A Matter of National Importance

Tuesday 11th August 2026

Tonight’s Mindfulness Meeting was a complete fiasco. I blame Winston, who triggered the Emergency Meeting this morning by setting off the Emergency Meow Alert in the agreed way (three crisp meows at dawn or dusk).

We were halfway through a Speaking Paw session on Remaining Calm in Troubled Times when Winston arrived. He was ten minutes late which was unusual. Winston considers lateness a sign of moral weakness and has previously suggested that cats arriving more than seven minutes after the advertised start time should be suspended for twenty-four hours for a first offence, and seven days for a second.

He marched underneath the deck, sat down heavily and looked around the group.

“We may have a situation,” he said.

“Are we discussing politics?” said Serafina, looking hopeful.

“I haven’t mentioned politics,” said Winston, who was clearly wearing his political face — eyes narrowed, ears back. It was definitely about politics.

“Is this about the Prime Minister?” said Cookie innocently.

There was an uncomfortable silence and Smokey O’Neill produced a notebook from seemingly nowhere. Mr Darcy, who had been sitting quietly at the edge of the meeting, moved in closer.

“I think,” Winston said carefully, “we should avoid unnecessary speculation.”

“Is he resigning?” asked Cookie.

“Has he been rolled?” asked Smokey.

“Who’s going to be the new leader?” I asked.

Winston glared at us.

“I am merely saying that there have been certain … developments.”

“This is a Mindfulness Meeting,” said Hypo dreamily. “Whatever is happening in Wellington is beyond our control.”

“Not necessarily,” said Mr Darcy. I could almost hear his brain ticking over.

“I should make it perfectly clear that I am not suggesting feline involvement in the machinery of government. However,” he continued, “it would be irresponsible not to have appropriate contingency arrangements in place.”

“What contingency arrangements?” asked Cookie.

“Appropriate ones,” said Mr Darcy, looking mildly surprised by the question.

“Do they need help?” I asked, looking at Serafina.

“Oh I couldn’t,” she said with a shy smile that looked slightly disingenuous. “I’d feel like an imposter.”

“They need someone calm, experienced, respected,” said Winston, sitting up straighter. “Someone reassuring. Preferably orange.”

To my horror everyone looked at me.

“No,” I said firmly. “We’ve been down this road before with disastrous res—”

“I was merely pointing out that in times of national uncertainty, people often look for a reassuring figure,” said Winston.

Mr Darcy cleared his throat and reminded us that constitutional arrangements in New Zealand are rather more complicated than simply identifying an available orange cat. Serafina thanked him, fluffing up her dark grey fur, while Smokey O’Neill began drawing what appeared to be a flowchart.

Cookie was looking increasingly excited.

“I think Weasley would make a great Chief Mouser at the Beehive,” she said.

I tried to arrange my face into a humble, yet statesmanlike expression.

“Thank you, Cookie.”

“Bees like cats,” said Hypo dreamily.

“No they don’t,” said Serafina with conviction. “I was once stung on the nose by a—”

Darcy, who had been slyly looking at Smokey O’Neill’s flowchart, suddenly seized on an idea.

“I’ve got it!” he cried and then announced, as though it were his idea, “Weasley should lead a delegation to Wellington, with Winston acting as his deputy!”

“Why me?” said Winston.

“Because it’s not your first rodeo,” replied Darcy dryly.

Winston narrowed his eyes.

“How are we going to get there?” I asked, completely unsure of what I’d do even if I did manage to get there.

“I’ll make the appropriate arrangements with the New Zealand Air Force,” said Mr Darcy importantly.

I was becoming concerned about how quickly events were moving. There are moments in life when history places its paw upon your shoulder and, despite my earlier misgivings, I began to wonder whether this might be one of them. Then I remembered Larry.

I have admired Larry the Cat of 10 Downing Street for years, partly because he is extremely debonair in a statesmanlike sort of way, but mainly because he has achieved something almost unheard of in modern politics — he has kept his job! Prime Ministers come and go, Cabinets are reshuffled, Ministers resign and leaders appear outside famous black doors making emotional speeches, but Larry remains exactly where he is. If anyone knew how to help humans through a political crisis, surely it was Larry.

“We need to get Larry involved,” I announced.

“Who’s Larry?” said Hypo.

Darcy explained that Larry was the Chief Mouser at Number 10 Downing Street as though he were someone he’d known for years.

“Actually,” he added casually, “I may have a contact who can arrange a Zoom meeting.”

Of course he did.

Wednesday 12th August 2026

At 8:30 this morning, we had a Zoom meeting with Larry the Cat of 10 Downing Street.

I had spent forty-five minutes grooming beforehand and positioned myself carefully in front of Mummy’s laptop so that the camera caught my best side. Mummy asked why I’d put something round my neck that resembled a bow tie, but I pretended not to hear her. I wanted to look professional without giving the impression that I had tried too hard.

Winston joined the meeting from Church Bay. Mr Darcy logged in from Purau under the name CONSTITUTIONAL ADVISOR, which annoyed Winston considerably, while Smokey O’Neill was taking minutes and Serafina had joined solely, she claimed, “to prevent an international incident.” Cookie looked so glamorous that I briefly worried Larry might forget why we’d called.

Then Larry appeared on the screen.

I had prepared several intelligent questions, but the moment I saw him they completely deserted me. There he was, in London, at Number 10, looking every inch the distinguished elder statesman. He was perhaps a little older than his official photographs, but that only added gravitas. This was a cat who had watched powerful humans arrive with motorcades, advisors and enormous plans for the future, only to disappear a few years later carrying cardboard boxes.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Weasley.” My voice had come out so high-pitched that I was instantly reminded of Squeak.

“Yes,” said Larry pleasantly. “I know.”

This threw me. Of course he knew. It was a Zoom meeting and my name was written underneath my face, but for one glorious moment I wondered whether he might have tuned in to my podcast.

I attempted to thank him for agreeing to meet us, but unfortunately my words became tangled somewhere between my brain and my mouth and I ended up saying that it was an honour to meet his office, which made no sense whatsoever. Fortunately Serafina stepped in.

She thanked Larry for agreeing to speak to us at such short notice and explained that we were experiencing a period of political uncertainty in New Zealand and were interested in his unique perspective as someone who had served alongside several British Prime Ministers. This was much better. I relaxed slightly and tried to look as though Serafina was my Chief of Staff.

“Of course,” she continued, in a voice that was trying much too hard to sound casual, “you would remember Jacinda Ardern?”

Larry’s ears pricked up.

“Paddles,” he said.

Serafina’s entire face lit up.

“You knew about Paddles?”

“Everyone knew about Paddles,” said Larry. “Ginger and white. Extra toes.”

I looked down at my own perfectly ordinary orange paws and quietly tucked them underneath myself.

“She was our First Cat,” said Serafina proudly. “Jacinda adopted her from the SPCA.”

“Yes, very sad what happened to her,” said Larry. “She had quite a following, as I recall.”

“She did,” said Serafina almost tearfully. “Poor Jacinda was devastated.”

I was beginning to feel that the meeting had gone badly off course. I had waited years for an opportunity to speak to Larry and somehow the conversation had become about Serafina’s celebrity crush and a deceased ginger cat who had more toes than me. To make matters worse, Larry appeared interested.

“I met Jacinda Ardern,” he said after a moment. “Seemed sensible. Didn’t make a lot of fuss.”

Serafina looked as though she had just received a personal message from the universe.

“Did she pat you?” she whispered.

I stared at her in disbelief. Larry thought about this for longer than I considered necessary.

“Probably.”

Serafina sighed.

This was outrageous. I decided it was time to bring the discussion back to the reason we were actually there.

“Larry,” I said, perhaps a little more loudly than necessary, “as one senior political cat to another, what advice would you give me if I were asked to … let’s say, calm the waters in Wellington during a period of national crisis?”

Winston coughed so violently that for a moment I thought he had a furball. Larry stared at me from the screen.

“Don’t,” he said.

This was not the answer I had been expecting. I asked him to elaborate and he explained that he had been at Number 10 for a very long time and had seen Prime Ministers arrive convinced that they were indispensable. They weren’t. Humans, he said, became terribly excited about power, whereas cats understood that the building mattered more than the person temporarily occupying it. His own approach was quite simple. He kept the mice down, found somewhere warm to sleep, remained on reasonable terms with the staff and tried not to be photographed doing anything embarrassing. I thought about some of my recent Facebook photographs and decided not to pursue this point.

“What happens when a Prime Minister resigns?” asked Smokey O’Neill, who had resumed taking notes.

Larry said that he generally had a sleep. Leadership challenges would come and go and would be treated in much the same way, although Cabinet reshuffles could occasionally be worth investigating if somebody had left a sandwich unattended.

“There can be no power without sleep,” he added.

Mr Darcy looked troubled by the lack of constitutional complexity in this approach and began asking something about continuity of executive authority, but Larry appeared to lose interest and started licking one of his paws.

I realised our allotted time must be nearly over and there was still so much I wanted to ask him. I wanted to know whether he had ever considered writing his memoirs, whether he preferred chicken or salmon, what he thought about the current standard of Chief Mousers internationally and whether, if he were ever in New Zealand, he might consider visiting Diamond Harbour. Instead I panicked.

“Do you have any final advice for Winston and me if we decide to go to Wellington?” I gabbled.

Larry stopped washing.

“Yes. When you feel overwhelmed with the worries of the world, sleep. Never get too attached to any one Prime Minister. And keep an eye on Winston. You can never be sure where his allegiances lie.”

At this point Winston “accidentally” sat on the keyboard and the Zoom meeting was disconnected.

“Winston!” I shouted.

“Technical difficulties,” he said.

I sat staring at the blank screen for some time, reflecting upon the wisdom I had just received and wondering whether it would have been inappropriate to ask Larry for his private email address.

Thursday 13th August 2026

Last night I snuggled into Mummy’s dressing gown while considering Larry’s advice. There were, I had to admit, certain disadvantages to installing myself at the Beehive that had not been properly considered at the Mindfulness Meeting. I would presumably have to spend quite a lot of time with whoever the current Prime Minister was and, as Larry had discovered, they can change regularly. There would also be interviews, early starts and people constantly wanting to take photographs of me. Worse still, I might have to spend extended periods away from Mummy, my electric blanket and the comforting folds of her dressing gown.

This morning I called another Emergency Meeting and informed everyone that, after careful consideration and consultation at the highest international level, I would not be putting myself forward for the job of Chief Mouser at the Beehive. Serafina accepted my decision with a speed I found slightly hurtful.

“I think that’s very wise, Weasley,” she said, giving me one of her calm smiles. “Leadership is an enormous responsibility and sometimes the strongest thing you can do is recognise when somebody else might be better suited to the role.”

I stared at her.

“Who?”

“Oh, nobody in particular,” she added hastily.

Winston said he was relieved because he had never agreed to be my deputy in the first place and still wasn’t sure who he wanted to support after the upcoming election. I noted his use of the word “after”. Smokey O’Neill crossed several items off his flowchart, while Cookie said she still thought I would have looked lovely in the official photographs. I thought that would be the end of the matter.

I should have known better. Serafina raised her Speaking Paw.

“I have been giving this some thought,” she began, assuming the expression she normally uses before saying something she considers inspirational. “Perhaps the problem is that we’ve been approaching this from the wrong direction. Wellington doesn’t need cats interfering in politics. Politicians need emotional support.”

Winston looked suspicious.

Serafina explained that politicians were clearly under enormous stress and that a small delegation of appropriately trained cats could provide a calming, non-partisan presence during difficult periods. There could be purring during leadership challenges, quiet companionship after bad polling and, where necessary, someone prepared to sit on an MP until they stopped talking.

I had to admit that this made considerably more sense than anything we had discussed so far.

“We could support everyone,” Serafina continued. “Government, Opposition, crossbenchers. It wouldn’t matter who they were or what they believed. This would be about empathy, inclusion and kindness.”

“We should probably avoid making any firm commitments at this stage,” said Winston.

Serafina stared at him.

“It’s emotional support, Winston.”

“Exactly. Best to keep our options open.”

Serafina said that the delegation would need some form of coordinating body and that, fortunately, she had already given considerable thought to a name.

“I’m calling it Felines for Compassion and Kindness,” she announced proudly. “F.C.K.”

There was an unusual silence. Smokey O’Neill stopped writing and Mr Darcy suddenly became very interested in a patch of dirt between his paws.

Winston frowned.

“There seems to be something missing.”

“What?” asked Serafina.

“U,” said Winston.

Mr Darcy put his head in his paws.

Serafina ignored him and produced several sheets of paper containing what she called a preliminary statement of values. These included kindness, compassion, inclusion, transparency and bringing people together, along with something about a different kind of power.

“You’ve been watching Jacinda on television again,” I said. “You’re doing the voice.”

“Voice? I don’t know what you mean,” said Serafina, looking offended.

She went on to explain that leadership did not always mean being in charge. Sometimes it meant listening, creating space for others and responding with kindness rather than division.

“You’re still doing it,” I said.

Mr Darcy intervened before Serafina could respond. He said that while he strongly supported the principle of emotional assistance during periods of constitutional uncertainty, there would clearly need to be minimum standards before any cat could provide official emotional support at Parliament. He mentioned accreditation, confidentiality agreements, political neutrality and a legally defensible distinction between therapeutic purring and unauthorised political influence.

I could see Serafina’s enthusiasm beginning to fade.

“I could do the accreditation,” said Smokey O’Neill.

“Who’s going to accredit you?” asked Winston.

Smokey looked worried and started another flowchart.

Cookie volunteered for the delegation on the grounds that she was exceptionally good at sitting on people, while Hypo said she would like to provide emotional support to the bees.

“There aren’t any bees at the Beehive,” hissed Serafina irritably.

Hypo looked confused.

“Why do they call it a beehive then?”

Nobody knew.

I remembered Larry’s warning and looked at Winston. My big brother had been unusually quiet for at least three minutes, which was enough to cause concern.

“Do you have confidence in the current Prime Minister?” I asked.

“That depends what you mean by confidence,” replied Winston.

There was another silence.

Mr Darcy coughed.

“In fairness to Winston, he has been careful to maintain constructive relationships across a broad range of possible electoral outcomes.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“What does that mean?”

Winston suddenly found something fascinating in the middle distance.

I stared at him. Larry had been right. Of course Larry had been right.

By this stage the Emergency Meeting had lasted almost two hours, nobody had practised any mindfulness whatsoever and Hypo had wandered away to talk to a bee. I reminded everyone that I had withdrawn from national affairs and had no intention of becoming involved in F.C.K., whatever it might eventually turn out to be.

I went inside and found Mummy’s dressing gown.

Larry was right. When you feel overwhelmed with the worries of the world, sleep. There can be no power without sleep.

I curled myself into a comfortable orange ball and closed my eyes.

Wellington would have to look after itself.