‘C’mon darlin,’ coaxed Barbie-Lou-Honeyleen. ‘Let’s go shopping. I gotta have that sweet marmot-chamois encrusted Omega watch. C’mon, pleeeeease?’

George Jnr Jnr scowled. Shoppin’, golf, huntin’, exploitin’, fishin’. Was that all there was?

‘No, cherrypie. You go. I’m gonna stay here and flick more of these here pebbles.’

Flick. Skim. Flick. Thunk. Dang! That one had hit a big black blob on the path. The blob was moving his way. Hot damn! It was one of those Mooslim chicks that get around dressed in a tent.

‘Sorry lady, I sure didn’t mean to ….’ He stopped, thunderstruck. A pair of inexpressibly beautiful brown eyes gazed at him soulfully through a lace panel in the burqa.

‘That’s alright. It doesn’t hurt much. But next time, maybe you could . . . ‘ Fatima al Qhoury haq Sindhu Gulurabi ibn Hussein trailed off as she drank in the face before her. He was the most irresistable man she had ever seen. His looks were classic - eyes close together, weak chin, yellow teeth and pasty skin.

‘I . . I,’ began George Jnr Jnr.

‘I . . I,’ replied Fatima before stumbling away, her senses reeling, her heart aflame but her mind issuing a stern rebuke. His accent was American. He was the enemy.

George Jnr Jnr stayed at the water’s edge until dark, thinking about those eyes. Who was that woman? Barbie-Lou-Honeyleen came looking for him, all enhanced breasts and nose and lips. He couldn’t tell which bits were plastic. ‘C’mon darlin, we’ve been invited to a fondue party. It’ll be fun!’

It was a lively party. George Jnr Jnr, with a fifty centimetre string of cheese stretching from his mouth to the fondue bowl, was talking to some UN folks from up the road. He asked a junior diplomatic secretary if there were many Mooslim chicks in Geneva.

‘There’s a finishing school just over in Schnoz Square. I believe some of the Arab states ruling classes send their daughters there. Would you like me to cut that cheese string for you with my Swiss army knife? It has a special attachment for cheese.’

Next morning George Jnr Jnr sent Barbie-Lou-Honeyleen shopping again. He drove to Schnoz Square and waited. Before long, a group of black blobs appeared at the gate of the finishing school. He jumped out of his V16 pickup. Dangnab! They all looked the same! Then one blob detached itself and walked past him. A note fluttered to the ground. It said ‘Meet me at the Café Kebab.’

He found her in a cubicle in a dark corner at the café. Those eyes. He could spend forever gazing into them. He didn’t care what the rest of her looked like. She longed to touch his chin and stroke his adams apple and run her hands through his thin hair.

He burned. She yearned. Their fingers entwined. They whispered and cooed, faces close. He nearly swooned from her musky perfume. ‘‘We don’t even know each others’ names,’ she murmured.

‘I don’t care. I love you’ he said huskily.

‘But you are American. I cannot be with you. My father would not approve. He is president of Iraq.’

George Jnr Jnr heart stopped. ‘Did you say president of Iraq?’

She nodded.

His voice was full of horror. ‘My father’s president of the United States. They hate each other.’

They looked at each other, the ghastly truth settling on them.

‘I know!’ said Fatima, brightening up. ‘We’ll stage our deaths and elope to Australia. Then they’ll feel bad and stop fighting, and after a while we’ll come back.’

‘Okay’ said George Jnr Jnr slowly. She was clearly going to be the brains of the unit.

The following week it was done. The houses of power of Iraq and the US were both in mourning. The shoes of Fatima and George Jnr Jnr had been found lined up neatly on a ledge high on the Matterhorn. The note said they would prefer to die together than be forced to spend their lives apart. In death their love would last forever. It was so beautiful and tragic. Everyone in Iraq and the US was in tears. George Jnr Jnr had never been so popular. Preparations for war came to a halt. The US and Iraqi public called for a joint memorial service. In an unprecedented move, the weeping parents agreed. A Times photographer scored the Pulitzer prize for her photo of Saddam and George Junior in an emotional embrace over the shoes of their lost children. There would be no war.

A new era of the heart dawned in global relations as weapons factories were decommissioned. Armies became known as disarmies and set about environmental repair. The CIA was sacked. The rich helped the poor and everyone tried to set a good example to each other. Corporations refocused their priorities, aiming for quality of life for all. Greed and dishonesty became undesirable qualities. Loving-kindness and compassion prevailed. Several countries experimented with anarcho-syndicalist systems where everyone participated in decision-making.

And what of George Jnr Jnr and Fatima al Qhoury Haq Sindhu Gulurabi ibn Hussein? After many adventures at sea in George Jnr Jnr’s yacht, during which time their love deepened greatly, they had found themselves in a detention camp at Nauru. Because they could not disclose their identities, they joined all the other asylum seekers without papers. The Australian Government was one of the last to fall in the great global softening. However, eventually John Howard’s heart opened and the lovers were released. They settled in Grafton because of the golf courses, and because the dry climate reminded Fatima of home. They started a kebab shop which was a wild success, and for reasons best known to themselves, never travelled abroad again.