My day started out blissfully enough - coffee at Motogrill with my darling, Paddy Baxter, Doc Mahan, Tim McGeorge and all the other regulars, plus delicious Dick Fraser, freshly tanned from Noosa.
I do love that man and so wish he would stand for mayor.
I was maybe having too many childish thoughts about Dick as I drove home and called in at the Shell service station for some diesel.
A little more rational thought might have made me notice I was filling the truck with petrol ($90 worth).
Everyone was so very kind to me - Bruce and Trudi McKay offered to give me a ride, the fabulous Shell staff pushed my truck out of the way, all the people behind me were sympathetic and patient, Shamrock Motors brought the tow truck straight away, and my mother whizzed along to drive me home.
Cars always cause problems and cars are making my darling suffer from peer pressure.
All his friends are telling him he should buy me a new car for my birthday.
The big problem for him is that I don't want one.
It has taken me over 10 years and 300,000km to learn how this one works (and I still filled it with petrol ... ?) and I just don't have the time to learn how to work a new one.
In spite of that, there is a car option I could be tempted by.
My darling and I share the driving duties equally when we go out.
He drives there and I drive home.
I sometimes think there is something unfair about this arrangement but I can't quite put my finger on it.
Last night, we had a family dinner at Botswana Butchery.
Even though I was the totally sober designated driver, I still couldn't turn down the chance of a ride home in the restaurant's Bentley with Oli, the charming French chauffeur.
Honestly, if there is anything to make you feel more like a princess than a Bentley with a French chauffeur, I can't imagine what it is.
Francophilia is rife in the Wakatipu right now.
Roger and Marianne Dickie invited us to a French dinner being cooked at their place by a Coronet Peak hitchhiker who just happened to be a great chef (the hitchhikers I pick up always seem to be a bit, well, unemployed and unemployable).
In keeping with the French theme, all the girls had to paint moustaches on the men sitting to their right.
Poor Roger ended up looking like a schnauzer with my effort, Steve Fisher was unrecognisable with his Hitler style moustachette and brother Ferg had to be reminded to wash off his Dali job before going into town after dinner.
Downtown Queenstown is so much fun, and I just don't go there enough.
We bumped into Greg and Lyndell who review ski resorts for www.powderhounds.com (I guess someone has to do those sorts of jobs) and they said Queenstown gets a five-star rating for apres-ski entertainment in every category.
And so it should - if you can't find something fun to do here, you probably won't find it anywhere.
One of my favourite places here is the Lakes District Museum.
The latest show - Speaking of Change Part 2: Memories of the Wakatipu 1950-present - is about the Wakatipu over the past 60 years.
Children from the local primary school interviewed people who had lived here then, and asked them about school, work and day-to-day living during the period.
It's fascinating stuff, and if you lived here then you will love the stories.
Scary that they only seem like yesterday.
The photos of the mall and Buckingham St are amazing - you forget how much everything changes.
There's been so much mail from you all lately, and still more marvellous book recommendations.
Amanda Richardson wrote from Singapore saying she had read Scarlet Heels with great glee, which is exactly how I felt about all those sexy, funny stories.
She also recommended Paula Byrne's Mad World, which is the very salacious story of Evelyn Waugh and sounds so good I have had to order it straight away.
I must also thank Erina and Terry McLean for their lovely email which arrived just as I arrived home carless.
Thanks also to Ken Bania for recommending David Mitchell's The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, which I am halfway through and enjoying so hugely that I have to keep re-reading bits to savour - "Arie Grote has a grin full of holes" - and even the very first page with some horribly bloody detail about a woman in labour shocks you into paying close attention to every word.
The Daily Mail called it "dizzyingly, dazzlingly good", and while I don't think much of the Daily Mail, it got it right this time.
I also read Inside the Whale, by Jennie Rooney, which came with fabulous reviews.
Although I loved some bits, such as Michael's mad father's list of things that send you straight to Hell, the story isn't utterly gripping and I found I have already forgotten a lot of it.
Have a wonderful week and don't forget tomorrow's Merino Muster. Footnote: Readers of today's Read All About It column will see a vague reference to a birthday.
Ms Spary, it seems, is too bashful to mention it is her 50th today.
However, her long-suffering parents Don and Jan Spary are not so reticent and having often been on the receiving end of their daughter's not so flattering observations in her column, thought it was time for some "parental revenge".
And we were happy to oblige.
