It’s Clover between us: Imaginary interactions with Clover Moore

Or: L’espirit de l’escalier

Based on a true story.

Clover Moore came to my door. She gave me a pamphlet about her vision for the future of Sydney, wore a badge with her own name on it and was shorter in person than I expected. My fingers were covered in olive oil because I was cooking a nonspecific pasta sauce, or I would have certainly shaken her hand. She was with an entourage of (if I remember correctly) at least four other Clover-badged campaign assistants; one to knock on doors and three to presumably stop people like me from making out with Clover herself, who also stood at the safe distance of a metre from the front step. People remind me that she is married. I remind them that I have no shame when it comes to gay-seeming local politicians who prioritise environmentally sound transport options; that is a moral exception (sexception) that even my girlfriend understands. If the campaign entourage were absent, like if Clover had sent them to have an ice cream break while she doorknocked just a couple of houses herself, you know, because we can all imagine her pulling something pretty neat like that, she would have been a lot closer to my face (a metre closer) as I wished her good luck and told her that my housemates would be very jealous of the visit.

“Oh, so you’re the only one home?” she might have responded.

“Yes actually, but what about you? I would have expected for you to have a few people along, in respect of your considerable local celebrity.” In real life, managing to come out with this phrasing off the cuff and in despite of sincere nervousness would cause me to feel very impressive.

“You flatter me. Although, actually, I do have some people with me. They’re eating ice cream at the moment, but I am vegan,” she would add, if she were, “and I don’t so much care for sorbet, so I am alone for the next twenty minutes.”

“No way, I am also vegan!”

“Wow, does that mean you also ride a bicycle?”

“We call them bikes, but yes I do – this is my bike right here,” I would say, gesturing to the slick looking yellow road bike in the hallway, or perhaps it would be a chrome 80s BMX.

“Oh, that looks like a smooth ride,” or “is that vintage?” she would say, depending.

“I just finished fixing it up. You’re welcome to come in and have a closer look – wait, what am I saying. I’m sure you’ve still got a lot of doors to knock on, I should let you get going...”

“Well yes,” she would say, with some hesitation, “yes, I suppose.”

“Unless I could offer you a cup of tea?”

“Well, why not? Thankyou, I do like to stay in touch with the residents, after all.”

“Great! Please, come in. I’ll put on the kettle.”

Clover and I would listen to Jethro Tull on vinyl. She would comment on the surprisingly delicate flavour of the chamomile tea we were sipping, I would inform her that I had added a few extra ingredients, grown in styrofoam containers out the back, and we would talk about creative strategies for sustainable living in small-scale domestic urban environments. We might discuss the critical need to ensure that such concerns are dealt with responsibly in the political sphere, and find ourselves lightheartedly saying the words “think locally” at the same time. We would laugh, our eyes would meet, and, for a brief moment, the two of us would gaze into each other, communicating a silent longing. Clover would place her teacup down on the coffee table and look away.

“Clover. If you don’t mind my saying so, I’ve thought about all of this happening before. The circumstantial meeting, the tea, the Jethro Tull, even. I think of you often, in fact, and not only because pictures of your face currently flank all major roads in Ultimo. There could be something here – I know you see it,” I would entreat.

“You sweet thing,” she would begin slowly, her eyes still fixed on the coffee table. “Of course I see it – but I know you’ve only got a crush on me because I’m gay-seeming and I have prioritised environmental transport options. You only love me for my policies, not for the woman behind them. Besides, I’m married. And I have to think of the city. It’s coming up to an election, and if rumour got out that I was somehow involved with a digital native…”

“Oh, Clover, you’re right. That is precisely what I love about you; your dedication to this fine town. You must know that I understand. Although, we do have a few more minutes before your associates will start to wonder where you are – perhaps we could just sit here on the couch together and watch the video clip for Telephone?”

“I think I would like that. I think I would like that very much.”