She took off her glasses. That was better. A blurred face smiled back coyly. Her hair had a lovely shine thanks to the egg shampoo. It worked so much better with cold water. The hot water had cooked the egg in clumps which clung to her head, and Mark Latte had laughed at her in Parliament. She picked up her tweezers and plucked one hair from her left eyebrow and two from the right. Was George a man who preferred the natural look? Would he ever telephone? Did he even know she existed? And was it this habit of asking herself questions that had created the unsightly quizzical lines on her forehead?

There was a knock at the door. It was a secretary bearing a sheaf of papers. Johnette grabbed the bundle impatiently and riffled through it. She speed-read, a skill which had got her the top job in town. Proposals and briefing notes and ministerial correspondence flew through her fingers and landed on the floor. There was nothing too important. She glanced at the receipt for the Medicare sale, a letter from Tony about getting rid of social security, and minutes from the Standing Committee on Ways to Produce More Greenhouse Gases. There was a report from young Robert on the International Treaty to Ignore International Treaties. She tossed it in the tricky pile along with Phil’s sterilisation proposal for refugees. Then her heart skipped a beat. Her fingers trembled as she touched the embossed letterhead. It was a letter from Handsome George. "Dear Johnette," it began. "With reference to previous correspondence with your Defence Minister I now command you to commit your nation’s military forces to the Middle East to attack my foe Mohammed Tarhoosh. Come to the White House on 15 March if you want your photo taken with me. Yours in high expectation, Handsome George."

Johnette’s fingers strayed to her throat. It was dangerous but tempting. There was much to lose. But how could she resist such a tender and passionate proposition? He wanted commitment! She closed her eyes. Already she was thinking about what to wear. The pea-green taffeta. It showed off her neck so well. And some sensible footwear. She picked up the phone and dialled her chief of staff. "Woonsocket, get me a plane ticket to Washington. And tell General Short Back’n’Sides to ready the troops. I have a date.

The great day drew near. The troops had polished their boots and said a tearful goodbye to their loved ones. There were brass bands and streamers. The usual raggle-taggle band of eco-femo-leftie-peaceniks had turned out in their hundreds of thousands to complain but Johnette didn’t take any notice. She was keeping her eye on a pimple on her chin.

She had decided to leave her eyebrows the way they were. It was in keeping with the Australian larrikin look – free, independent, a bit unruly but lovable. She’d heard that Handsome George had been wild in his younger days. Of course, her own youth had hardly been tame. Some of those Young Liberal suppers had descended into outrageous orgies of no-holds-barred Scrabble, and some of the young fellows had actually worn sandals to a barbecue one lost and steamy Sunday afternoon. Yes, Johnette was certainly no prig. Not like prissy Antonia Blair with her pasty English rose complexion and her arched eyebrows.

Yet despite her modern ways, Johnette was really just an old-fashioned girl who was waiting for Mr Right. She enjoyed her little job but she’d give it all up tomorrow in return for George’s ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. He could take over her job. He would be much better at it. Men were so clever. She knew from her upbringing that, just as every fish needs a bicycle, every woman needs a man to tell her what to do. And the man for her was Handsome George with his strong jaw, his tiny eyes, his incoherent speech and his fascinating absence of moral or intellectual fibre. It was a heady combination which caused her to feel a perilous tingle behind her knees. She imagined herself swooning into his arms, the musky manly smell of him, the rudimentary attempts at communication. It was all she could do to keep her mind on the parliamentary debate these days. She ignored Simone Cream’s bleating about toadyism. Simone was just jealous. That girl needed a facelift.

March 15 came at last. Johnette’s plane touched down at Washington Airport. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. She peered hopefully into the crowd at Arrivals. A man in a suit and sunglasses ushered her towards a limousine. How thoughtful of George. She was about to step in when an elegant gloved hand touched her elbow lightly.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Johnette." It was Mademoiselle Jacqueline, the French President. Perfect eyebrows, thought Johnette crossly. But Handsome George chose me! Me!

"Mademoiselle Johnette, I must warn you about zis appalling man, ‘andsome George. ‘E is a, ‘ow you say, a moll. Last night he was in a tete-a tete with Antonia Blair. The night before it was a menage-a-trois with Spain, Bulgaria and the Poles. And tonight, he will try to seduce you. "

"Come off it, Jacqueline, you’re just jealous because he didn’t invite you on a date," sniffed Johnette bravely.

"Non, ma cherie" replied Mme Jacqueline. "I am a feminist."

"Well I reckon I’m more feminine than you, luvvie," said Johnette looking scornfully at Mme Jacqueline unshaven armpits.

"You don’t need him. We women do not need men. We can be strong and independent without zem. We can live on our own terms, in our own rhythms! We don’t need zem to run our lives. Why spend your energy trying to attract a merde-head like ‘andsome George? What for? He’ll use you and throw you aside. He just wants you for your soldiers. You’ll end up barefoot and pregnant, ironing his underpants and sending your army into every little contretemps he fancies. And what do you get? Nozzing! ‘Ere, read these books. You will understand what I mean. We don’t need ‘andsome George to run our lives. We ‘ave our own power! Good luck, ma cherie. Au revoir!" She turned and was gone in a cloud of garlic.

Johnette looked down at the pile of books. The Female Eunuch. The Womens Room. The Second Sex. The Beauty Myth. She sat down in the limousine and started to speed-read. After The Female Eunuch she rapped on the glass. "Turn around", she told the driver. "Take me back to the airport". She pulled out her telephone and dialled General Short Back’n’Sides. "Bring them home. Now. All of them."

Within weeks Johnette’s consciousness became truly raised. She telephoned Handsome George and told him she didn’t want to hear from him ever again. Mme Jacqueline was right. She didn’t need him. He was a bully and a user. She joined a group of local women and they supported each other in an exhilarating journey of discovery. They threw away their make-up kits, cut their hair and let their eyebrows grow wild and free. They howled at the moon and ran naked in the forest and stopped scrubbing their bathrooms. They were strong and independent and fierce and proud and brave. They’d broken the chains of dependence. They’d stopped being obedient. They were WIMMIN, they were mighty, and they didn’t give a bugger about men like Handsome George.