I’m sitting in Chieflys – supposing the word ‘chief’ is a reference the many old Prime Ministers that came before them. Not sure about the rest. I’m sat down.

Table for…

One.

One, ok this way please.

It all starts with a continental breakfast, perhaps it’s complimentary. Perhaps not. I get a coffee and a pineapple juice. Thinking of the exploitation required to get this piping hot cup of stimulation into the unbranded matte black cup. The pineapple juice is a treat, it makes me think of swingers. Keys in the bowl, everyone. I sip at the tall tumbler and the sugar hits. My bleary eyes give way to a sharp delight. Both hands full with vessels of liquid. One hot and bitter, one cold and sweet. I return my table for one. The continental breakfast has arrived, same as yesterday. A miniature croissant, warm in the middle, crusty on the outside. A tiny yoghurt in a glass tub – with coulis and honey. There is also a minute bowl of mixed fruit, chopped into roughly bite-sized chunks. Pineapple(again) and varied kinds of melon. There’s a Jam “BEERENBERG” – perhaps the exact same as the day before. I don’t usually add condiments to my croissants. I didn’t yesterday, I won’t today. But I smile to think that this cafe only has one tiny tub of Jam. Handed to the Prime Minister for his microissants each morning and tactfully declined. From early Edmund Barton to Lyons, Page, Menzies, the missing Holt and much beloved Hawke, Keating and even little Johnny turned it down to continue it’s sweet preserved life. I try the lid, it’s secure. By god, I’m right. Although the packet looks half empty. I’m aware that packaging is usually surrounds the goods by more than half, but perhaps in this case one of the more greedy politicians had a taste and then arranged for a new lid? I wouldn’t put it past on of the more recent chiefs – SCANDAL. I’ll pass on the temptation of Jam for now. Pay it forward. I’m unknowing as to whether or not Albo has been in recently. I guess I could pocket the Jam and try to deliver it to him. He’d likely be confused, perhaps even annoyed – knowing that he’d have to return the Jam to Chieflys. They’d check the contents, any less than half and he’d be strung up. The media would have a field day. I can imagine the front page. PM takes the jam out of everyone’s donut. My second breakfast arrives. The “Prime Monister’s Breakfast”. Eggs “my way”, bacon, potato rösti, one pathetic slice of tomato. How can the eggs be my way? I thought the PM would have a set way. The jam and I sit in silent confession. The coffee goes cold. The pineapple juice returns to room temperature. I worry about the health impacts of too much red meat. Put it all away. And my mind slips into gear for the day ahead. Salt muscles. Pepper digestion. Sweet, savoury, balance, contentment. I leave the Jam, for the next chief to consider. To be tempted by. Until tomorrow, at least.