You may know I golfed with our parson - until the morning he appeared before me defrocked, and blubbing, charged with fiddling the Choirboy Fund.
The reverend's pilfering showed how careful the judge must be mixing with ordinary people. No good comes of pretending equality.
Any of these coves may be in the dock tomorrow, begging you for name suppression. Ordinary folk can't grasp that name suppression is for people whose names matter.
But I am on Gardening Leave, so when invited to join some local folk for a golf trip, I decided to be bold, and chance it. Besides Myrtle has been away on the Gold Coast for a month, visiting her newfound cousin Anton. (The tennis coach).
I am not depressed by her absence. Depression is merely anger without sufficient enthusiasm. It is for pansies.
But to the golf trip- a four day ''country club'' tour with Messrs Hodge, Rae, Crockett, and Lapsley. This rabble had invited their better halves, all girls who have partnered beneath themselves.
I'd presumed a ''country club'' tour would take me to superior locales where one wears a blazer to drinks.
But when we arrived at Tarras, and I saw greens fenced to keep the livestock at bay, I realised this crowd believes ''country clubs'' are mown farm lots which offer them the cheapest green fees.
I have nothing against the people of Tarras, of which there must be several. Indeed, they tried to act correctly. Our tour group included Lapsley's supervisor, The Duchess, so the club's committee thoughtfully put a sign on the gate: ''Royal Tarras Welcomes the Duchess.''
(Strictly, there should be a Brownie curtseying and offering a posy, but never mind).
The Tarras fairways were so dried and bare of grass we contemplated their cowpats for preferred lies. Then to Geraldine. Frankly we were lucky to make it alive, what with the banzai tourist drivers in their rentals. It was like The Charge of the Fright Brigade.
Contrary to the ladies' complaints, it was not racist to lean out the window and tell these wobbly motorists: ''Wrong side, Mr Wu.''
I did this in a measured tone, my raised fingers simply offering admonishment. This was being helpful - like the thoughtful Kiwis who calm their road rage by ripping out tourists' car keys. They should receive certificates.
We had superior accommodation in Geraldine, staying at a country estate built by one of the grand old Canterbury families. It was here that I made a small faux pas.
''Really? You say your province's finest families claim descent from The Four Sh*ts?'' I asked our hostess.
''The SHIPS, Trout,'' hissed the Duchess.
''She said The Four SHIPS. They brought Christchurch's first settlers.''
Well, I suppose Canterbury would be different were it The Three Amigos.
We returned via Omarama, where there's also drought. Here I conceded the match at the first hole when Captain Crockett (ret) hit a drive which skipped 400m through pebbles and dust to the back of the green.
While I gather the Captain was Royal Navy, he doesn't bang on about it. Apparently you're properly retired once you no longer need to explain you used to be important.
The group also knocked off Hawea and Wanaka, plus a cellar full of red wine. So Justice Trout was feeling somewhat off when he barged through the front door and found - Myrtle.
I began on cousin Anton, but she stopped me with a single sentence.
''Cudlip - regarding all that, you must remember that while it's the early bird who gets the worm, it's the second mouse who gets the cheese.''
No Queen's Counsel betters Myrtle at the ''gobsmack'' defence - the statement to which there is no conceivable comeback. I'm still deciding whether she flattered or insulted. Am I first bird, or second mouse?
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
