The Prime Minister Pees Too
An airport is always a funny place to see all kinds of people. I was at the Hamilton Airport today for a meeting and while standing in the queue to order a coffee, I saw a man sitting at a cafe table donned in a French beret. The proper, real kind with the little tab on top that makes you want to pluck it right off his bald little head.
But, that wasn’t all: he also had a very French-looking handlebar moustache with the ends twisted tightly and pointed up toward the sky (oui!). And, to top it all off, beside him sat his carry-on luggage that was, in fact, a shopping bag with the words ‘French market’ screen-printed on the side alongside images of various fruits.
“Okay, this guy’s not for real,” I thought to myself. And, while I stood in line, I could tell others were thinking the same. But, after he sat there for a really long time leisurely reading a book and sipping his café au lait from a paper cup, the more I realised he was real - - - a REAL Kiwi trying to be REALLY French .... ah well, no harm in being delusional, I suppose.
So, with MY café au lait in hand, I headed toward a comfy couch for my business meeting. However, only a few minutes into a discussion with my client and I nearly spit my ‘morning drug’ on the sofa.
In walks the Prime Minister – yes, the Prime Minister of New Zealand (yes, my American friends, the same one that appeared on David Letterman recently). The one who was just in Copenhagen meeting with 150 world leaders – yeah, THAT Prime Minister!
He is walking alone through the cafe – right past my French friend – not looking where he’s going and texting like a wandering teenager. Not one person looked his way (“What? Who? Prime Minister? Huh?”) I’m having flash backs to the infamous ‘Phil Keoghan Encounter of 2007’ and the nonchalance Kiwis have toward celebrities (see my posting Dec 22, 2007).
He did have two ‘minders’ (yes, equal to the Secret Service my American friends) who followed not-so-closely behind him. One of the ‘body guards’ (I use the term loosely) was carrying a backpack. I wondered if his mother had packed him lunch and a few magazines to read on the plane ride up from Wellington? The other ‘body guard’ wandered not-so-closely behind the first, gazing out at the plane on the tarmac. Both had those little earpiece thingies with a curly wire disappearing down their shirt collars, but I strongly believe these may have been simple pieces of plastic wire rigged up to look official (Who could possibly be talking to them through the earpieces? Would the two of them talk to each other? Come on!).
As John (hey, there’s obviously no need for formalities here) texted his wife about dinner plans and nearly walked into a few passersby (who didn’t notice who the heck he was, by the way), I soon realised he was heading straight for the loo (the restroom, my American friends).
That got me thinking . . . will he use the urinal? What if it’s one of those long ones that are meant for multiple users (okay, I’ve only seen these in movies, boys, but I’ve got an idea of the setup). Wouldn’t that be a surreal moment . . . relaxin’ for a moment, takin’ a leak, gettin’ ready to do the polite head-nod to your neighbour (this is how I imagine the scene - men, does this happen?) and there’s the leader of your country! “Hey, how’s it hangin’?” What IS the appropriate greeting in such a situation?!
Anyway, as I tried not to envision my Prime Minister peeing but not having any luck, I noticed one minder went in with him while the ‘body guard’ with the backpack stood watch at the doorway. I soon noticed this ‘PM Protector’ was actually chewing gum (aren’t there rules for body guards that state ‘no chewing of gum while guarding the life of our nation’s leader?’ hmmm...).
Soon after John entered the loo, a young man quickly exited the facilities. I’m thinking he was asked to leave – politely I’m sure (“please, don’t rush, just when you’re finished”). Now I’m thinking the Prime Minister has an issue with pee fright. Hey, we share a character flaw - a brother from another mother – don’t worry John, happens to the best of us!
Finally, his business attended to, the great and powerful leader of my country emerged into the cafe area once again . . . . STILL texting (‘Gr8 my luv. Wld enjoy a nice lamb roast for dnr. It is the nat’l dish afta all – LOL xoxo, C U l8r’).
Ah well . . . see these are the joys of living in New Zealand. There’s never too much pomp and circumstance about much of anything. And, most importantly, the Prime Minister can pee in the same toilet as you and me. Gotta love this wee (ahem...) little nation!
But, that wasn’t all: he also had a very French-looking handlebar moustache with the ends twisted tightly and pointed up toward the sky (oui!). And, to top it all off, beside him sat his carry-on luggage that was, in fact, a shopping bag with the words ‘French market’ screen-printed on the side alongside images of various fruits.
“Okay, this guy’s not for real,” I thought to myself. And, while I stood in line, I could tell others were thinking the same. But, after he sat there for a really long time leisurely reading a book and sipping his café au lait from a paper cup, the more I realised he was real - - - a REAL Kiwi trying to be REALLY French .... ah well, no harm in being delusional, I suppose.
So, with MY café au lait in hand, I headed toward a comfy couch for my business meeting. However, only a few minutes into a discussion with my client and I nearly spit my ‘morning drug’ on the sofa.
In walks the Prime Minister – yes, the Prime Minister of New Zealand (yes, my American friends, the same one that appeared on David Letterman recently). The one who was just in Copenhagen meeting with 150 world leaders – yeah, THAT Prime Minister!
He is walking alone through the cafe – right past my French friend – not looking where he’s going and texting like a wandering teenager. Not one person looked his way (“What? Who? Prime Minister? Huh?”) I’m having flash backs to the infamous ‘Phil Keoghan Encounter of 2007’ and the nonchalance Kiwis have toward celebrities (see my posting Dec 22, 2007).
He did have two ‘minders’ (yes, equal to the Secret Service my American friends) who followed not-so-closely behind him. One of the ‘body guards’ (I use the term loosely) was carrying a backpack. I wondered if his mother had packed him lunch and a few magazines to read on the plane ride up from Wellington? The other ‘body guard’ wandered not-so-closely behind the first, gazing out at the plane on the tarmac. Both had those little earpiece thingies with a curly wire disappearing down their shirt collars, but I strongly believe these may have been simple pieces of plastic wire rigged up to look official (Who could possibly be talking to them through the earpieces? Would the two of them talk to each other? Come on!).
As John (hey, there’s obviously no need for formalities here) texted his wife about dinner plans and nearly walked into a few passersby (who didn’t notice who the heck he was, by the way), I soon realised he was heading straight for the loo (the restroom, my American friends).
That got me thinking . . . will he use the urinal? What if it’s one of those long ones that are meant for multiple users (okay, I’ve only seen these in movies, boys, but I’ve got an idea of the setup). Wouldn’t that be a surreal moment . . . relaxin’ for a moment, takin’ a leak, gettin’ ready to do the polite head-nod to your neighbour (this is how I imagine the scene - men, does this happen?) and there’s the leader of your country! “Hey, how’s it hangin’?” What IS the appropriate greeting in such a situation?!
Anyway, as I tried not to envision my Prime Minister peeing but not having any luck, I noticed one minder went in with him while the ‘body guard’ with the backpack stood watch at the doorway. I soon noticed this ‘PM Protector’ was actually chewing gum (aren’t there rules for body guards that state ‘no chewing of gum while guarding the life of our nation’s leader?’ hmmm...).
Soon after John entered the loo, a young man quickly exited the facilities. I’m thinking he was asked to leave – politely I’m sure (“please, don’t rush, just when you’re finished”). Now I’m thinking the Prime Minister has an issue with pee fright. Hey, we share a character flaw - a brother from another mother – don’t worry John, happens to the best of us!
Finally, his business attended to, the great and powerful leader of my country emerged into the cafe area once again . . . . STILL texting (‘Gr8 my luv. Wld enjoy a nice lamb roast for dnr. It is the nat’l dish afta all – LOL xoxo, C U l8r’).
Ah well . . . see these are the joys of living in New Zealand. There’s never too much pomp and circumstance about much of anything. And, most importantly, the Prime Minister can pee in the same toilet as you and me. Gotta love this wee (ahem...) little nation!
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