Notes from Blenheim

I have just returned from a lovely weekend in Blenheim.  There was much wine, laughter, bonding with my Mum, mocking my Dad, and sunshine.  Is it wrong that every time I go on a ferry, I like to go to the front, and have my own little Titanic moment.  And, standing on the deck of the ferry and watching the Wellington harbour coming into view is totally worth the cold I am going to have.

I might retire to Marlborough one day, where the weather is good, and you are in amazing proximity to so many good wines.  And the wine at the RSA is $5 (long story).

But:

To the four old men with whom I had the misfortune to travel both ways on the ferry…Maybe where you come from (somewhere in the north of England) you have a cone of silence.  But for the record, here, other people can hear you.  Which means I could hear you when you when you were being racist.  I could also hear you when you discussed which part of my body you’d like to use as a flotation device should the boat sink.  (And just so you know, the bottom of the sea would in fact be the only place you’d ever get to touch those.)  It must have been annoying when I took the last table in the cafe.  That still didn’t give you the right to be so rude about me.  And yes, I did refuse to give up my table to you.  Perhaps that will teach you. 

Also, I don’t really care to hear about your sex life.  But no, I’m not surprised your wife won’t sleep with you.  Maybe she’s overheard the things you say about her. 

Maybe you could take a leaf out of the book of the man who folded a napkin that looked like a lily, and handed it to me, saying “A pretty flower for you”. Kindness and beauty.  Maybe that’s how you treat women.  I don’t know who that man was, but he was lovely.

But you know what annoys me the most?  That I couldn’t say any of this to you.  I am a confident, some might say bolshy, woman.  I am not ashamed of myself at all.  And yet, you made me so uncomfortable, that rather than confront you, I just moved from where I was sitting. At least you had the grace to look embarrassed when, at the beginning, I gave you a patented Megan “under the fringe, over the glasses, glare”.  But then you went back to it, and so I just moved, and read my book in comfort.  But why should I have to?  And why is it OK for you to make me do that?

Oh….it’s not, really, is it?