‘Never had any trouble with politicians when I was up the Zambezi,’ said Bosworth, observing the sunlight through his beaker of absinthe. ‘Local chieftain soon found a spot for them among his shrunken head collection.’
Bosworth is fairly fundamentalist in his approach to social interaction and over the coming few weeks head shrinking (for which there seems to be no scientific term, such as ‘cephaloattenuation’) might be a temptation for many among the disenchanted. It gives new weight to the idea of the political headkicker. In fact the study of politicians’ shrunken heads could be known as cephaloattenupsephology.
We were gathered at Parliament House, not the seat of government but the restaurant in Carlyle Street, sheltering from the rain. Photographs of prime ministers adorn the walls and the benches are upholstered in either red or green leather. Dishes are preceded into the room by a chap dressed as the Usher of the Black Rod, who doubles as the sommelier. Strangely enough, in this case the usher’s first name is Rod. Rod Taylor originally of Lidcombe, not to be confused with the film star of the same name who lived two doors down from the other Rod but 25 years earlier.
Other than the miasma of a federal election floating nearby, the day was pleasant enough. Bosworth had his absinthe and the rest of us began with a cheeky semillon accompanied by parmesan canapés. The restaurant owner, Bob Menzies, not to be confused with the PM or the actor, had resisted the urge to install a predictive octopus despite the theme of his establishment.
‘It would tend to intrude on the dignity of the tradition, Mr Bitemark,’ Menzies explained. It would have been uncouth of me to suggest that politics and dignity were strange bedfellows, or that cephalopoda commanded more respect in most people’s minds, especially molluscs of a clairvoyant bent.
Once the canapés were safely tucked away, Chef sent out by coincidence Grilled Octopus In Sweet Chilli Sauce, accompanied by Ennui Of Potato Louche. We toasted an election-free September with the 1998 Hooded Abbott Budgie Smuggler Verdelho, with its piquant aromas of the beach, mown grass and high school locker room.
‘Can’t think of anything I’d like the political wallahs to include in their policies,’ remarked Abbotsleigh, who was not prone to think of anything at all. ‘Perhaps a refuge for Gold Coast doxies who have fallen upon hard times or, on the issue of climate change, a commitment to anything at all.’
The greatest moral challenge of our times had possessed us all, and we were sure to get round to doing something about it once finished with the dessert.