Never mind that you will be in the iconic Bird’s Nest National Stadium for the opening ceremony of the Games dear, one only hopes you have not been tempted to partake of any bird’s nest soup in the process – I wonder if dear ole Ranawaka has given you a few extra tips on resisting and desisting bird’s nest soup and shark fin what not at the local diner down Ho Chi Ming Road when you decide you want to mangle a bit of lunch with the missus.

I don’t know why darling, but even as I sit here in my rocking chair overlooking the grassy plains below sucking on an ice cube there is a hint of suspicion lurking about my frontal lobe that you are up to no good.

I mean to say, one moment you are raking in a million smackers from businessmen at the cost of a biriyani packet and a smidgen of cheap red wine. Before Thellie could get outside her second glass of vodka and lime twist, there you most certainly are, nodding your head like a fading Chrysanthemum to please the regional chaps, by agreeing to diametrically opposed ideas.

And ere a generally miffed Narayanan and a rather ruffled Manmohan hassled after being forced to hail a common or garden taxi due to a mix up in official vehicles have barely left our shores, off you toddle to smog filled Beijing to sit through thick haze and rain at the games.

But games these days it would seem are what people are playing.

And while I intellectually masticated this profound thought that had made its way into my gray cells I had the pleasure of watching a grumpy Dilan and a sour faced minister whose name I cannot recall take the stairs at a recent hotel function.

I cannot tell a lie it pleased me no end to see some of your cabinet ministers unhappy. It is unchristian like and I may be compelled to go to confessional on the subject but my heart soars with an unholy delight when a gloomy pall comes over the face of one of your hundred odd ministering angels.

I will tell you why. The bally chaps live off the masses and more importantly live off me.

It is rather hard for Thellie to get herself a decent coriander leaf these days without counting the pennies; can you imagine darling the counting that must ensue before I think of my next glass of Wolf Blass Chardonnay? It is irritating me no end I can tell you. Ergo. A grumpy minister equals a happy sort of Thellie.

Anyway as I watched the two move around like pall bearers at Dracula’s funeral it was in that astute way of mine that I began to wonder a little at the object of their discontent. What could be bothering the bunch? It couldn’t be the cost of living as they live off the masses. It couldn’t be a lack of transport unlike for poor Narayanan because they live off the masses. It couldn’t be a shortage of fuel…yes you’ve guessed it because they live off the masses.

And then it dawned. There you were as usual putting on airs and graces telling your ministers they couldn’t go to the Olympic Games unless they were directly involved in games /sports. The problem with you darling is that having made such a cryptic statement you declined to define sports.

For instance a few swishes with a deli pihiya could mean one is into blood sports. A few risqué words over crackling telephone wires to Lake House employees and one could claim to be in another sport. It is all a matter of perspective.

Me thinks dear given that all you cabinet chaps are involved in all kinds of games at different levels they should all have been allowed to make the trip. Trust me they won’t be missed or I’ll pour my Dom Perignon down the kitchen sink.

But there you were prohibiting all except the sports minister and other officials from going anywhere near Beijing and sticking to your plan like bally Araldite glue. It is just like you darling to then rush off to the Olympic village with a large contingent of your own including the master of all games, Punchi Banda Jay in tow.

It is just like you dear to identify the biggest player of all time and take him with you. Surely if there is one bloke who can give the Paradisian athletes some timely tips on how to clinch a win it would be he.

And of course it goes without saying that Shiro would accompany you as well. A sporty girl too I might add. Often of a morning Thellie has come upon Shiro in baby pink track pants and snug blue T shirt after a goodish walk taking a little breather at the local church down the street. In fact as prayer time often requires a closing of the eyes it is only the scent of eu de cologne clinging to her temples that enables me to identify her.

And while you are watching the games in Beijing darling we are watching a few games in Paradise played by none other than Rakneel from the green camp. If the fellow isn’t hobbing with a bunch of editors one day he is seen knobbing with a pack of publishers the next.

In fact one might even say the milk of human kindness sloshes about in his guts as he listens to the tales of woe poured into his ear by those chaps in the Press Institute including Waroona, the camera guy.

Of course the Press Institute is hard pressed for some hard cash is what they are saying. The Swiss and the Danes they sob into the shoulder of the green man is not giving them enough.

And trust the green man to help get them some green backs. Rakneel, the kindly soul that he is, bent his good left ear to their lament and was to immediately make plans to help the needy. After all what use are friends in the European Union if you can’t ask them for a wad or two in the pressing institute’s time of dire need?

And that darling is exactly what Rakneel did. Rushed over to the EU chaps and asked them to fund the Press Institute. Tch. Tch.

Hmm. Rather fishy what, what? I mean to say, there the chaps were frolicking all over Temple Trees one moment and now they are fawning all over Cambridge Terrace the next. And to think darling. After all you have done for them. You even promised Waroona a press club cum tavern at the tourist ministry premises.

All I can do darling is echo Holmes as he shook his friend from deep slumber, saying come Watson come, the Game’s afoot.