This weekend I went to the packed-out premier of Gareth Farr’s Terra Incognita at the spectacular NZSO Antarctica concert at the Wellington Town Hall. Three screens brought us icy imagery to accompany the music and a direct video link to Scott Base where Fred Dagg on ice, Muppet the mechanic, toasted us with a slow-poured bubbly and introduced us to the rest of the wintering-over crew. We were sitting in the front row upstairs, where the cold air that always swirls around your head, thanks to the Town Hall’s unsubtle air conditioning system, seemed an appropriate part of the atmosphere. Two craggy young guys who were sitting behind us with backpacks and ice axes – we never found out why –  didn’t raise any eyebrows among the bejewelled women and the quietly suited men.

A premier is to a composer what a book launch is to a writer, and as this is the season for book launches, I thought I’d write about the book launches in my life this past two weeks. With food (and wine) prices on the up and up, a weekly book launch can supplement a poor writer’s diet and prevent the symptoms of cold turkey alcohol withdrawal as the GST return season, and its concomitant belt-tightening, begins.

Next week I’ll be at the launch of March to the Sound of the Guns, at Archives New Zealand, which I imagine will be a serious and highbrow affair, with good quality wines. Last week I was at the Children’s Bookshop in Kilbirnie, where Jack Lasenby, looking younger than ever, was celebrating another of his unique tall tales, Old Drumble. A good time was had by all. John and Ruth MacIntyre always run very affable, quaffable launches.

Last Thursday, Dymocks hosted the launch of my and Virginia Pawsey’s book, Common Ground. The launch, reflecting the book, was a convivial, amusing event where Gliding On office workers met Country Calendar farmers. Wellington wethers in woollies, prize stud bureaucrats in charcoal merino suits met North Canterbury two-tooths in twin sets and turtlenecks.
 
You know what it’s like when office workers get a free chardonnay in their hands after work; they become impossible to muster. Virginia, dressed appropriately in gummies, Swanndri and hat, blew her mustering whistle and shouted “Get in behind!” I don’t think I’ve heard such a ringing shout since the last Evening Post paper boy’s call of “Pay-yeah-per” was silenced many years ago. Much wine was spilt on suits, but the stock was cornered, drafted and dipped – in wine, in readings and jokes.

A good time was had by all until all the books in stock were sold and Virginia mustered everyone off to dinner at Leuven’s, the only restaurant we could find in walking distance – no gates to open – that would take such a large and noisy bunch of people, all of whom looked by then ready for the works.