A Confession

I really like Mike McRoberts' nose. It is a trustworthy nose. I know that I should appreciate his journalistic ability because he travels to countries at war, hit by terrifying natural disasters, etc. etc. I guess I admire him for those things, and the way he balances hosting 60 Minutes with news anchoring. But most of all I like him because I am sure that someone with such a prominent nose cannot be a bad person.

I also like Michael Morro. Once he did a piece where he was asking pedestrians in Newmarket their opinions. I work in Newmarket. It made me angry - my most favouritest roaming news reporter had been mere metres away from me, and I had failed to rugby tackle him to express my delight at his direct, informative style.

He also likes interviewing people on benches, which I think shows he is a friendly sort of fellow. Not like that inferior reporter Tristan Clayton, who always holds his microphone as though it's a weapon. Michael Morro is a man of the people, with excellently bushy eyebrows to boot.

I have something of a love/hate relationship with Natasha Singh. When Samantha Harris is too busy flicking her hair up in ridiculous directions to host Nightline, Singh steps on in. And she spends the whole time looking as though she's ready for a nap. Maybe it's the heavy eyeshadow, maybe she just has really big eyelids. Whatever the reason, she makes me sleepy.

My heart, however, belongs to main political reporter Duncan Garner. A good solid name, indeed. Solid like the man himself.

There is something lovely about this political reporter's self-righteousness. You could tell that Winston Peters wanted to take Garner outside and give him a good man-clobbering after he wouldn't stop interrogating Peters about party donations. Once he wore an army jacket instead of a suit. I was concerned Duncan was cold - after all, they have him standing on the steps of Parliament for hours, with no shelter from the harsh Wellytron wind. He is on first name terms with all of the politicians. He likes to chase them around the hallways of Parliament. I wish I was on first name terms with Duncan.

And if you have read this far, you might realise what a hazard my upcoming trip to Wellington is. I have told myself I cannot hang around the steps of Parliament for some Duncan-Spotting. I have told myself that would be unhealthy. And I am resolved not to.

I have a feeling though that when I check my watch and see the hand is nearly at six, my feet might get a mind of their own. I might not have managed to corner Morro, but Garner is ripe for the picking.