Making the bold announcement that I needed to know the dates when the Rugby World Cup would be in Dunedin and Invercargill so I could get as far away as possible was clearly a side-step too far.
No, I assured them, I had no desire to be part of the biggest event the country had ever seen.
I had greater things on my mind. Selfless things. Things for the real good of the country.
I knew the Old School Mate in Feilding would be a starter.
"Keep September 10 to October 2 free. We're going on a trip with Gerry Brownlee," I told her.
I couldn't see her, but I am sure she didn't bat an eyelid. That's the thing about old friends - you know they will support you through anything.
Christchurch was the obvious place to go for peace from rugby, but on quiet reflection I decided that fair city had suffered enough.
Not only did they not need us there clogging up their portaloos, they could probably do with a break from the omnipresence of Big Gere.
I suggested we should all meet in Dunedin. We'd pack the aptly named Relax (the roomy canvas tent of my late husband's boyhood), a spade and the thermette and head north in the Toyota Corolla.
It would have been classier to travel by Mini, but none in the OSM's family fleet was suitable. Her Riley Elf, while roomier, was also ruled out because of its unreliable boot latch and the risk of airing our dirty laundry en route.
If BG misses such luxuries as a hot seat, I'll be happy to pack a hottie. He can refill it as required after boiling the thermette and making hot drinks all round. In the interests of health and safety, and to avoid an unnecessary trip to Burwood, however, I will encourage him to place said hottie gently behind his godlike personage rather than sit on it.
Briefly, I considered whether we should include another politician. We would certainly have plenty to discuss with Health Minister Tony Ryall, but we were not sure we had space for his wardrobe and the OSM worried his startling ensembles might attract unwelcome attention from keas.
The plan is that we will freedom camp our way to Murchison. BG will be on spade duty - on the job for sanitary purposes and also for digging a trench around the tent if we are at risk of flooding at any point.
He will also be required to put up the tent, take it down, do the cooking, washing-up and so on. It is not that the OSM and I are lazy, but I have been reading articles recently suggesting we should be more appreciative of men in all their glory.
I figure the more they do, the more we will appreciate them (it hasn't worked thus far for women, but hey, let's not be defeatist and sexist).
Once we reach Murchison we will abandon the tent and walk to the out-of-cellphone-range Matiri Lake where we will hole-up in the Doc hut there at $5.10 a day for the duration.
We trust that if we cling limpet-like to BG, his buoyancy will help us avoid the near death experience we had crossing the left branch of the Matiri as fifth-formers back in 1970.
He may not find the three-hour walk particularly comfortable. He will be required to carry the bulk of our gear (mainly food and drink) with a jerrycan of petrol hanging round his neck.
That's for him to attack the wasps' nest which one of the Murchison-dwelling sisters reminds me has been a feature at the lake long-drop on recent visits.
I am not sure if dousing things with petrol in a national park is allowed, but Gerry can do anything, can't he?
At the lake, BG should be in his element. He will be required to keep the fire going at all times, organise water and the cooking while the OSM and I lounge about picking the chocolate pieces out of the scroggin.
In any of his spare daylight moments we will encourage him to drink in the peace and beauty of his surroundings and get him to realise he should throw his considerable weight behind not allowing a hydro-scheme to ruin the scene.
At night we will bore him with our views on everything from mining in national parks to the regulation of the price of milk. Then, when he is trying to sleep, we will snore.
If he emerges from this experience a changed man, in an odd way the Rugby World Cup will have been responsible. Damn. Rugby is always the winner on the day.
- Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
