All in muted earthy tones, all worn over Viyella shirts and ties.
That was the official dress code for this city ninny’s big country night out I pointed to last month.
I dressed in a spongy — hadn’t been washed in a few days — Otago rugby jersey. And my best jeans, my only jeans.
The Hat and his “missus” on the front bench seat of the Holden station wagon chugging on a couple of rollies.
That wonderful blend of Chanel No.5 and Park Drive cigarette smoke, I suspect, held almost aphrodisiacal qualities for the Hat.
And me in the back wrestling with my nyctophobia — why is the country night so inky black, so impenetrable, so enveloping?
You can’t see or sense anything around you. Very disconcerting. At the very least I need a streetlight. Does that sound whacko? Feels whacko!
Anyhow, I was picking this trip on the city ninny’s big country night out would end up the road at a pub bistro where shrimp had swapped swimming in the sea for wallowing in ghastly radioactive pink dressing in Mrs Hat’s seafood cocktail.
The Hat would hum and haw like some celebrity rural epicurean before ordering the roast — like he did every night at home.
Why all the theatrics? Well, tonight’s hogget was different because Mrs Hat hadn’t cooked it.
Then the highbrow chat would kick in.
“Seafood cocktail ok Phyllis?”
“Perfect thank you, Ron. How’s the roast?”
“I prefer your gravy, Phyllis.”
“Thank you, Ron.”
The endorphins are flowing. This night is building to love.
Unfortunately, this Ninny’s big country night out will have to wait.
Like many farmers, I have rambled off-topic and gobbled up my allotted word count.
The climax to this saga is next month.
