The registrar froze, eyes wandering, body screaming, ‘Move along.’

“Hmph…Akaroa?”

“Yep. It’s in New Zealand, a French settlement.”

“Ah…Nouvelle-Zélande, you’ve travelled far, mon ami.”

“Wine flies when you’re having fun. So, can I enter?

Brought six bottles.”

Dismissing my floppy cardboard box with a sigh and a supercilious nose, he scanned his clipboard, then looked around as if salvation were overdue.

“Which category, eh?”

“Well, it’s red. Light and fruity, packs a punch, leaves a burn.”

“Blend?”

“Nope, straight as! Picked ‘em myself.”

“Style?”

“Ha! No style, it’s a quaffer! Get it down ya, and get it down quick! One slurp, you’ll be speaking fluent Kiwi, mate. You’ll either break out in hives or start floss dancing. Sure as eggs!”

His head twitched.

“Ergh, perhaps…Beaujolais Nouveau?”

I nodded. Pretty words.

“Ah…highly irregular, oui, but we ‘ave one spot. A Vino Novello from Cinque Terra withdrew. Kiwi… you are in luck. When you return later, bring…pants, a shirt, et a tie, eh? Très important! Bon chance.”

—

Tuxedos, gowns, diamonds, Rolexes, soulless as a cowboy song. The presentation wasn’t a night out at ‘The Grand,’ that’s for sure.

The registrar raced over.

“Kiwi, your wine is magnifique! No prize, but highly commended. Come, meet some European distributors. You’re about to become very rich. How many bottles can you supply?”

“Six,” I replied. “The driveway fence is pretty small… me and the missus had a bit of a sesh before we left. Should be able to make plenty more next year, though.”