Dear MichelleV

Dear Michelle,

Had to jot off to one of those ghastly boring dinners at Prem House last night. You know the type (or perhaps you don’t) the type where a lot of men with inflated egos and women with deflated esteem sit around making talk of such insignificant consequences one is taken back to one’s worst Hamilton nightmare.

How this isle of mediocrity can exist within the vibrancy, vivaciousness and—yes—sexual diversity of Wellington is beyond me. But it does and I am ashamed to call myself its host.

This one was for Little John. As men go he is just as patronising as the rest. But, surprisingly for an Australian, he carries off that and his general demeanour with tact and consideration. Of course that may be entirely due to his diminutive stature. I have heard from members of my security detail who heard from members of his that the appellation “Little John” has little to do with his lack of height. Oh well, I doubt I shall ever be in a position to confirm that J.

And you do make me smile. Our sessions, though infrequent, ground me. They provide me with an oasis of calm in a turbulent maelstrom of male chauvinism. When I lie on your couch with you beside me my mind wanders freely without sexual shackle, reaching deep down with me and gently coaxing my body to come along for the journey.

I know that Heather gets jealous, but she was also, at one point, jealous of Peter, so that is of no consequence. The point here, I think, is that nobody but you fully understands my needs. They think they do. But I allow nobody, even Heather, to see all of me. You have found my hidden places, and have opened them up.

Yes, I know: I came to you as a client and you a therapist. I was reticent in that I repudiated the effectiveness and even the need for your programme. But you won me over, you little vixen you. Was it that you treated me as a woman? Did that give you that rare quality? Perhaps. And what are you now? My therapist still, yes. My friend, certainly. A gentle but timely admonishment here, to me as well as to you: ambition is best left to politics.

And in politics, and in the darkest parts of it such as last night’s dinner, I console myself with the thought that had it not been for politics and for who I am I would have missed out on much that stimulates me, tantalises me, enlivens me. And I am not talking here of “Little John”. J There you go again, making me smile.

See you at the next session.

H.

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