Jim Hopkins: Dear PM, for goodness sake, just name the date

Dearest Helen,

If I put my tongue in your ear and murmured sweet nothings, would you tell me? If I nibbled your lobe and caressed your alabaster surplus, would you share your most intimate secret?

If I whispered, sotto voce, "Tax cuts mean nothing to me, my dove", would you surrender? If I made such a smitten pledge, would you finally flutter those cover-girl lashes as only you can (once every three years) and yield that thing which I desire?

Would you? Could you? Will you?

For I swear it is true, my dearest rotisserie chicken. The promise of more coin in my purse is no promise at all, sweet kereru.

The brash and brazen hussies who offer such lewd inducements may try as they might, but I shall not succumb. Those pouting Jezebels can stand all day upon the hustings corner, flaunting their tawdry promises, yet they will not have their wicked way with me.

That is my pledge, sultry hippo, and I trust it might soften your heart. No fiscal temptations will lead me astray, fairest crop of industrial hemp. My income belongs to you and only you, my little crustacean.

At least it would if you'd just part with that pearl beyond price and give me a date. Any date!

I can wait no Olonga, as Mr Mugabe might say. It doesn't matter when it falls, my sparrow. I just want a date. No, pumpkin, I need one! We can't go on like this, fragrant turnip. The suspenders are killing me. Your silence is cruel.

I beseech you, gossamer haddock. End this madness now and utter the words I yearn to hear!

We both know there is a fine line between outrage and intolerance, as several local mosques can all too sadly confirm, but what you don't seem to realise is that there's an equally fine line between coquette and vixen, my bewitching echidna.

A coquette may tantalise but never frustrate, whereas a vixen, alas, will do nothing but tease, heedless of the anguish she stirs in the bosom of her helpless admirer.

I feel bound to advise you that such behaviour ill becomes a blue-stocking like yourself, my adorable winceyette nightie.

Particularly, since, in theory, perfumed punga, I employ you. I say in theory for we both know that's a fiction. It must be, or I'd have no need to pen this fevered missive, you cuddly little ewe. The fact is, I don't employ you, I implore you.

Come clean, my kauri duchess. And quickly too! Answer me the question that only you can answer. When am I going to have an election?

If you could but tell me I would gladly plight my troth - and you might even get your snout back in it, you lusciously unblighted apple!

Then, at last, we could start making plans, my little freshwater trout.

Better still, diaphanous wildebeeste, you could start making 15-year plans!

Think about it, whitebait. I know you want to! That naughty little ratbag, John Tamikaze, told me so.

Yes, he did, my yummy paua fritter. He said you had a 15-year plan all of your own but you wouldn't tell a soul what it was!

Ohhhhh, pavlova, don't keep your lovesick swain in suspense any longer. Give me an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, lovey-dovey clue.

I know it involves the flag, dearest Resource Management Actress. That's why your loyal toadies at New Zealand Post are popping the referendum forms into our letterboxes - presumably at our expense.

And so are your doting suitors at Telecom, sweet nuclear-powered vessel. It is lovely to see them assisting such a popular and unifying initiative, especially since they've absolutely no reason at all to practise such philanthropy - other than to curry favour next time they wish to protect their very considerable, government-sanctioned market share.

Honestly, my highly oxygenated marine reserve, such ingenious commercial manoeuvres might easily tempt a lesser man to switch immediately to Vodafone. But I am not that lesser man, kumara.

No! I am yours and yours alone. Trust me, my enchanting little five-metre scrum.

Trust me with everything. Hold nothing back, elusive butterfly. Give me your all. Chapter and verse. Drive me wild, I beg you. Share the 15 years you've planned for us in every beguiling detail.

Are we to be a Republic, my princess? Then you should know I'm your President of Love!

Don't trifle with my infections. Tell me what lies at the end of your reignbow. Speak to your doting fan; behind your fan, if necessary.

Whisper your intentions as gently as a soft sea breeze might whisper through the fronds of a lonely cabbage tree.

Only then will this lonely cabbage tree be happy.

We cannot stand rooted for ever, my seductive electoral cycle. I must get me to the booth on time if I am to give the future a booth up the bum.

I cannot wait! Just name the date! I promise I'll be there!

I remain,

Yours in patient expectation,

(And always at your mercy)

Your devoted servant,

A Voter