There are only so many cotton sarongs a husband can take.

Especially when they come with a "buy one - get four free" offer.

They must have done, why else would anyone take so long buying them?

I removed myself from the horse float that constituted a shop and stood on the side of Raglan's main street, an overheated vision of sartorial elegance in my black Flying Nun T-shirt and black shorts.


Both items bought in a sale - men started out in life as hunters and gatherers and I remain committed to the pursuit and consumption of bargains.

The main street in Raglan, by the way, is called Bow St.

It flows off Main Rd - named by the same people responsible for North Island and South Island.

Which suggests then, that Bow St must in some way have a bend or incline.

Just then, a passer-by strode past and remarked "cool T-shirt" as he headed up Bow St's incline.

I stared after him.

"Hey that's Roger Shepherd" I said to no one in particular, who happened to be standing nearby, also saronged out but looking damn fine in his "Ray Bali" rip-off sunglasses he had shelled out $20 from the sarong horse float queen.

"Who's Roger Shepherd?" he said in a mildly bored tone.


"He's the guy who started the record label on my T-shirt,'' I said, pointing after him as he marched up the street.

Two years ago I was standing next to Roger Shepherd while watching a band, and I toyed with the idea of saying "hello".

I had recently read his book In Love With These Times. But it was loud inside the venue, I would have had to shout and what would I have said?

As I stood pointing toward the departing Shepherd, Josh Kronfeld came walking down Bow St, saw me pointing and raised his hand toward me in a friendly gesture and said "gidday fullah".

"Hey that's Josh Kronfeld,'' I said to no one in particular again.

Former All Black Josh Kronfeld.
Former All Black Josh Kronfeld.

"Who is Josh Kronfeld?'' said no one in particular again in a slightly less mildly bored tone than before.

"He was an All Black, before Richie McCaw,'' I said, still peering up Bow St at the departing Roger Shepherd, and wondering if Josh Kronfeld had thought I was pointing at him.

I looked around wondering what other famous New Zealander might be lurking on Raglan's main street.
"Hellzapoppin," I said.

"Anything could happen, and it could be right now."

"You're just too, too obscure for me,'' said no one in particular as we walked back to the car, down Bow St's incline.