When I was growing up, my family never talked about money, religion or politics. It was considered the height of rudeness to inquire as to someone's God, political leanings or current account balance. I kept to this don't-ask-don't-tell policy until I met the economist.
The economist's family don't believe in confidentiality: they think non-disclosure is suspicious. His friends don't like secrets.
Initially shocked (shortly after I moved in, one woman walked around the entire house holding things up and asking how much they cost), I soon learned 'fessing up avoided lengthy interrogations and background checks.
Money? I don't have any, and most likely never will, a BA in English and a Diploma in Teaching long being social indicators of poverty.
Religion? Only when dying.
Politics? Good question.
It shouldn't have escaped even the most fashion-forward that there is an election this year. And a rugby thing. The results of the latter affecting the results of the former.
Before November, there will be plenty of skulduggery and political bribery (if anyone's interested, shoes would secure my vote). With any election year comes Michael Laws banging on about Maori killing their own children and the Right mithering about reverse racism and fiscal imprudence.
The lefties give everyone a cuddle, and nothing actually changes.
On election days gone by, my parents voted, returned home and put the roast on without feeling they had to divulge their party of choice. I'll have no such luck.
The economist loves politics as much as he loves saving 25c per 100gm of cheese. He is a political junkie.
An election year is crack cocaine to him. He will drive me insane over the next six months, attempting all sorts of trickery to figure out who I'm going to vote for.
Problem is, I don't have a clue.
When I met the economist I was a silly wee thing, about as politically aware as a toaster.
Working in the arts, I voted for Aunty Helen ("you and your commie mates," the economist hisses) because it paid to. Now after nine proposal-less years of waking to Morning Report, three general elections and one burglary, I've slid noticeably to the right. Returning from India, I quite liked John Key - always smiling, talking like a North Shore dyslexic.
Now, that ceaseless grin is getting annoying and, in my opinion, Gerry Brownlee clearly can't be trusted with anybody's lunch money. Who does that leave?
The Maori party are always squabbling, the leader of the Labour party is so boring I can't remember his name, Hone Harawira is mental and Winston's a joke. It's a no-horse race.
"I don't understand, so why should I care?" asked voting-age daughter Sophia. She's not alone in her sullen indifference.
The New Zealand General Social Survey conducted between April 2008 and March 2009 found fewer than half of all 18 to 24-year-olds (46%) had voted. Maybe that's because not one New Zealand politician is cool or stylish, and many stammer like the severely bullied.
Speaking of bullies, I've actually met Don Brash, then head of treasury.
Wearing a daringly low-cut red dress, I simpered: "If you sign me, will that make me legal tender?" For the next couple of days, I had cash assets.
Come election day, the economist will hunker down with some strong ale and a box of tissues to watch the country's future unfurl.
My problem is, politicians don't wield any real power. They can't have anyone shot, however many foreshore-this and seabed-thats they pass.
Free helicopter rides are the best they can hope for.
I'm sick of how scummy New Zealand is becoming. There's nothing for it but starting my own totalitarian party. I'll join forces with Don. Ruthless and bald, it will be easy to keep him clean. My platforms?
Malono Blahnik. Our only tenet: the death penalty for child murder.
The Kaitaia woman who is charged with bashing her daughter to death, whoever killed the 6-month-old Ngaruawahia girl who died from traumatic brain injury inflicted in a "very violent" incident - the minute that chopper lands at Starship with another bludgeoned baby, they'll be getting a little visit from my troops.
Special forces made up of volunteers and the unemployed will be charged with stopping the tide of scum washing this tiny island and supplied with captive bolt pistols. It won't be expensive.
No need for police to appeal pathetically and uselessly for co-operation from family members.
No stonewalling, no guilty silences. The bodies of parents who torture their offspring put to use as liquefaction sandbags.
Don and I will need a name for our new extreme-right party, something that sums up the country's collective breaking point. What about the National Assembly of the Zealously Intolerant, abbreviated to save ink. I think it's got a certain ring to it.
