There's been a big build up to today. The annual running of the Wellington Cup seems to be the New Zealand equivalent of Royal Ascot. The racecourse is on the outskirts of the city and only a train ride away. So that's my plan for today. Arriving at the ticket counter, the return ticket includes entry to the course. This is pretty much as easy as it could be.
Just after lunch, the train station is full of people all going the same way. For the first few minutes, the line goes along the shore of Wellington Bay and gives some great views. The water is vivide blue, under an equally blue sky. The bright sunshine sparkles on the surface, and picks out three small white sailing boats in the middle of the bay. It's another fantastic day.
But soon the track heads left and out into the hilly suburbs towards Upper Hutt, and the scenery becomes more mundane. It's a forty minute ride to the station right next to Trentham Racecourse. The train doors open and there's a fresh flood of people, to add to the sea of people already at the course.
All the beautiful people in Wellington are out. There are hats and dresses and cleavages and shapely legs. There are also some regrettable sights, but not many of them. As I walk through the gates and into the throng, I hear someone commentating on a parade of lovelies, all hoping to win the first prize of a BMW convertible for a year. I've no idea where this parade is, but I'm assured by the commentator that each of the ladies is beautiful and, looking around me, I'm prepared to believe it.
But I'm more interested in refreshment. It's fiercely hot and I go in search of a cold beer. There are plenty of bars around, so I don't queue for long before I have a bottle of nice cold beer in one hand, and a bottle of equally cold water in the other. I drink the water first and, savouring the beer, I find somewhere to sit and watch the next race.
I'm actually not much of a horse racing fan, so I spend as much time watching the crowds - all shapes and sizes, a broad spectrum of social classes, and varying shades of sun tan. Killing time between races, I decide to place some bets. Nothing big because I'm a rubbish gambler. But in my first race, I bet $20 and I get $30 back. $10 dollars profit probably matches the biggest win of my life. So I go back and bet again. $15 dollars this time, and I get $20 back. Woohoo! My third race is the big one - the Wellington Cup itself. I bet $25 on a few different horses, to be placed. I win $3. My fourth race I win nothing, but it's memorable nonetheless.
Just ahead of me, two young ladies are tottering around in high heels and daring cocktail dresses. They're both pretty, with curves and bulges flamboyantly on display. Most of them in the right places. Not paying much attention to where they're going, one of them bumps into me and says sorry. I reassure her that it's not the worst thing that's ever happened to me, and she immediately identifies my English accent. Suddenly I'm being treated like Hugh Grant.
Ally and Sam are two young ladies in their early twenties. They've been here all day and they're in an exuberant state of refereshment. I spend the next 15 minutes facing a hail of questions - how long have I been here? Why New Zealand? Where are my mates? Hearing that I've come alone, they promise to be my mates for the day. It's a kind gesture but I'm not sure I can handle it. Already they have my head spinning and I suspect that, with a couple more drinks inside them, they'll be transformed into entertaining lovelies into lurching liabilities. They need to go to the toilet, and tell me to wait here for them. I'm happy to wait, even though I'm pretty sure they won't be back. They're very genuine girls, and I know they intend to return, but I'm sure they'll be distracted by any number of things and, when they suddenly remember their Hugh Grant, they'll have forgotten where they left him.
And so it transpires. I see them once more, later in the afternoon. They're walking along the front of the stand, and they do indeed look like lurching liabilities. But they're still enjoying themselves, and the encounter was fun while it lasted.
I decide not to stay until the end, preferring to beat the worst of the rush back into Wellington. Many other people have had the same thought and the platform is full. The wait is oppressive in the afternoon heat, and it's a relief to get onto a cool train. The journey back is uneventful, apart from one girl who, having reached her stop, steps off the train and throws up immediately. There's a round of cheers and applause from the carriage, and an acknowledgement that she must have done well to keep everything inside until she was outside.
Arriving back in Wellington, I decide to go to Molly Malone's the Irish bar that I visited several times the first time I was in Wellington. I know they'll have a band playing. Unfortunately, after an overly long session of tuning up, once they start playing I realise they're not worth the wait. Deciding that I've been entertained enough for one day, I start walking back to the hotel. But the day has one more bit of entertainment in store for me.
As I walk along the walkway with the bay on my right and Frank Kitts Park on my left, and a clear starlit sky above, there's a group of three people walking towards me. They seem good natured enough, and one of them detours in my direction. A small version of Johnny Depp, he walks towards me with arms open wide in a clear "hug me" position. I decide "What the hell, I'm here for adventure" so we have a drunken man-hug and some back smacking. There's no malice or threat here.
"See them?" he asks, pointing at his mates. "They're b*ggers"
"Shame." I sympathise. "It looks like you're stuck with them"
"Ah, you're English?" Johnny asks
"Yes. Sorry about that" I reply.
Without a word, Johnny walks one step past me so that we're shoulder blade to shoulder blade, sinks into a mild telemark position and offers his hand behind him for a reverse low-five. I oblige. "Sweet" he nods, and without looking back he walks on and rejoins his friends.
It's a strangely fitting end to the day.
