OPINION:
Monday
I woke up discovering a set of discoverables in the state of my physical wellness.
I felt tired.
I felt old.
Steve Braunias: The secret diary of ... Christopher Luxon
Prime Minister Christopher Luxon. Photo / Alex Burton
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I felt weepy, vulnerable, in distress. I felt things were falling apart; I felt I could not hold on to a single worthwhile idea.
Summer seemed spent.
The sky was grey and an immense cloud formed, casting a deep shadow over the land.
I consulted a physician. She put on gloves. She shone a torch. She asked me to put my clothes back on, and said, “Well, you seem okay.”
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I tapped my head. “It’s all in here,” I said.
“Certainly it did sound very hollow when you did that,” she said.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said. “The fact of the matter is that I think I might be fragile.”
Tuesday
I spent the day looking for a mojo.
Any old mojo would do. A mojo that got me out of bed in the morning, that got me on my feet, that got me from A to at least B.
I looked in the cupboards. I looked in the garage. I looked in the mirror.
No mojo anywhere.
I sighed, and found a big cardboard box. The last thing I did before I crawled into it and shut the flaps was to place a sticker on it that read FRAGILE.
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Wednesday
A strange thing happened.
I was moping along the street when I saw a dole bludger.
The mere sight of him lolling about without a care in the world filled me with rage, and I said to him, “It’s all your fault!”
“What is?” said the leech.
“It’s your fault I’m feeling this way. It’s you who has taken my mojo. It’s you who were about to take my wallet, too, I warrant.”
“I wasn’t going to rob you,” said the sponge.
“Yes you were. You know you were. Get a job, for God’s sake. Look for one. Do something to improve yourself and not just take, take, take!”
Passersby stopped and glared at the parasite. The sun peeped out from behind the clouds and bathed the land in golden light.
“We’re all doing it tough,” I continued, berating the mendicant. “Inflation is imbedded. Labour has left the whole country on the edge of a fiscal cliff. And here you are, doing nothing to contribute, draining the public purse, while the rest of us work and scrimp and save and do our best. What’s your name? Where do you live? Expect a visit, mate!”
Passersby applauded. The sudden outburst lifted my spirits. It made me feel good. It made me feel as though I were onto something deeply profound. It also made me feel a lot less fragile.
Thursday
I commissioned a team of excellent public servants to harry the unemployed, to yell in their faces that the days of a free ride were over, to threaten them with homelessness and penury, to generally make them feel really bad about themselves in exchange for making me feel not in the slightest bit fragile.
Friday
I rode my mojo through the streets at top speed. The wind felt good in my hair, which was a bit strange considering the issue of absence, but that’s just what a mojo can do.
Left-wingers shook their fists at me, and howled and jeered and stamped their feet. People laughed at them. They looked really comical. They looked like they were waving at a train that had left the station. They looked lost. They looked sad. They looked very, very fragile.
