This is the story of Mr Wilfred John. By Harry Almey

The great, green rolling hills of Otago seemed to go on forever. The great paddocks of the countryside were like lime skin, dotted with cows like spots. On the base of a great hill in the distance, lay a house. My house. My home, the one that is share with my beloved, and my two children. At least, till death do us part.

Stop thinking to yourself Wilfred!

I distracted myself from thinking about my age by wondering about my 57th birthday, in a week's time. It would be a grandeur event, and envy of my rivals! But now, I have some guests to entertain.

Important guests.

I walked through the beautiful and grand garden, decorated by exotic flowers and plants, on the smoke great path.

I noticed that smoke was bellowing out of the chimney, the cook must be preparing the meal. Either that or it's below zero in there. Chuckling to myself, I walked by the garage, especially large for a garage because the family chauffeur lived there, without giving it a second thought.

I walked in to find my staff as busy as bees. Janitors, maids, butlers, visitors, guests, guests friends and even a group of inspectors.

Shuffling my way through the small crowd, I entered the living room.

It was adorned with extotic ornaments on the wall, and decorated by unique paintings. Walking through the bright red room was breathtaking for almost all of my guests, but I ignored all the wonders. After all, I had lived here for 13 years. Walking up the large staircase to see if my Wife was ready, I remembered how much I hated these stairs, it did “wonders” for my back. Realising that, it was in fact, time for tea, and that my Wife would be in the Dining room, I begrudgingly back headed down the stairs.

The Dining room was as quiet as a graveyard. I swiftly made my way to my seat after Maria, my wife, gave me “the look.” Pressing the button on the wall, which signaled to the Chef and Chief Butler that we wanted First Course. First meal was an assortment of fruits, grapes, apples and even a pineapple. The ladies received a glass of wine and the men got a half pint. I was seated at the front and my wife was on the opposite end. There were three seats on each side, and the ones closest to me I considered the most important. Therefore Gustav Krupp, leader of the major steel producer, Krupp, of the 30-year old German Empire, was the closest to me on the left. But alas, the seat closest to me on my right, was empty. Two years ago, my son John, left for Cape Colony. I do not blame the Boers, their land was taken as “compensation” by The British for the Napoleon War. Not many of my neighbours understand me, I love New Zealand, not The Empire. I immerse myself in culture I respect culture. I love the New Zealanders for their acceptance of me, as a Jew. But Imperialism hates foreign culture by nature. I could not think of one that didn’t.

Second course came in. German sausages, salad, mangos from India and large strips of beef. Fizzed water was given to all my guests, but my Wife, Krupp, and I got American Coca-Cola. We all merrily drank the fizzy and devoured the meat. I noticed with amusement the amount of energy Krupp used when tearing at the sausages.

And finally, pudding. The waiter brought in full can of ice cream for all. Ah the richness of ice cream! The milky texture, the vanilla taste, it was perfect! Some of the ladies even ate it so fast that they got a headache! The history of ice cream is fascinating to, from the ancient Chinese, to the Romans, English. Even Marco Polo!

I swear, it only took 5 minutes for us all to be done. And after we had all finished, the ladies, my wife and one other, left the room. Kruup, Bob, Archie and I were all soon holding cigarettes. Conversations about the “Stock Market”, the “Boer scum”and the “Damn Chinese Boxers” swiftly cropped up. Even drunk Krupp started laughing about how embarrassing Kaiser “Willy” was. But in the last few minutes of the gathering-turned party, all I could do was stare out the window. While my guests took shots, poor men, children and women mostly clothed with rags, marched in a line through the countryside. Flanking them were the easily recognisable Bucket-hat police officers of Otago, I mused. The people were probably starving, strikers, pushers for universal suffrage and free rights. Oh in this “civilized nation” there are ills and woes. The same could be said for every nation, every Empire and every colony in this sickly world. No man, woman or child is perfect, and if nations revolve around the people, how can they be “Great.”

I sat there for an hour, stewing over this, while my tea went cold, and I got sleepy after a while. I woke up suddenly as fireworks lit up the sky. Guy Fawkes, I forgot. The sun was setting, orange haze, grabbing on for dear life as it was dragged away from my home. Beautiful, thats all I could think. My Guests had left a long time ago. If anything, I thought before I dosed of once more, that only thing I patriotic about, was Dunedin. My Home, for as long as blood flows through my veins.

That was my conclusion.

Today had been a great day, despite the chaos that thrived in this world.

But tomorrow is another day.