ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
Looking out the front window of the Two Hands Cafe in New York’s fabled Chinatown district, the former Prime Minister of Australia sips his second full-fat flat white of morning while he flicks through yesterday’s edition of failing New York Times.
A can of full-strength Coca-Cola sits on top of an empty plate that just moments ago, had a double-brie ham cheese croissant on it.
To the casual observer, this middle-aged man doesn’t have a care in the world.
Speaking exclusively to The Advocate’s New York bureau, Malcolm Turnbull explained that this is the first September he’s had off in years.
Not from the perils and responsibilities of running a nation – but all those that come with being a peoples’ elected representative.
“You know,” he said.
“This is the first September I’ve had off since 2004. I don’t have to pretend like I care about the league or the union or whatever else is going on. I tell you something for free. There was never anything more crushing than having a hard week in Canberra, to fly back to Sydney thinking you can just get in the hammock and smoke a cigarillo,”
“Only to be told by some smooth-palmed son-of-a-mate private school advisor I probably had working for me that I’d be going to a Roosters game or something to that effect. I don’t know how Howard at the energy. But then again, I never wanted to be outwardly compared to Paul Keating, who famously hated sport. He’s a strange fish, that bloke is.”
The waitress came to clear the table and Malcolm looked up at her.
“You know I used to be the Prime Minister of Australia,” he said.
She smiled and nodded back at him. Then took the plates and left.
“Fuck my life.”
More to come.
