Wine auctioning.

Review

On Saturday we went to a wine auction. Wine auctions in Hawke’s Bay are very fun, because you know everyone there, (all the Ra Ra’s). It strikes you that YOU are also possibly a Ra Ra and you think, OH WELL! I zip myself firmly into a sensational dress and get on board some five-inch stilettos, specifically designed to get attention, and it works. WHAT A FUN GAME! The younger, male winemakers confirm back to me what I wish to know. I have won! It is a strangely fleeting, and empty, feeling. But there is NO TIME for that introspection crap as there is WINE to be sampled, NIBBLES to be eaten (or not in my case, the dress does not permit intake of food) and OTHER PEOPLE’S WIVES that you must compliment in the positive, whether you like them or not, for this is also part of the game.

I see lots of super cool people and all my jokes go down well, but it is about a hundred degrees in the marquee and a tiny speckle of underboob sweat starts to threaten the outfit. I move outside and see one of my old hunting buddies. I ask him nicely first but then rip a page out of his catalogue and attempt to fan the offending area of skintight couture without drawing undue notice. It doesn’t work and at this point the Prime Minister shakes my hand and people snap photos and I think DAMN! I am gonna to look SHINY AF (!!!) in those ones! Sigh!

BUT! There is no time for worrying about dripping over politicians for there is the ACTUAL wine auction to do!

At the halfway point I get bored and consider the process so far not charismatic enough. I ask Neil if I can borrow his paddle. I bid strategically on items I do not wish to purchase, acting the lure, giving the dollars a tune up, helping the cause, Doing My Bit. Caroline Ritchie knows how to add value. On the items I DO wish to purchase my hand flies through the air like a demon on a broomstick. Craig goes pale when I get up to $8,000 on some Syrah and he tries to tame the tigress. “Don’t be bloody ridiculous!” I hiss back. Then I feel a teensy bit guilty, so I hit on a genius idea to keep me in the running. I turn around to the table and say, softly, (but in real life it’s a muffled shout), “Let’s all go in on a SYNDICATE, OK??” And the table, thoroughly enjoying my incredible amateur dramatics, agrees with much Hurrah-ing and Whoop-ing and Fun-Times-Over-Here-ing expressions.

Afterwards, bikkies all spent and feet aflame from standing around like trophy girlfriends for five hours, we hop in a cab. Because, apparently, we haven’t had NEARLY ENOUGH EXCITEMENT, we trundle back to Monica Loves until late. Val de reeeeeee, val de raaaaaaa! (Ra).

Today

I go cycling in brilliant sunshine and take vanity shots of myself. A thunderstorm then hits me at Puketapu, most likely prophetically, lashing me until I am soaked to my innermost bikester socks, and the temperature drops to 11c. I have to text Brena for an emergency pickup otherwise I will become hypothermic. I have an excellent lunchtime stabilising my core temperature in the bath. They don’t call me The Princess for nothing.