I've refused to change my style since I was appointed interim Prime Minister.
I shoot from the hip and tell it like it is.
As an example, many people believe that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
I can see the merits in that argument.
However where does that leave lunch and dinner? Are we to disregard them as somehow less important?
Let's crunch the numbers.
Breakfast is certainly the first meal of the day.
I don't think there's any dispute about that, but it mustn't provide the foundation for making wild, off-the-cuff remarks that we might have cause to regret.
What I am prepared to say is that I think of breakfast as one of the most important meals of the day.
As interim Prime Minister, I'm about to experience the joy of moving into the sumptuous surrounds of Premier House.
My predecessor lived there, as was his right. There were times when I visited him on official business at Premier House, and I'd cast envious glances around at the grand old Victorian pile, and think to myself, "One day, this'll be all yours."
That day has arrived. Now it's my right. The movers came today and took away everything from my house in Karori, and headed for my new address in Thorndon.
I might throw caution to the winds and go along with the belief that breakfast is the most important meal of the day when I sit down to eat it in considerable style tomorrow morning at Premier House!
An obscure parliamentary rule has prevented me from moving to Premier House.
I walked to the corner dairy this morning for cornflakes and milk, and brought it back to my empty house, and sat on the kitchen floor.
The cupboards were bare, so I put small handfuls of cornflakes in my mouth and washed it down with swigs of milk.
The movers still have everything in storage so I experimented by pouring the milk into the packet of cornflakes, and drinking from it like a glass.
It works better if it's a plastic packet, inasmuch the milk doesn't leak like it does through the cardboard packet, but on the other hand it's easier to drink from the straight edge of a cardboard packet, whereas the milk tends to dribble down my chin when I drink it from a plastic packet.
Mary asked if the movers were bringing back everything from storage any day soon, and I said it was too early to tell, that these things take time, and it wouldn't achieve anything by making unreasonable demands.
"But you're the Prime Minister," she said.
"The interim Prime Minister," I pointed out.
"Even so," she said. "You're the boss. You're in charge. You're actually a world leader."
"You're on the world stage."
"I guess so."
"You rub shoulders with other world leaders on the world stage."
I said, "I do, don't I? You're right. I'm getting on the phone now to those movers! I'll give them a rocket! They need to know who they're dealing with!"
One of my advisers phoned. His voice was a bit shaky. "I've got Trump on hold," he said. "He wants to talk to you."
I looked at the plastic and cardboard packets of cornflakes, and wondered which would be easy to crawl into and hide.