My jet-setter life of model planes

You see them time after time in the "society pages" of the big metropolitan glossies and lift-outs.
I call them "the usual suspects".
Those "celebrities" whose social diaries are filled with launches and lunches. Faces from the shimmering world of broadcasting, fashion, sport, property speculation ... anything with a foundation capable of creating a "face" upon the streets of big cities.
Familiar faces in familiar poses ... all sort of leaning into the centre of photographs as if pleading "get me in it too!"
I suppose that's all well and good. Each to their own, that sort of thing. And hey, I've had a few "free lunches" in my time but I've never made a habit of it.
Nor do I make a habit of trying to squeeze into the frame when a camera is lurking.
My appearance can frighten a child at the best of times ... it does not need digital preservation.
I guess such pages are generated to assure us that like Paris and London, New York and Milan ... we have a high life in our major metropolitan centres.
Shiny people with social diaries crammed with openings and soirees and all manner of events.
Gosh, what to wear!
While I do not qualify for inclusion into this fast-paced and glamorous world of the high life, I do have a pretty jolly frantic low life.
Unfortunately I do not have a social diary ... I lost it while dumping grass clippings at the tip a few weeks ago (that was quite a day).
I met a chap who was dumping an old section of trellis.
He explained that the word trellis came from the Latin "tri-licium".
I never knew that ... I could have talked to him for minutes.
However, my social week started out quite badly last Monday when I learned there were some big city judges in town on some sort of top model quest.
I had to attend of course, and arrived with my well-crafted model of a Luftwaffe Messerschmitt Bf109. The detail on this effort is second to none ... I have even punched bullet holes (with a heated pin) through the ailerons.
However, to be told this event was a search for ladies to walk funny in front of large crowds was hugely disappointing.
On Tuesday I discovered two cans of lager behind the bag of potatoes in the pantry, which was a great surprise. I had no idea they were there. Life is often a blur of surprises.
On Wednesday I bumped into a chap near the bottle store who hailed me with great vigour and asked how everything was with me.
A delightful chap who said he still had his old Toyota which he bought new in 1989. We chatted away for quite some time ... and I still have absolutely no idea who the hell he was. He appeared equally bewildered, though, as he said "bye then Eric," before walking off.
Thursday's intercontinental phone calls saw me quite heavily involved in trans-global financing and other affairs of an economic nature.
I get a few of these trans-global calls you know.
The Indian bloke at the other end said his name was Nathan ... although he did not sound like a Nathan. But in such matters one has to take an intercontinental chap's word for it. He said he was in the important finance business ... something to do with on-line credit and bank accounts.
He said technology and other super inter-global strategies meant he could clean out our computer from offshore, and install a new payment device for us so we didn't have to send a postal order or cheque for the work.
I said no, the computer was fine, and he must have dropped the phone because it went dead.
Two days later I had a call from a chap who sounded just like Nathan but gave his name as Leonard. He was in the finance business too.
He wanted to sell me insurance cover in the event of losing my credit card.
"I haven't got one," I told Leonard and he appeared to drop his phone too. I could understand ... the stress and power of intercontinental financial juggling can lead to a shaking of the hands.
On Friday I dashed off an important letter. Important letters are part of a busy social low life.
I penned a missive to Russian multi-billionaire Roman Abromovich, pointing out that building a third luxury yacht for his fleet, at the cost of $1.2 billion, was poor form while many were facing uphill struggles.
I haven't heard back yet. Maybe he's tied up in meetings with Leonard and Nathan.
Another week on life's knife edge.

Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.