"A ratepayer," I replied.
He blinked.
It was a Mexican stand-off with no sombreros.
"They give you all this power to write what you like," he trailed off.
Seriously?
"Nothing that is not factually accurate. The rest is just opinion and what I wrote is not personal," I said.
"To me, it's personal!" he growled.
No point in arguing the principle over the personal.
He was just plain angry.
"I'm the tea lady at the local café. If we're talking power ratios I think you'll find the difference in your favour Mr Simpson -" But I was talking to his back as he stormed out.
He hadn't even bought a coffee. I went back to the pile of dishes that lay waiting. Powerfully. Masterfully. And so here I am, squeezing another lemon into my gin, sipping it through my moustache and I find I'm shaken, but not stirred.
