Yesterday was pretty exciting because not only was it Waitangi Day and good old Sevens, it was also like the one day of summer that we have in Wellington per year, and when I say that I mean that that’s what they were actually saying on the news, like, “Summer to fall on weekend this year!” Which is an old Seattle joke but seems to accurately reflect the meterological truth of my adopted city, much to my ongoing, Vitamin-D-starved dismay.
Anyway it was a beautiful day right as soon as I woke up, and I swung into action by putting on my once-a-year sundress and lots of sunblock and heading out for a walk over the hill to see everyone in their costumes. I still don’t care about rugby, like at all, but I do always appreciate people getting dressed up and stumbling tipsily around the streets in their various getups. I only wish I’d been able to have the presence of mind to catch some of the more spectacular group costumes last night in town (when people had been drinking for twelve solid hours but were still going strong), but of course just like last year my camera didn’t fit into my going-out outfit so no luck there.
Here’s a picture of the one day a year that I remember that we have a deck and that I may use said deck for eating a breakfast of cookies and tea and for reading books in the sunshine. I do love our view, I have to say. I love it very much.
I feel like I’ve posted a version of this picture before somewhere but I never get tired of walking down through Roseneath and looking out at the harbour. Sunlight is a drug, man. I was practically skipping.
So here we have a group of folks who have gone for a simple yet classic costume choice that boils down to Funny Wigs. I am not one to denigrate a funny wig so I am in complete support. What I did find sort of rough about this group was their inexplicable need to bellow, at the top of their collective lungs, Oasis’ mid-nineties hit “Wonderwall,” as they crossed the street and into the Civic Center.
I liked these guys a lot—they swarmed the car and investigated it as if they were visiting aliens attempting to determine what, exactly, this combustion-engine-based lifeform was all about. I love it when people commit to costumes; I didn’t get a picture of the American football team yelling out numbers and “Ten hut! on Courtenay Place last night but I thought that was quite good effort too.
Here a couple of Fred Flintstones check their iPhones. Um, not very historically accurate, you guys: Fred Flintstone would have totally had like a Bakelite rotary dial. Jeez, do the research, you know?
Not really sure what was going on here—did these guys just happen to have orange jumpsuits and a couple scary hockey masks and decide to call it good? And what’s up with their hats not matching? Consistency, people.
I don’t think these two guys were together or anything. I think this is just a picture of a dude dressed up as a big red dog and another dude dressed up as an alcoholic beverage. I’m fine with that.
I especially enjoy this gentleman’s lovely flowered pants.
Here are some people dressed as hot dogs.
And here they are going for a refreshing dip in the sea! Wearing their hot dog costumes! The first thing I thought when I saw that was, Oooh, girl, you’re definitely not getting your deposit back from Costume Cave now.
I thought this was a particularly brilliant interpretation of the whole centurion thing. Right outside the waterfront Kaffee Eis turned out to be an excellent picture-taking spot.
These Vikings, I imagine, are not in fact discussing which village to pillage next but in fact what flavors of delicious gelato they’re going to get, because fur and cow horns get hot, man. (Vikings: I suggest strawberry, with lemon sorbetto coming in a very close second).
I just love that she looks so happy to be wearing a yellow feather dress here.
When I asked if I could take these shiny gold dudes’ pictures this guy was all “Cherish this photo forever” and I was all “Oh you have no idea.”
If nothing else, you have to admire the clean simplicity of this costume concept. “What’ll we go as this year, mates?” they would have said to each other at their annual Sevens Costume Conceptual Summit. “Will we go as 1963-era The Beatles, mop haircuts and all? Will we go as Louis XIV and three of his mistresses? Will we make a sly reference to current events that seeks to skewer the inherently ridiculous, yet sublime, times in which we live?”
“Nah, mate. We’ll just go in t-shirts that spell out F U C K.”
But they’re not done yet, my friends. No. Not even close.
Fuck and shit, people. Fuck and shit.
This was taken from sort of far away but it’s actually my favorite picture of the day, because you know what? Sometimes glam rockers like to take a little rest from their steady diet of glitter and cocaine and go out into the sun and get all up into a paddleboat. It’s that simple. It’s that glorious. It’s that Sevens Weekend in Wellington, summer distilled into one fun silly sunny afternoon.