I woke up fully reduced from the simmering heat in my room, and decided to stay in a different hostel. I made my way to the YHA, which is right on the lake (well - if it was on the lake, it would sink; it was a bit back from the lake). The gal at the desk told me "check-in time is 2:30, and the showers are on the second floor...". As I hadn't asked where the showers were, I guessed my pores were doing little to conceal what I'd been up to the evening before.

The next couple of days were spent pretty much twiddling my thumbs, waiting for Lachie (the guy who offered me work - see below) to come through. He didn't; and would ultimately end up dropping the ball. So no tandem paragliding for me. Maybe no bad thing, as someone died from a similar pursuit (this time tandem hang-gliding) in Queenstown a few days later when the 'professional' forgot to attach the passenger's harness to himself, and the tourist plummeted 150 metres to her doom. I spent the time going to the cinema, titting about (mainly on 20six) in net-caffs, playing pool and hanging out with Sarah, Beth and the flappy-headed moose-fuckers. It occurred to me that - in the absence of having any work to do, or extreme sports to dip into - there wasn't much to keep you occupied in Queeny, and it was an expensive place to be wasting time. My desire to stay there to live was waning. This wasn't helped by local excitement that The Feelers were coming to town; if this was the best that they could get in terms of touring bands, it wasn't a good sign.

So I elected to skip town. On what I thought would be my last night, I met a bit of a live-wire called Neil in a pool contest in the Hard Rock Café. Now, by this point I was getting people I met to scrawl in a (rather garish) notebook for posterity. I was envious of this chap's five volumes of collected scribbled wit and photos, including numerous famous signatures, a photo of him with John Major (which made me positively green - obviously), and even the odd pic of naked norks. Heavens to Betsy. He insisted that I stay in town for another night, in order that I be around for his leaving party. This appealed, so I agreed.

When I got back to my room at the YHA, it reeked of vomit. I was informed that this was because one of the backpackers (British, of course) had drunk ten shooters in 30 seconds. Students - don't you just love 'em ?

What will endure in my memory of the following evening is meeting a charming young lady called Vicki. Here is a picture of some folk at the party, with her in the middle :

My eyebrows were first raised by this highly amusing young lady after we'd taken a break from the party to go to a club. I was the only person in a group of about 8 or 9 not to be asked for ID. This disappointed me, as I haven't been asked for ID in 3 years (since I went to the US, natch). When I expressed this sentiment to Vicki, she fixed me with an authoratative yet sultry gaze, and asked "excuse me sir... Do you have some form of identification ?" My knees went weak. I gave her my passport. She looked at the photo. "Ooh, look at *you*," she purred. I told her that I'd obviously changed a lot since it was taken, and not necessarily for the better. "Oh, I don't know," she replied; "you still have the cute baby-face." I was won over.

Back at the house, she insisted on writing in The Book. A limmerick, no less. It went thus :

An ode to O from V.

There was a young chap named O,
Who wore his hair in a bow,
He looked so damn fine,
I wish he was mine,
But he's not so the time's come to go.

Wishing you great travels my lovely and a long & prosperous life. Stay safe,
Much love,
Vicki xxx

So I wrote her one back. It went like this :

There was an enchantress called V,
Who desperately wanted to ski;
But she didn't have the dough
To get to the snow,
So she stapled her tits to a tree.

Now, I think it's fair to say that hers was probably a signal. But I was a bit too drunk to properly pick it up. I thought things seemed to be going swimmingly, but then - unexpectedly (for me) - a taxi appeared to pick her and her friends up to whisk them home. We hugged, kissed (politely), and she was gone. It took me a full dazed ten minutes before I realised that I should have asked her for her number, or to meet me for lunch the following day. Aaaarrrrggghhhh.

I woke up the next morning with the intention of finding her, and buying her lunch goddamnit. I went to 'The Loaded Hog' - where Sarah and Beth worked - to see if I could find someone who knew her number. I spoke to Bell. Her name wasn't really Bell. I got in the habit of calling her that after a conversation that we'd had a few nights before, that went like this :

Owe : Oh, sorry - it's Owe by the way.
Bell : Hi Owe. I'm Bell.
Owe : Bell ?
Bell : No, Bell.
Owe : That's what I just said. Bell.
Bell : No, Bell... Short for Belissa.
Owe : Oh - Mel... Short for Melissa. Why did you keep saying "Bell" ?
Bell : I'b got a colb.

Anyway, Bell pointed me back in the direction of Neil's house. Neil didn't really know Vicki, but knew one of her friends; so in vain, I left my number to pass on. I was about to leave town, but I hadn't fully decided not to come back. A date with a charming, funny hottie might have swung it the other way. But - of course - I never got a call. I guess it had been a long-shot.

Hey ho - plenty more crabs on the beach...