Disturbing news. A person of Middle East ethnicity is seen at a protest trying to save some old kauri tree that's about to be cut down.
The threat of the Isis state is ever nearer.
I make a few calls on my shoephone and set up a tail on his movements.
Suspicions are immediately aroused when he leaves the protest meeting and steps on to a bus. So as well as the fact he's an environmental terrorist, he supports public transport.
I take the secret elevator to the secret bunker and tap in my secret code. It says I've got it wrong. Goddamit! I'm always confusing it with my Apple ID.
It asks me various security questions and then sends me an email which I have to authenticate but still nothing happens. I phone a secret number but I'm put on hold and listen to Neil Finn.
In the end I knock on the door. GCSB director Una Jagose opens it and says, "Oh, it's you. Come in."
There are 64 screens on the wall and 63 of them show the Islamic jihadist sitting on the bus and looking out the window.
The other screen has the cricket.
"Who's winning?" I ask no one in particular.
"Good will always prevail against evil," says the American. He's always there. He won't tell me his name. He says it's on a need-to-know basis, and it's best if I don't know anything.
The suicide bomber gets off the bus and goes home. He eats dinner, watches the cricket, and goes to bed.
It has all the hallmarks of a holy warrior. We're left mulling over what to do about it when my shoephone rings. It's Bronagh. She says, "Are you home for dinner?"
"Hang on, I've got a call on my other shoe," I tell her.
It's Cheryl Gwen, Inspector General of Intelligence and Security. "Someone is threatening to put 1080 into baby powder," she says.
I stand there in my socks with the worries of the world on my shoulders.
"Go home," says the American. "We'll take care of it."
They always do. Bronagh heats up a chop. I eat dinner, watch the cricket, and go to bed.
Idiots from the media ask why I have a footprint on both sides of my face.
"For starters, I don't," I tell them. "But if I did, there's actually a variety of interpretations that amount to a perfectly innocent explanation.
"But actually what you might want to do is go home and ask yourselves whether New Zealanders have the right to know whether its Prime Minister is becoming so arrogant, so pathetic, and so far removed from reality that he's in danger of floating away like some sort of balloon.
"And the answer to that question is, in general, no."
I take the secret elevator to the secret bunker and tap in my secret code. It says I've got it wrong. Goddamit! I'm always confusing it with my Eftpos pin.
It asks me various security questions and then sends me an email which I have to authenticate but still nothing happens. I phone a secret number but I'm put on hold and listen to Dave Dobbyn.
In the end I knock on the door. SIS director Rebecca Kitteridge opens it and says, "Oh, it's you. Come in."
The American had sent for me. He needed my signature on documents authorising the surveillance of anyone who has ever had any dealings with anyone called either Edward or Nicky.
"Sounds fair," I say. I stay and watch the cricket.
Steven Joyce says we need to bribe Northland with another bridge. I tell him we can build one from some old kauri tree that's about to be cut down.
There's nothing more relaxing at the end of the week than to sit back, unscrew my head, and let it float around the room.
Whenever I need hot air to make it go higher, I just say a few words.
It rises to the ceiling.
I like it up there.
I like to watch.