Jim Hopkins: Let’s dip our buckets in aquifer of benevolence

The Prime Minister,
Coalition Manor,
Shambles Lane,
Wellington

Dearest darling perfumed pudding,

Hullo, snookums. It's me again! Your own abject suitor, once more on bended knee, beseeching you, flaxen temptress, from the bottom of my heart and the heart of my bottom.

A lesser man would hold no hope his prayers might be answered, sweet Makybe Diva, but I certainly do. Yours may be a Phar Lap yet still I dream I will one day sit upon it.

For good reason, my little champion mare. You have watered my track before. Oh, yes, cupcake. You have hinted there is something between us, something that allows me to imagine I might be more than a mere Tariana passed by in the motorcade of love.

Weeks ago, rampant gekko, I penned a tear-stained missive imploring you to give me an election or, more precisely, a date. And you did, ravishing kumquat! You did! Within days it was official.

In a manner, may I say, that would turn the flintiest Ena into a Pita, you murmured the words I longed to hear; "September 17," you whispered. And my frail heart burst with joy.

I was yours, perfumed party vote! Yours and yours alone. I was your Toby and you were my Roll.

Therefore, enraptured by this sultry response, I return to drop my little bucket into the aquifer of your benevolence, dearest revenue stream.

And this time, one word will suffice, sweet Queen of the wild Fonterra. A single utterance from your sweet lips will sanction my wildest dreams, you elusive little Vietnamese front company.

But before I reveal what that blessed word is, adorable pandemic of love, let me put my proposal before you and then, if you like it, you can give me a ring!!

As you are aware, gilded didymo of my dreams, things are not going entirely smoothly at Helenvision New Zealand.

Charter they may have, but chartless they appear. It would seem they've lost their way, bewitching letter of resignation, what with Ian Frazzled exiting and wild allegations of political interference flying hither and yon.

Now, this is totally unacceptable, scented ratings survey.

As Oliver's driver (and mine too, might I add) you'll agree that political interference is one thing, but having people find out about it is quite another.

We can't tolerate that sort of nonsense, can we, my little balance of payments? Of course not. Stack the board by all means, that's what political appointments are for, but let's not have any messy disputation in public.

I know I speak for all 17 viewers who watched The Bailey Bunch at 6 o'clock on One this week when I say you're quite right to assert they should "report the news, not make it".

And since that is your wish, jewelled navel of my desire, then it is also my command.

Like a stallion at Cambridge, I stand ready to serve.

Grant me this wish, precious Catherine Wheel of love, and all will be well. Well, almost all. There will need to be some adjustments, dearest ladder in my blue stocking, but they shan't upset your loyal audience.

For example, ancient footprint in my lava, it might be that the teeniest change is necessary at 7pm. We might have to screen Closed Up there - at least while Susan is in arbitration, although we could put The Ralston Gripe in that slot - assuming we eventually discover what it is.

You can see I'm thinking already, cosmic raincoat, inspired as I am by your mesmeric beauty. As the song so aptly has it, "You are the air beneath my brush" and long may it remain so.
One additional change springs to mind, tantalising Speech from the Throne. We might need to tweak Game of Two Halves a tad, perhaps by asking the Phantom of Tauranga, Mr Winston Perkers, to lead both teams - one supporting the Gummint, the other opposing it.

But these are mere peccadildos, my darling. Everything else will stay as it is. You will still be the only precious Idol of the nation to get a nice, soft, chatty little interview every Monday morning on Breakfast.

Regardless of their Constitutional status, no similar opportunity will be offered to Leaders of the Opposition or scoundrels of that kidney, my Sparkler. Balance is too precious to waste on your opponents.

So there you have it, munchkin. You are my kakapo and I am your Rescue Plan. Ready, willing and able to fly you from strife if you'll only heed my pleas.

The options are simple, snugglebunny. I note Mr Frazzled is to receive approximately $400,000 by way of (un)Golden Handshake to ensure he might continue not being CEO for the next six months.

Well, I won't do it for a tenth of that, my soaring deficit. Slip me a mere $40,000, you coquettish little Bollard, you, and I won't be the CEO either. Perfectly competently too.

Alternatively, gossamer Tamiflu, you could cure my aching heart forever with the briefest monosyllable.

When I kneel before you, sainted minx, and awkwardly implore, "Can I be your new CEO?" you need only answer, "Yes!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Yours in hopeful
consummation,

A Dreamer