In a few weeks I expect researchers desperate to attract big funding by trying to make retrospective sense of the Rugby World Cup will be beating a path to my door.
To help them I am keeping an informal tally of some relevant events.
So far, I have uttered the following question at least 20 times: "Is there anything about this Rugby World Cup which isn't tacky and ghastly?" The first person not to understand this was rhetorical was a colleague who raved about the opening ceremony.
He knew there was no chance of me having seen it because I had already announced I would rather have all my teeth removed without an anaesthetic than watch the opening ceremony to anything.
I was going to take his word for it, but then I remembered this was a man who once had to be taken from the office by ambulance after dislocating a shoulder while simulating a strip routine (not common practice in the newsroom, I assure you dear readers). Would it be sensible to trust his judgement and taste on this occasion?
The ghastliness of the opening night was brought home to me by my Auckland visitors last weekend.
I am not sure I displayed the appropriate amount of sympathy as they argued about who had the nearest near-death-by-crushing experience after the Auckland public transport meltdown. I am not at my best when woken at about 3am.
The Auckland-dwelling sister had nursed some fond hope the evening was going to end with her and him running towards each other in slow motion with arms outstretched (she even made reference to the gentle rise and fall of her breasts in this fantasy - a vision too far at that time of the morning).
The fact they had not arranged a specific meeting place in advance was one of the flies in that particular ointment when cellphones got overloaded and did not work for some time (they didn't seem to be able to agree at 3.30am on times, places and who did what and when).
His cellphone went flat near party central at some point, too, which also did not help. She reckons it took about six hours for them to eventually meet. Both were fed up by then.
Resisting the urge to give a lecture about relying on cellphones rather than common sense, I sleepily asked whether she could have saved herself a lot of trouble by going home well before that time, but it did not appear to be an option.
They were much more enthusiastic about their Friday night in Dunedin, although trying to engage them in a meaningful discussion about the controversial phallic sculpture in the Octagon proved futile. They hadn't seen it. Well, I guess it is black and it was dark.
Later that day, having successfully farewelled them on their journey to Invercargill to see Argentina play Romania, I decided I should enter into the spirit of things by donning an old pair of muddy footie boots on the deck to mow the lawn.
The sprig holes would be great for aeration, I told myself, as I hobbled down the front steps in a manner likely to incur the wrath of ACC.
In similarly dangerous fashion I pranced down the sloping concrete to get the push mower, clattering like a one-woman All Black team emerging from the changing room, and momentarily regretted I hadn't dashed a bit of oil of wintergreen behind each ear for a bit more atmosphere.
Lawn mowing has never been such fun. There was no hope of slipping over as I sprung about like a gazelle (not a springbok).
There was the odd worrying moment when I rucked the stuck blades, risking either starting a fire or becoming inextricably attached to the mower by my errant laces.
Relaxing with slightly sore ankles afterwards (the scientist in the family advised that was due to the rigid nature of rugby boot soles and eventually I would toughen up), I sent an excited text to the Auckland visitors about this event, but they made no comment.
I like to think it was because their batteries were flat rather than a deliberate snubbing.
When they returned to Dunedin on Sunday for the England v Georgia game, they were effusive about the great time they'd had in Invercargill and what a wonderful place it was.
There was similar enthusiasm for their Dunedin experience.
My sister's companion, despite his legal background, became the second person not to recognise the rhetorical nature of my oft-repeated RWC question.
"There's nothing tacky about the rugby," he said quietly, gently, but decisively.
I was quick to realise I knew enough about rugby and the responsibility of being a hostess to recognise silence was the only proper response.
• Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
