Jim Hopkins: If the moratorium's stuffed, go suck a free-range egg

The story so far: It's been a baptism of fire for young Lydia Dreedle, newly appointed policy analyst in the PM's office. Shortly after she'd started, the whole Watercolourgate business had blown up in everyone's faces, with that pesky anaesthetist complaining to the rozzers.

Then dashing Auckland lawyer Simon Mitchell had rushed to the rescue, snatching the wretched painting from the prying eyes of officialdom for the paltry sum of $5000, only to give it to prime ministerial executive assistant Joan Caulfield, who promptly burned it.

Meanwhile, with the campaign under way, the vexed issue of genetic engineering continues to swirl and roil like a dark and sinister thunderstorm. With most of her chums out on the hustings, Lydia is often alone in the office. Nervous and on edge, she's beginning to suffer from work-related stress. Now read on ...

How she wished it was lunch time, thought Lydia. Then she could meet her new pals at Te Puni Kokere and swap Michelle Boag fashion jokes. But it wasn't lunchtime.

It was only half past nine and she'd already had to deal with two journalists, both demanding to know why that nice Mr Chris Carter wouldn't talk to the police when they were asking irritating questions.

Only a month ago, Chris had told her - in no uncertain terms - that the only constable he'd speak to was the landscape painter.

But Lydia didn't think she should tell the journalists that. Not until she'd cleared it with HC.

Lydia always called the boss HC. She knew some wag in the Minister of Transport's office had started calling her Helenardo but he hadn't lasted long. HC seemed safe enough, egalitarian in a respectful kind of way. And you needed to be respectful at the moment, thought Lydia.

This business with the artworks had certainly ruffled feathers. Not too many. Most people seemed more worried about that Jonah Lumo person being dropped from the All Blacks. And the creative types had been very understanding. Lydia had received lots of supportive calls from key people in the art world - all of whom were applying for grants.

Even so, it had rattled HC, producing the faintest crack in her thin veneer of confidence.

There'd been other problems, too. When those silly policemen said there was a prima facie case to answer, Mike Williams had given her strict instructions to destroy all the billboards saying "Let's forge ahead with Labour".

Suddenly, traumatically, the phone rang, jerking Lydia back to reality. "PM's office," she said, crisply, instantly recognising the caller as one of HC's top advisers.

"We've got trouble," snapped the adviser, "big trouble."

"What?" gasped Lydia, her pulse racing.

"It's Hager," snapped the caller. "Nicky Hager. Somebody must've genetically engineered his muesli cos the little worm has turned. It was fine when he was sticking it to Timberlands but now he's alleging another cover-up. This time by us! He's put out a book saying there's shonky corn all over Gisborne."

"I thought Winston Peters was in Northland today," Lydia said, struggling to understand what she was hearing.

"Forget Winston," snapped the caller. "This is an emergency. Hager's saying the GM horse has bolted because we didn't close the unstable door. He's saying there's GM corn in the paddock now, and we knew about it. We knew it was out there, with its hideous tendrils creeping insidiously into homes and gardens throughout the land. Oh, God! They'll be going bulemic in Waitakere."

"Should we arrange some counselling?" Lydia asked, thinking that might help.

"This is beyond counselling," rasped the voice. "Don't you see? If he's right, the moratorium's stuffed."

A dust mote, hopefully organic, drifted across the room. Lydia's mind raced. At last, she thought, a real issue to get her teeth into. This was why she'd spent three years in the department of women's and indigenous studies at Waikato University. This was why she was still paying off $23,000 of her student loan. This was her moment of political truth.

"Well, that's marvellous," she trilled, struggling to sound clinical. "If you're right, if the moratorium's ... um ... what you said, then we needn't worry about lifting it! Cos it's been lifted already and the Greens won't be able to pull out of the coalition. We can tell them to go and suck free-range eggs."

"Let me talk to a grown-up!" shrieked the adviser. "Don't you see, it's not that simple? We've got to sound furious but keep them on side. It may be them or us but it could just as easily be them and us, so we can't let the PM burn her bridges."

In a trice, Lydia's embarrassment vanished. That last remark had given her an idea, a brilliant idea, one that even HC would love.

"That's it," she cried. "That's the answer! Leave it with me. I'll ring Simon straight away and get him to buy every copy of this nasty, awful book. Every last one. Then Joan can burn them. Just like that! And everything will be back to normal ... Hullo? Hullo?"

For some strange and unfathomable reason, the line had gone dead.

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