Dear Diary, It’s our first day at State House, and my dear husband is so excited. I had just sat down for breakfast when he came galloping down the stairs in his Superman suit, shouting ‘I am Action Man! I am Supersata! I’ll catch all the rotters! Sack all the baddies! Get back all the stolen money! Put money in every pocketty! Supersata strikes again! I’ll chase all the cockroaches back to Chipata! Clean up the world in ninety days!’
‘Sit down and eat your cornflakes,’ I said sternly. ‘I’ve got a busy day ahead of me and I can’t stand much more of your nonsense.’
‘Just help me pump up this Superman Suit,’ he pleaded, ‘I want to grow big like a real Superman. Even bigger than Nyamasoya the Nasty Dinosaur. I’ll float like a butterfly and sting like a bee! Put the world to rights with a single blow! Sack them all with immediate effect! Immediate effect! Wow! Pwow! Zing Zong!’
‘Don’t be silly, the real Superman fell off his horse and broke his neck.’ I said as I pulled at the zip on his Superman suit. ‘Go and take this off and put on your old baggy double-breasted suit that hides your paunch. And while you’re at it, clean your teeth, your breath smells terrible. The press is waiting for you in the conference room and they expect to hear something sensible. And make sure you don’t smile, or they’ll see your teeth.’
Oh My God! If I don’t control this man, the nation is going to rack and ruin. At breakfast this morning I picked up The Post to find that my dear little Superman has pre-occupied himself with trying to solve old problems by giving them new names.
As I was reading my dear husband came bouncing down to breakfast in his Superman suit. ‘I think I can fly!’ he sang as he leapt into the air, and landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, screaming and nursing his left ankle. I bandaged his ankle, and made him change his suit and gargle with mouthwash. ‘There’s another press conference waiting for you,’ I said grimly. ‘This time they’re waiting to hear of your new appointments. And don’t change the name of
Dear Diary, why do men never really grow up? He arrived at breakfast this morning by sliding down the stairs on the ironing board, shouting ‘Today’s headlines! Superstar Supersata leads Superteam to Superprosperity!’
I looked up from The Post. ‘Not all the newspapers are as enthusiastic as yourself,’ I said dryly. ‘They are calling it the Geriatric Cabinet, saying they’re either too old, or too Bemba, or too corrupt, or in some cases all three.’
‘They shouldn’t worry about the Cabinet,’ he laughed, ‘they’re just old friends of mine who need assistance to have their ailments attended to at the Morningside Clinic. They’re not important, I shall be taking all the decisions myself! I am Supersata!’
Oh Dear Diary, Husbands are so difficult to control. I’ve got him fairly well house trained, but once he sees a microphone there’s no telling what he might say. Now The Post editorial has had to abandon Proverbs and has taken instead to more severe and magisterial language borrowed extensively and repetitively from Paul’s Letter to the Romans.
Apparently, at the press conference yesterday, my dear husband appointed a commission of enquiry into the sale of the Fiddle Bank, but in the next breath gave it back to Mr Fiddle. He also commissioned an enquiry to find out if it the Energy Relaxation Board was energetic or relaxed, but in the next announcement fired all members of the Board! ‘Surely,’ I said to my dear husband, ‘don’t you see that you need to hear the result of an enquiry before you take action? Don’t you have any common sense?’
‘Ah, my poor dear innocent wife,’ he replied, as he twirled around on the Persian carpet, his Superman cape flying in the air, ‘how little you understand about how politics really work. This little nuisance, Witless Kwindi, was insisting on a cabinet job, so instead I had to fob him off with the job of chairing a few totally irrelevant commissions.’
Dear Diary, Superman came bouncing down the stairs this morning in a jovial mood. ‘Good morning my dear,’ he said cheerily. ‘How lucky I am that God appointed me to be Supersata, and that He has guided my hand in appointing a new Cabinet! I hope my people are now beginning to appreciate what God has given them.’
I looked up from The Post. ‘Things are getting worse,’ I said. ‘Now the Women’s Movement is asking why there are only two women in the cabinet.’
He stopped in mid-spoonful of cornflakes. ‘What! Two women! How did they get in! I must check the appointment lists more carefully in future! That Dotty Scotty has let me down again! He’s too old to know the difference!
‘What are you talking about?’ I shouted. ‘You promised gender equality in decision making positions!’
‘I’m all in favour of that!’ he retorted. ‘You make your decisions in the kitchen, and I’ll make mine in the government. We must all stick to the things we know and understand! If I were to follow your advice, I’d soon get myself into a complete mess!’