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Prime Minister!
Prime Minister Gillard.
Prime Minister J Gillard.
The PM.
Madam Prime Minister.
Madam Prime Minister Gillard.
Julia, Head Chick of Oz.
Empress Julia of the Great South Land? Hmm, maybe not.
She sits there musing through the possible titles, as official after official pontificates at her – all in droning voices that are becoming more difficult to listen to the longer they talk.
And of course, it's all important. Highly important – but she's heard most of it before, and trying to look intelligently interested in people discussing pork exports when she suddenly has an election to plan – run – win – isn't that easy.
She's doing her best, but pork exports becomes public transport, and then the Opera House's new windows, and then cane toad culling, and then cutlery on Qantas flights… and all she can think about is whether she could get away with having 'Juliana, Warrior Princess' on the official government stationery.
These blokes are all the same.
In fact, she wouldn't be surprised if it was one man, slipping out between sessions to change his tie, before coming back in to be the Leading Expert on supermarket prices, and Opera House décor, and then… what is it now? defence strategy. It's always the same boring pinstripes, the same polite-yet-dull voice, the same tentative and unfunny jokes, the same bland haircut.
Defence Strategy Man has reached the tentative joke portion of the meeting: he finishes his list of routine concerns with "…and, of course, keeping the drop bear population under control," and Julia smiles politely and agrees "Now that would be a problem! Ha ha."
…which is exactly what she's said to the last three meeting jokes this afternoon.
DS Man doesn't smile back. He coughs, and says "That… err… wasn't a joke, Madam Prime Minister."
What? Maybe she's missed something.
She blinks. "I'm sorry, Mr…" ("Cambry," her assistant murmurs) "…Cambry, I didn't catch what you said. You were saying?"
He coughs again. "I was saying, Prime Minister, that it is important for us to monitor the distribution of drop bears across the country, to minimise the number of fatal attacks. Especially given that their natural feeding grounds were severely affected by last year's bushfires, and they have been migrating closer to densely populated regions, where the…"
Julia sits there, blankly listening to a very serious discussion of options for culling, attack severity, breeding programs, and experimental de-fanging.
Ironically, a conversation about bloodsucking destructive monsters sounds just as horribly boring as the pork exports did. Maybe it's the room? Nothing can be interesting when you're surrounded by beige wallpaper.
She asks, for the fifth time, "So… drop bears are real?"
"Yes, Prime Minister. Or – as Sir Humphrey would say, 'we are convinced to within an acceptable margin of error that belief in their existence might not be unwarranted'." He smiles, thinly.
Ah – tentative jokes. They're back in familiar realms of conversation. Great.
She laughs, he echoes her, they both smile, and once again she feels in control of the situation.
She's Prime Minister J.G. the First, and she can handle anything – even the sudden and unexpected existence of imaginary animals.
"Thank you, Mr Cambry. I'll bear your recommendations in mind, and keep you apprised of all drop-bear-related decisions made by my Cabinet." She nods in a business-like manner. "Was there anything else?"
"Not really, Prime Minister. I just have a few written updates for you on army recruitment procedures, and also the latest report on the Slayers. Can I assume Mr Rudd has already informed you about Australia's Slayers?" He looks at her hopefully.
"No… What are they? A kind of missile?"
He sighs. "Well, sort of, Madam Prime Minister. But it's a slightly complicated –" Another sigh. "This might take a while to explain…"