Meet the bloggers

So, there have been several requests by readers for "goss" from last week's Meet the Bloggers event here in Christchurch.  Never let it be said that I'm not "responsive to customer needs" (except for those times when you guys want to know stuff that is, quite frankly, none of your beeswax).  I rather think that some of you will be a bit disappointed in a "I thought this party would have dwarves walking around with bowlfuls of coke on their heads but instead everyone is playing Yahtzee" kind of fashion.  But anyway, you asked for it.

The evening began for me at 2pm. This is not an example of me being obsessively early (although that does sort of sound a bit like me) but is more a case of me trying to fit things in where I can.  I had a voucher for a free Bodyshop makeover that was about to expire and no other social engagements on the horizon (take a moment to light a candle for my long, lost social life at this point if you feel moved to do so) so I thought I would "get my glam on" for Friday evening.  Except that The Bodyshop don't stay open late on a Friday meaning this had to be done during business hours on my lunchbreak.  Not ideal, but it's free so I'm not complaining. 

But it is a bit weird to be sitting at your work desk of an afternoon with work hair (scraped back in a utilitarian ponytail) and work clothes (cardigan, grey trousers) wearing Cirque du Soleil levels of makeup.  It's sort of a bit of a mismatch.  Mind you, the only way I would have truly matched my environment would be if I were wearing a feathered headdress and fishnets while balanced on top of a rearing elephant.  At that point I'm hopeful that fluorescent office lighting is a big part of the problem and that the low light of a wine bar will have me looking less like "carnie folk".

At 6.30ish I go to collect Rachel Goodchild since a) we are sort of long-distance pals (I know people like to slag off Twitter but I would probably never have met Rachel without it, so take that, naysayers) and b) my experience of her is that she is someone who gets lost easily.  Her hotel is only two blocks away from Le Plonk but I still think it might be possible for her to lose her way...and also I want to have a perve at her hotel room.  My curiosity is mainly down to the fact that I never get to see the inside of Christchurch hotel rooms because I live here and despite the kneehigh boots and heavy eye makeup I'm not actually a hooker.

We get to Le Plonk and find it really busy.  Really busy. Like nowhere at all to sit, busy.  So many comfy looking couches and so many comfy bottoms already resident on them. Grrr.  Having arrived early I am able to hatch my "get a drink in before happy hour ends" masterplan and before you can say "two for one bubbles" Rachel and I are furnished with flutes of something fizzy.  We perch uncomfortably at the corner of the bar scanning the faces of everyone we see and wondering where on earth we can ditch our coats since we're now quite warm (having walked a whole two blocks). I would have a glistening forehead except that I have so much makeup on it's not able to reach the surface.  I can only imagine that when this happens the sweat gets "diverted" and heads for your armpits.  Oh, happy day.

Before long I spot a redheaded gentleman (respectfully not calling him "ginga") at the bar and realise it's Colin Espiner.  Rachel and I make our way around to where he is and introduce ourselves.  It's actually a little strange.  It feels as if there should be some innate collegial camaraderie between us Stuff bloggers but because most of us have never directly communicated, let alone met each other, it is essentially like meeting a total stranger (albeit one with which you share an interesting hobby, like stamp collecting or trainspotting or something).

Fortunately some couches become available and we plonk ourselves down, shed our coats and scarves and bags and get down to chatting.  Apparently Colin lives in Christchurch now.  I had no idea.  Before long Gerard Campbell and Dave Moore turn up (more, hello-ing and shaking of hands).  Ed, who I've been on the radio with a couple of times also arrives and we chat a bit.  Dave Moore gives me some netbook recommendations when I ask (Hewlett-Packard sounds good).  The ear-piercingly loud Irish girls (I want to tut-tut at them but realise that I'm only two and a half glasses of wine away from that volume myself, so refrain) at the next couch move off and we're able to snaffle their seating.

Nick Barnett, who writes the pet blog (and does double-duty editing the blogs), appears. I've met him before but not everyone else has.  Lots more introductions. We are all extremely clever and witty.  It's the Vicious Circle at the Algonquin hotel...only nice. 

I turn around to see a gorgeous creature holding a martini glass containing something pink and introduce myself to Margaret Agnew.  She's totally hot.  I have a girl-crush on her now.  To my amazement the feeling seems to be mutual and she effusively tells me how awesome I am.  Why do we not do this every week?  I really could get used to this.  Also, Margaret has the most charming lisp.  It's little unexpected things like that that make meeting someone in person interesting.  Like how meeting me might make people think "Wow, I wonder if she always wears that much makeup?"

And then, wonder of wonders, an actual "punter" turns up.  Alice2, who is clearly braver than most, appears and we suddenly remember that we're supposed to be meeting actual readers of our blogs and not just each other.  Alice (can I drop the 2 now?) is now in the enviable state of having a flock of bloggers to talk to.  Margaret and I chat with her for a while, and then I duck off to hang out with my friend who is also there but with an engagement party group.  Eventually I head back to find that Rachel has disappeared to dinner with a friend (without saying good-bye, harumph) and I sit down to talk to Nick, Margaret and Alice.

Rachel's friend and entourage turn up.  I have to explain that she has taken herself off to dinner. I completely ignore all bloggers and our one loyal fan in favour of flirting with boys.  I am a scandalous hussy (and I have the silver eyeshadow to prove it).  It is, by then, getting late.  Eventually, said boys have to leave or turn into pumpkins (but not before a glass of "2nd cheapest Riesling" is purchased on my behalf - Yuss!).  Alice(2) also makes a move and I retire to the company of my engagement party friend's group which has also dwindled.

An hour or so of girltalk later and a taxi home, another half an hour to remove my makeup and I'm safely tucked up in bed by about 1.30am.  So, all told the evening involved lots of bloggers, one reader, multiple glasses of Riesling and yes, some hair flicking.  Possibly not the "table-dancing" orgy of hedonism and verbosity that some of you might have imagined but tremendously enjoyable from my point of view.

Now accepting any and all questions about said evening (but you may as well ask Alice2 because I'm sure she was paying at least as much attention as I was - i.e. she may have had a couple less wines than me).

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