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really be able to do until he developed the intellectual capacity of an eight-year-old.
    I was about to get seriously snaky when the phone rang again. This time it was a nice old Greek pensioner whose plumbing difficulties I had been shepherding through the maintenance division of the Housing Ministry. In comparison with the idiocy incarnate sitting opposite me, the institutional oddities at Housing were child’s play. I made a couple of quick calls to the appropriate authorities, threw my weight about in a minor way, and called the old bat to reassure her that she’d be flushing again before she knew it.
    By that stage, it was too late to call Charlene. Besides which, the day had kicked in with its customary vigour. In rapid succession I had a branch treasurer ring to fish for his postage costs to be reimbursed, a school wanting Charlene for its prize night, and a personal visit from a guy with a Ned Kelly beard describing himself as Citizens For A Freeway Free Future. I took him out to the waiting area and spent half an hour outlining the intricacies of the Western Ring Road community consultative process. He kept his helmet on for the entire conversation, so I’m not sure if he understood everything I told him.
    Just after eleven Agnelli rang.
    Angelo Agnelli was Charlene Wills’ ministerial adviser at Industry. The Industry Ministry was where government policy rubbed noses with the big end of town. The nose was Ange’s weapon of choice and Charlene paid him a princely sum to implement initiatives, expedite the legislative process, keep the mandarins on their toes, and God knew what else. Recently, he’d been making the effort to find the time to look over my shoulder and make tut-tutting noises.
    That day, the big bee in Agnelli’s bonnet was Joe Lollicato. A couple of years previously, Joe had been elected to one of the municipal councils in the area. And in the last round of local government polls he’d been returned with a handsomely increased majority. To Agnelli, who’d never been elected to anything in his life, this sort of personal popularity was both a personal affront and evidence that Lollicato was positioning himself to seize the party’s endorsement away from Charlene.
    ‘Forget Lolly,’ I told him. ‘Parliamentary ambitions are a fact of life around here. Lolly wouldn’t be the first person in local government to start thinking he’s on the up-escalator to Canberra. But if Lollicato wants a stab at Charlene’s job, and that’s a debatable point, he’ll have to wait until she decides to go, then take his chances along with everyone else. If he tries anything sooner, he’ll find out that a stretch at a suburban town hall, a few half-baked factional connections, and an Italian surname won’t be enough to convince a pre-selection panel to dump a sitting member. A minister at that.’
    Agnelli refused to be mollified. ‘There are plenty of people in the party who’d like to see Charlene taken down a peg or two. Lollicato’s a sneaky little prick. It wouldn’t pay to underestimate his deviousness. He’s got more friends than you’d suspect.’
    These were facts that could not be disputed, but they were hardly very specific, just the usual Labor Party love talk. The real reason for Agnelli’s antagonism towards Lollicato, I suspect, was cultural. I thought this because sensitivity to ethnic cultural nuances was an essential aspect of my professional capabilities.
    Charlene’s electorate, the whole area in fact, had Italians coming out of its armpits. Fully a quarter of all the Italians in the entire country lived in Melbourne’s northern suburbs, not counting their second and third generation descendants. This was apart from the Greeks, Lebanese, Maltese, Macedonians, Turks and Maoris. All things considered, Melbourne Upper should have been called Wogolopolis. A high level of skill in multiculturalism was, therefore, an indispensable aspect of my job.
    It was, I believed, a requirement I