Sevens mania has hit Wellington. Its most visible aspect is the clutches of costumed fans around the city. We love to dress up. But we love it more if we can be one of a bunch all dressed the same.
This morning I was driving along a suburban street, minding my own business, when I was flagged down by half-a-dozen oversize pink whoopee cushions. They wanted me to drive them (and their spotty white legs) to the stadium. In their over-excited, over-exposed state, they seemed seriously to believe that I might.
Later, E was walking on the waterfront when she noticed a red-clad major domo, like the man who opens the door at Kirkcaldies. He was sitting with his head in his hands. Assuming he was weeping, she kindly asked if he was all right. He lifted his head to observe angrily that he couldn't get into the stadium. But wehen she murmured something sympathetic in response, he snarled, "Bitch!"
Meanwhile, The Hound, who normally loves everyone and everything, was throwing a panic-stricken hissy fit at a bemused panda.
Last year's Sevens brought us teams of sperms (I'm doubtful about that pluralisation, but it was theirs) and Elizabeth IIs, any number of policemen, sailors and showgirls, and this Borat horror, which you might relieved to hear has since been banned.