Reader Warning: The following article is based on actual events that, in this day and age, (I'm not even going to bother with the word MAY) many WILL find offensive. Suck it up, precious ones - I apologise for nothing!
Sounds crazy but I recently spent five days with my BFF ... crazy because we hadn't seen each other in 20 plus years.
Friends for life. Kim was/is my school chum, flatmate, bridesmaid and informally adopted family member, visiting from her life of living abroad for more than 20 years.
Determined to recapture our misspent youth, despite our advanced age, we planned a Thelma and Louise type adventure.
Within minutes of her arrival and with just two bottles of vino in reserve we embarked on our first road trip.
I wish I could tell you it was in a sexy American convertible but a roller skate on wheels will have to suffice.
We took to the mean streets of Whanganui, windows down, hurtling down the road at 47km/h, the wind blowing through our thinned out, chemically coloured hair.
Taking the scenic route we reached our destination, the local supermarket, less than 3km away where we purchased six bottles of white wine (no racial motive), blue cheese (you'd be depressed too if you smelt like vomit) and crackers (a sane choice despite the unintended implication of madness).
So there we were Kate, Kim and my flatmate, Kelly.
Four bottles in and we'd formed the politically incorrect KKK Party, put the world to rights, devised a couple of get rich quick schemes and stunk up the house with the unfortunate fragrance of fermented fromage.
It was fabulous!
I've often been accused of being one-eyed and seven bottles later, I was.
You know when you get to that point when your focus becomes less blurred when you're forced to repeatedly weave your way to the WC in "wink mode".
The following days became a familiar routine. Rinse (doze for 2-3 hours) and repeat.
Another day, another road trip, another six bottles of wine - coz that's how these withered old bats roll.
With pouty lips and fleshy hips, our plans to burn rubber came to a screeching halt thanks to a flat battery.
Not a good look for two ageing gangsta gals.
A call to AA (no, not alcoholics anonymous) saw us back in the game.
With a bladder that had aged better than the wine and cheese, I found myself spending too long contemplating the purchase of adult diapers for the evening ahead.
Made up to the nines, we were offended (an often unjustifiable but all too common occurrence) that we weren't asked to produce ID.
And who knew buying and drinking wine could provide such a workout.
Lugging those bottles around and repeatedly raising the glass to my lips saw my right bicep strengthen and increase in size, not to mention all those extra steps to the toilet and the calories burnt by laughter.
Socially responsible, we heeded the warnings, choosing to pull over after 1.3km and rest. At our age driver fatigue is very real.
Kelly chose to opt out on night two but troopers that we are, Kim and I soldiered on, the only downer due to an annoying street light blinding me from the slightly opened lounge curtains ... oops, no ... it was light alright - sunlight.
After five days we finally pulled back the drapes and found ourselves gazing upon enough amassed glass to furnish the windows of a modest three bedroom home.
Our trips to the loo, if calculated in Air Points, would equate to a free world trip and the gonad who tried to convince us that there are six glasses of wine in a bottle would be trolled and name shamed on social media.
Note: Do not try this at home. No stunt drinkers were employed. The grapes in this story were treated ethically and not downtrodden. Any bruising was accidental. The blue cheese and crackers were offered referrals to mental health services and all bottles were taken for recycling.
The author, proudly unashamed and blissfully happy with her experience is still in the process of making a full recovery, without the need for a Givealittle page.