Attorney General Brandis drags his weary bones back from high level commitments in London ... Visits to Huntsman and Sons and Thomas Pink, plus Aunty Violet in Bournemouth ... Commissioner Wilson blamed for airline booking fiasco
Look what I find inside my jacket (Photo © Commissioner Wilson)
Ahh. London, Glorious London. My last port of call prior to sweeping back to my duties as Attorney General In and For the Commonwealth of Australia, Leader of the Government in the Senate and Vice-President of the Executive Council.
It was all rather too quick, which I do not begrudge as I did have time to attend a drinks party at Brooks's to celebrate Sir Lynton Crosby's New Year's knighthood.
By Jove, Lynton will be busy polishing his honours: an AO and a Centenary Medal from Australia and now his Knight Batchelor from HM.
The lad from Kadina in SA has done well, steering conservative forces around the globe to magnificent triumphs, apart from the 2005 UK election campaign and Stephen Harper's defeat in Canada where Sir Lynton's "dead cat on the table" strategy failed to win the day.
To Huntsman & Sons in Savile Row for the fitting of a new pin-stripe. Trevor, the marvel who skilfully manoeuvres his tape-measure into the trickiest corners, unkindly said some extra pounds had to be accommodated around the midriff, but he still remembered I dress from the right.
How does he keep those details in his head?
Then to Jermyn Street and Thomas Pink for some new cufflinks with the subtle, but distinctive, GB monogram.
Enough of the shopping. There were pressing duties to which I was obliged to attend - importantly lunch at Stoke Lodge with Alex Downer and his charming wife Nicola, where over Shepherd's Pie we discussed terrorism and the rule of law.
Also, a train trip to Bournemouth to visit an ailing relative, Aunty Violet Brandis, who during the war sewed pillowcases for Household Guardsmen.
She likes a tipple with the sweet sherry and claims to have had affairs with Denis Thatcher, Alan Clark, Quentin Crisp, Noel Coward, Jimmy Savile and HRH Prince Andrew.
A recent snap of Aunty Violet (photo © T. Wilson)
As least she stuck to some high-end bigots. Haha.
Heathrow and the BA flight home. Whatever happened there I don't know. I thought Commissioner Tim Wilson had the bookings in hand, but what can I say? Never trust a boy to go on a man's errand.
It was a disaster. The seating could not be located by the girl behind the computer. I almost said, "don't you know who I am?", but, for the record, I didn't.
In fact, I didn't need to say a thing. My facial expressions must have given her the message and she promptly offloaded a Pakistani businessman and his consort from first class so as to accommodate the two of us on our urgent return to government commitments.
The displaced fellow seemed upset and muttered something about racial discrimination and section 8C. Commissioner Wilson patted him on the shoulder, reminding him that venting his displeasure contributed to the market place of ideas.
We settled into our respective capsules, me with a copy of Nick Cater's "The Lucky Culture and the Rise of an Australian Ruling Class". Across the isle I could make out the distinctive features of Commissioner Wilson penning an editorial for Quadrant on religious freedom in the Third Reich.
Adieu Albion. Farewell Green and Pleasant Satanic Mills. Homeward ho, to the smell of the kookaburras and the sound of the wide brown land. Already I hear the insistent dictates of my CoS, Paul (Mr Spooky) O'Sullivan. Duty calls.
