Beware The Ides of March.

Et tu, Nikki? Et tu?

The reflection gazed back at him. Pale and a little paunchy, he wasn’t a well man.

He had a toga made from a fitted sheet and it kept bunching up under his armpits.

His Laurel wreath was made from some Christmas tree branches he’d found in the shed, not a real pine tree but twisted plastic and tinsel.

The sandals were three sizes too small and had a small raised heel, which added to his tottering.

He thought to himself if I’m supposed to be Caesar then how can I have a Christmas Tree? It’s 44 BC and Jesus hasn’t even been invented yet.

Image: Silvia Bortoloni

Sitting back on the bed he thought “Christ I’m bored, how long does bloody COVID take these days?”

It occurred to him that not only had the Romans of Julius Caesar’s time not had Christmas, but they probably didn’t have plastic or fitted sheets either.

One of the sandals had split down the side. Amanda would give him that look when she found out. The one he hated. The one that said “you’re batting out of your league buddy and the whole world knows it”.

I bet Cleopatra didn’t look at Caesar like that, he thought.

Meanwhile Nicola Willis was emerging from her daily milk bath. She’d gotten used to them in her Fonterra days.

The habit was proving expensive at over $2 a litre but she justified it on the basis that it gave her a good understanding of the cost of living crisis, and the tough choices many New Zealanders were having to make.

She didn’t often sympathise with lefties but on this occasion they briefly flittered through her mind, she wondered how much it must cost to fill a tub with almond milk.

Nicola gazed at the wall, at the idols represented on it. Key, Richardson, Douglas. She admired Ruth’s shoulder pads, something like that would be a powerful image today, she thought.

Christopher had placed two bricks on the fitted sheet and was ironing it to try and fold it for the linen cupboard. Amanda always folded everything perfectly.

He looked at his phone - no messages. It started to ring.