Dear Liz
I may call you Liz, may I? I feel I know you so well and should we ever meet I am certain we would have an immediate rapport. Of course you would need to take my word—and me being a politician you may have some difficulty with that “Ha Ha”—but I am generally considered here in New Zealand as most approachable and, to use the vernacular, something of stud muffin.
Now, I trust I am not being too forward in writing to you like this. I have read that you are in some form of relationship with the Australian cricketer Shane Warne, but I have also heard that you are nothing more than text mates. I of course am married—more honesty—happily so, the Woman’s weekly continually tells me.
But I have always been able to differentiate between love and lust. I compartmentalise and it would be true to say that until such time as Bronnie takes to wearing dresses held together with safety pins, as you so graphically did some years ago (I still have the photos) she will remain in the love department while you will reign over that of lust.
Liz, you are hot!
Of course one is talking here of unrequited lust. There can be no expectation here of me, a mere prime minister, entering into anything untoward with the most beautifully proportioned, most seductively-eyed, most sensual woman in the world. Any requiting must by necessity be vicarious. And if Bronnie is woken at night by my sighing and groaning, one does not want to disabuse her of the notion that I am simply thinking of Hone Harawira.
Of course I am not; he is not hot.
I hope you will forgive this dewy-eyed boy—this man with a heart of lust—venturing forward in such a manner. Further, I hope that you will allow me to write to you again. Little missives from the king bee in the beehive.
I remain your devoted fan,
(Not so little) John.
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