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Dearest Friends, Foes and Fancies,

You are cordially invited to a European party hosted by Master William John Darling III of Roslyn, Dunedin.

Beverages shall include: Pinot Gris, Pinot Noir, possibly Vodka (for Pushkin lovers), soy milk, loose leaf teas and disgustingly black and ridiculously overpriced coffee.

Please refrain from bringing a “plate”. Although the term “buffet” certainly looks French, lining up for food is distasteful. Rather, an appetizing salad with rogue exotic fruits shall be provided alongside a wonderfully buttery main course. The aforementioned shall be accompanied by the densest, seediest, blackest bread known to man and, finances permitting, anything of the cheese family shall join the party.

Clause 1: You mustn’t find yourself in the awkward position of actually eating the food. Europeans are commonly waif-like and extremely attractive. Pick at it. Play with it. Photograph it. Otherwise, a crane may be needed to hoist you onto your Danish bicycle for the ride home.

Costume is mandatory: bow ties, stripes, polka dots and glasses are ideal. High-waisted skirts might also prove useful (to hide potential food baby). Think Burberry. Think Chanel. Think minimalism. If you are not of the private school ilk go for the “shabby chic” or “poor but sexy” look.

Etiquette at such soirees includes smoking and posing, naturally. Overuse the phrase ooh la la and import yes, no, please and thank you in any foreign language. It is best to avoid discussing politics, religion or money at the dinner table. However, if you are so inclined perhaps lighten up the conversation by mentioning the follies of Berlusconi, Sarkozy, and his petit amis, Carla Bruni, and their new offspring. To contribute to the elitist feeling in the room, subtly intimate your affluent ancestry, that your cousin’s brother’s dog’s owner’s great grandfather was James Cook himself – either that, or you spotted Paul Henry in Sydney last weekend. This infers that you are a genuine “jet-setter” and you know absolutely everyone worth knowing.

Clause 2: If you are hoping to pop over to the fabulous Northern continent in the future – be warned, don’t follow the above instructions verbatim. Emulating a European does not hide the fact that you are a New Zealander. You will look the fool standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, sporting stripes, a beret, and baguette in hand. Take it from my experience.

Regards,

The Pretentious Urban Liberal Herself

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