It is the task of the writer to make sense out of chaos, and to shine the torch of reason down into the pagan mind.
And so, I shall attempt to describe a ''Members' Cellar Night'' held at the Millbrook Country Club.
Being vineyard country, Central Otago harbours jeroboams of old soaks, winos, and vintage buffs. Therefore, the wise heads at Millbrook have set aside a night where members may shuffle in with personal wine treasures, and match them with the tucker at the celebrated Millhouse Restaurant.
Initially, seven tasters were to polish their glasses for our Big Night. But Justice Cudlip Trout found himself barred on the grounds that he is a pompous, insufferable, wine snob.
To be fair to His Honour, his wine elitism is piddle compared to the coffee snobbery now rampant in society.
Where, today, would an honest Kiwi dare order a single shot of Gregg's Instant? Is the dinkum flat white now offered only to old folk in slippers?
And is it true that Porsche is releasing a spiffy new espresso appliance, turbo charged, with a paddle shift for steam?
(I wrote that in jest, and then discovered the Porsche Espresso Machine already exists. It comes with thermoblock heating and automatic ejection).
So we wine snobs are now vastly outnumbered by the coffee snobs. Nevertheless, minus the egregious Justice Trout, six tasters fronted the Millhouse, bringing their A and B Team bottles.
The A and B team concept should be explained. The A team are the ''pride and joy'' rarities that have languished in cellars for the pitiful reason that we never found an occasion perfect enough to open them. (Our shrinks would have a field day on that one).
The B Team - solid performers, but less fulgent - are the emergency back ups needed should the wine tasting get out of hand. That is, always.
The tasters tore straight into a Penfold's Yattarna chardonnay which, as an opening choice, was as restrained as a six smashed over cover point from the first ball of a test series. Next came a West Australian Xanadu, with which you could have buttered toast.
Then, with the first overs negotiated, the side knuckled down, brows knitted, to the serious business of drinking reds. There was (as I recall), a seasoned Coonawarra cabernet, then something old and distinguished from California, followed by - Look, I'd love to go on about this.
But it is around the third red that records of the evening become unreliable. This is the time when wine has assisted us to relax and become more ourselves - something that is rarely advisable. Opinions become less than penetrating. In vino veritas staggers into play.
Any vestige of sense was finally torpedoed by The Doctor. She said that as she set forth into adulthood, her mother advised that the world was her oyster because she - lucky girl - was blessed with ''capable legs.''
This set the intellects afire.
''Capable legs? Surely capable hands would advance one further''
''Perhaps. But aren't capable hips the gold standard?''
''No, hips are for child bearing. The capable hip isn't a career move. Besides, if the blokes were honest, they'd all vote for capable breasts.''
''Breasts? Perhaps so - but then you forget the leg men.''
The concept of the capable brain was never tabled, and the conversation, dazed, moved on to some other deep issues. This meant I couldn't tell my story about escorting a wine tastress home after a solid night's work being young and foolish.
''I need the fastest route to your bathroom,'' I blurted. Some minutes later, freshly combed and barfed, I weaved back up the corridor.
''There's been a small accident,'' I admitted.
''I'm terribly sorry about your hat stand.''
''Hat stand? My HAT STAND? You can't mean my driftwood sculpture?''
Honestly. How would a bloke know the difference?
Those of you with longer memories will recall that only the barking mad mix Muller Thurgau, Cold Duck, and McWilliams' Bakano.
Despite that, I contend that wine of almost any sort remains the best proof that God still loves us.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
