The Lady Of The Manor - by Debo Coddington-Carruthers

I sit at my escritoire looking through the mansion window which my QC husband, whom I love so much, worked hard to pay the local builders to construct, and watch my darling black Labradors Hawk and Whetu bound through the flock of bantams which are shagging each other when they should be pecking the nasty green caterpillars off my newly planted lettuces.

Whetu, the younger Lab, gazes back as if to ask permission and I wave her on to chase fluffy golden rabbits through the Pinot Gris vines in the glittering morning sun. Delectable Doggy thinks I’m wagging my tail as her black tail wags back and off they go, into their happy day, leaving me to get on with wifely duties like folding socks, and the occasional writing task – back labels for the wine bottles - just for pocket money.

It wasn’t always thus. This rural bliss is far removed from those angry, lonely days of barking questions of attack in the House of Representatives; hating humans on the other side simply because their political philosophy differed slightly. Why must it be like this? I ask myself these days when my char lady accidently switches the telly to the Parliament channel during question time. Why all this testosterone and aggression, and just from Judith Collins?

Far above my lavender bed a hawk circles searching for prey – hawks and doves, National and Labour? No, more National and Greens, for the closer I settle into the peace of this tranquil life I find myself wishing to protect my patch of our Planet so as not to steal from our great-great-great-great-grandchildren-not-yet-born, and I find myself morphing into a Greenie, fending off the predatory dives of the capitalists with whom I once eagerly hunted. 

When tending and inhaling the fragrance of my roses – I have planted 85 including ‘Ali Mau’ and ‘Aotearoa’ as tribute to the tangata whenua who strode these hills before me - I look back at the Coddington who carried that card entitling her to membership of the Libertarian right and shudder. How could she have uttered those harsh words so easily, spilling out of her mouth damning the solo mothers who continue to have children through no fault of their own? How could she have turned on governments for spending taxpayers’ money on private companies which were could not help being so cavalier in their investments? What business was it of hers to poke her long nose in where not invited? When did she elevate and start referring to herself in the third person a la Helen Clark?

The answer to all these questions is in the grape. We all should just relax on our back verandas, look out over the sylvan vistas with the cows, and drink Champagne. There is no better salve for a man’s soul than growing, pruning, picking, stomping then drinking one’s own wine, preferably from the finest glasses washed in organic liquid thus not affecting the palate of forest floors, quince, blackberries, liquorice, burnt toffee if it’s Pinot Noir; of course if it is Syrah then you’re going to have horse manure palate combined with cock’s crow at dawn, pine needles, honey and maple. 

Haters will always hate. For instance, they won’t let go of that article I wrote about Asian Angst, dredging it up as if it were Mein Kampf even when recently I penned a memoir about my Good Life In Rural Wairarapa. Build a bridge, I tell them. I’ve said I’m sorry. What do they want? Me blowing my brains out on reality television? (There’s a thought, Ed.)  

Well, I forgive them, and that’s more powerful than the sword – er, gun. So wearing my puffer vest, jeans, knee-high boots, cashmere sweater, pearls and maybe a Hermes scarf for splash of colour, I eschew the ambitions of Global Women like Mai Chen and do my thing locally. I load up my racing green Range Rover 4WD with home-made chutneys, jams, marmalades and special crabapple jellies (recipes handed down over generations but I’m happy to send them to any readers who want to write in) and off I go, delivering alms to the church fair where the poor can buy at accessible prices. Yes, these toney wine tourist areas aren’t all book launches and tasting rooms, we too have our charities to support; our breakfast kitchens but you’ll always find ladies like me doing good works with simple gifts in Agee jars topped in red-and-white gingham.

Tonight in our overflowing-with-love home there’ll be Scotty’s beef fillet on the barbecue, set alight for effect. Free household hint from Debo - a good fire impresses the guests and delivers juicy, tender steaks but unless you’re a Domestic Goddess don’t try it at home.  Next week it might be Jugged Hare from the vineyard, torn apart by my darlings Hawk and Whetu. Did I mention my dogs, the black Labradors? (yes, you did mention the bloody dogs, Ed.) And did I tell about my very dear friend Sir Robert Jones introducing me to CCQC (oh shut up you old trout and stop name-dropping, you are well past your use-by date. Editor.)

Editor - Debo Coddington-Carruthers no longer has a column in the Dominion Post.  We want to know why she was replaced with Judith Collins' boring husband.