When it comes to class identity, cut me and I bleed the proletarian agenda.
But on the day in question, I was wondering about the mineral water I was drinking, and if it really was cleansing my palate between wines in the way I desired.
The floating luxury hotel - amusingly described as a houseboat - I was on was worth not far short of a cool million dollars, but I was checking to see how many channels were on the flat-screen television bolted to the wall near my bed.
And I wondered: if I got my white gloves out and ran my fingernail along the top of the cupboard, would I find the slightest wisp of dust?
And was that a spot on the window?
It could be, then, that the marauding working classes, had they chosen that moment to revolt, may have chosen me as a target, standing, as I was, arrogant and entitled near the bow of the boat, drenched in the sort of luxury usually only available to the tyrannical captains of runaway capitalism.
Rupert Murdoch was probably on the boat next door; didn't he come from Melbourne?
Luckily, the people of the regional northwestern Victorian city seemed content, in the way only Australians who live somewhere sunny can.
And the sort of luxury that wrapped me in its unfamiliar arms and carried me up and down the mighty Murray River was not really mine, but a temporary phenomenon viewed through the illusory, though well-polished lens of a five-day tourism junket generously supplied by Tourism Victoria.
This then, is the story of a cheap man from North Dunedin; a cheap man with access, by proxy at least, to a state government credit card, and to a lifestyle sorely deserved but a long, long time coming.
A tourism junket, that "job" highly valued in media circles, involves being flown to a tourist spot, wined, dined and provided clean feathery beds in hotels with mint slices laid neatly on the pillow near a basket of regional wax-enrobed cheeses and little boxes of complimentary cotton buds and shower caps and soap and dental floss and a shoe-shine sponge and an alluring mini-bar packed with desirable pieces of chocolate and bottles of beer and wine, and there is always one of those fantastic white towelling dressing gowns in a bathroom sparkling with marble, glass and mirrors, and - just in case you ripped your pants getting off the plane - a sewing kit.
I love the sewing kits.
They come with a tiny pair of scissors that look as if they couldn't cut through a melted Snowfreeze, but they are surprisingly sharp.
Of course I didn't leave for the state of Victoria empty-handed.
I knew I would be meeting winemakers and chief executives of resorts and the like, and I knew they would be telling me things about their tourism enterprises, and I would have to respond.
I left with this little sentence: "My readers would be very interested in that; tell me more."
But I didn't need it.
Instead, plied as I was with the very best of the region's food, wine, and luxury accommodation, I used this little sentence; "Why that would be lovely, thank you very much."
Thank you very much.
My trip, of course, was not without economic motivation on the part of somebody.
Somebody in this case appeared to be the tourism industry of the Murray region, which after years and years of drought, suffered late in 2010 and early in 2011 from floods, followed by a plague of locusts and if that wasn't enough, a plague of mice.
That almost biblical sequence of events, with one resort operator telling of tearing the roof off his resort to extract a pile of dead locusts half a metre deep, meant that if there was a slight element of desperation in the way the area was being sold, that was fair enough.
The general message seemed to be that the problems were over, and the area was ready to again take in its regular stream of tourists.
The news just had to get out that the river was neither dried up nor overflowing, and a small army of chefs, winemakers and the like were ready to cater for every need.
But the story started far from the great Victorian mallee and the slow-moving brown river that winds through it.
High above New Zealand's Southern Alps, the air host sought me out to tell me about the extras to which I was entitled with my ticket, being the complimentary video screen, crackers with sweet salsa sauce, an aged wax-enrobed Kapiti cheddar and beer or wine.
There was, of course, a selection of wines, ranging from a fruity red with aromas of redcurrants and brambles and a cheeky, almost flirtatious aftertaste, to a crisp chardonnay that would drink well with a risotto or lighter pasta dish.
"Why that would be lovely, thank you very much," I said.
There was no shuttle at the Melbourne airport when I landed.
Instead, there was a very nice gentleman holding a card with my name on it; a gentleman with a black limousine, who took my luggage, opened the back door and whisked me to the Grand Hyatt Melbourne, where a luxurious room on the 29th floor awaited.
Melbourne; fantastic, whimsical and inspired architecture, alleys packed with cafes and people, skyscrapers and yellow taxis and crawling traffic and trams and nightlife, buskers, prostitutes and a terrific art gallery with some spectacular Sidney Nolan works.
How I would have liked to stay longer.
But Tourism Victoria media and trade relations co-ordinator Anthony (Tony) Poletto, a man who knew about timetables and itineraries, was on hand with credit card, to herd myself and two other New Zealand media types north and west, out towards the rugged mallee.
Through tiny towns with names like Pyalong and Tooborac we swept, each centre sporting a historic pub with that sort of charming latticework veranda.
And then, into the distance, past stark and twisted eucalypts that marched or limped defiantly across the rugged terrain, we motored a mere two and a-half hours north; north to the picturesque riverside town of Echuca.
Echuca
The very best thing about Echuca is that it sits on the edge of the Murray River, with the border of New South Wales and Victoria on the shoreline of the Victoria side of the river.
That means you can stand on the edge of the mighty Murray, with one foot in each state.
For just a moment, one leg is into rugby league, while the other is a big Aussie rules fan.
Also, it's a picturesque little spot, full of paddle-steamers and houseboats and historic stuff.
But my first experience was gastronomic.
At Oscar W's Wharfside redgum grill and deck bar, there was poached veal salad with smoked trout mayo, followed by the most delicious yabbie tortellini with a terrific brandy bisque, then grilled kangaroo (for God's sake, only cook it for a moment) with sweet corn, meredith feta, mizuna, vin cotto and crispy, crispy leek.
If some of those ingredients jumped at me in the street and bit me hard on the leg I would not recognise them again, but they were very nice.
For dessert, I was offered a sweet plate of little lamingtons, bundy rum balls, crunchy macaroons and tiny tartlets.
"Why that would be lovely, thank you very much," I said.
The night was spent on PS Emmylou, a quite excellent paddle-steamer.
There was yet more food and booze, and the next day began early in the morning with masses of food, before the rest of the day was spent eating and drinking.
Then there was dinner.
The paddle-steamer experience is pretty special, and with its link to the historic riverboat days of yore, unique.
There is also something uniquely Australian about being woken by the crazed screams of the sulphur-crested cockatoo as it soars above the mud-brown Murray River into the winter sun.
Taking over the huge spoked steering wheel of PS Emmylou and sailing her down the river was also an experience unmatched elsewhere.
But there was no time to spare, so along with my hangover and increasingly bloated puku, it was off to taste some wine on the Echuca Moama wine tour.
The area is cram-packed with wineries, so if that's your scene, several days can be set aside for tasting.
Swan Hill
From Echuca the road and the river take you northwest to Swan Hill, a terrific little town, where, like Echuca, the local media comes to take your photo if you are a passing journalist.
It was about as famous as I have been.
At the luxurious Murray Downs Resort, which has its own TAB and golf course, the manager says things like "put it on the manager's account" as you order lunch.
That was good.
Food was consumed in venues and quantities too numerous to mention, but take it as read there are heaps of restaurants.
Mildura
Finally, and it was a highlight of the trip, two nights on the houseboat Pure Pleasure.
And, by the way Willandra Houseboats: "Why that would be lovely, thank you very much."
These were the things which, as a cheap man from North Dunedin, I liked about Pure Pleasure.
The bathroom floor in the en-suite was heated.
The television was really, really big and there were lots of televisions on the boat, always a marker of real class in my book.
On the upper deck there was a 10-person spa.
There was a gourmet barbecue, a really flash kitchen, a terrific coffee machine, and a fridge full of beer and wine.
You can sail your houseboat up the river, park where you like, pretty much, and, if you want, visit golf clubs like the Riverside, which had kangaroos bounding across the fairway.
You can sail gently past the eucalypts that dig into the red dirt and stand sentinel on the river bank.
Or, after days of pouring food down your gullet, the regional meat, cream, scones, yabbies, soft polenta, spicy boned quail, crispy pork belly, slow roasted suckling pig and double cooked duck, plates of extravagant triple cream cheeses made from full-cream milk and added creme fraiche with a dense creamy texture that ripens slowly with a fluffy mould, wrapped in maple leaf and stuffed deep into your gob, all of which is washed down with two or three bathfuls of wine so that in the end you are hugely, hugely FAT, you just may want to lie down and sleep, sleep, sleep.
But that is what holidays are all about.
The simple things.
The Murray River, bless its muddy soul, has all these things in abundance.
And it is just across the Tasman. Enjoy.
