I’m sorry, I’m a bit tired. This morning’s daily dalliance in bed was shattered by a sudden and strident knocking at my back door. I knew who it was, of course: Whetu has a habit of worming himself around to my backdoor—more used to it, I guess. Nevertheless, I left Maggie to her dreams of Brendon McCullum (God, he’s gorgeous!) and last night’s waiter (If I were only 18 again!) and stumbled to the door, still in surprise.
ME: Whetu?
HE: Tena Koutu, Tena Koutu, Take a photo.
ME: What?
HE: Kia ora Bro. Want a photo?
ME: What are you on about Whetu? What are you trying to sell me this time?
HE: Take your photo.
ME: Why?
HE: Make you famous.
ME: Don’t want to be famous.
HE: Made me famous.
ME: Oh?
HE: Yeah, I gets my photo in the paper lots. Sometimes they does the front on photo like this, eh. Sometimes they does the side-on one like this, eh. Sometimes both.
ME: I don’t want my photo taken thanks.
HE: Made Keith Locke famous.
ME: What?
HE: Made Keith Locke famous when he gots his photo taken with Tama Iti.
ME: That was John Key.
HE: Not Tama Iti?
ME: No, Not Keith Locke.
HE: With Tama Iti?
ME: Yes.
HE: Not Keith Locke?
ME: Yes. No. John Key.
HE: Close.
ME: Yes.
HE: Anyways, you gets your photo taken with me; make youse famous.
ME: How did you find me, Whetu?
HE: Only $20.00. Got a camera?
ME: No thanks.
HE: Worth trying though, eh?
ME: Yep.
HE: I’ll be back.
ME: Like my herpes.
HE; I know him. He that Geek god fella.
ME: I guess. Bye, Whetu.
HE: HE’S famous!
ME: Bye Whetu.
HE: I seen HIS photo.
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