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As I walk up to the door I see no less than six women in their golden years congregating around a pack of Pall Mall menthols. They stop to look over the top of their ”Sally Jessie Raphael” inspired spectacles at me.

I pass through the Rimu framed doors and enter the open plan bar area. In true Hutt style most of the patrons are eating their meals at the standing height tables. The men are mostly in their finest shirts, denim jeans and shit kicker work boots or Asics trainers . A couple of grannies are downing lion browns in their church clothes to my left. One looks like Howard Morrison’s widow (RIP). At the table across from them one old girl is stroking a young bucks thigh making the point of running her hand high enough for him to know she means business. I seem to be the only one aware of the ensuing hunt.

A crowd of late- teen aged girls enter. Their rhinestones glint like a disco ball and the smell of Britney’s latest eu de toilet´ overpowers my olfactory senses. They appear to have drained Upper Hutts allocation H2O2. The cougars pheromones are so deeply entrenched here the younger pack quickly leaves of their own accord before they are run out. If nothing else the cougar is a territorial hunter.

One particular flame haired desperate housewife (Chazz’s mum?) is devouring with her eyes every male under 35 in the joint. However her physical state means her hunting prowess is severely limited and her kill rate is low.  The night is young and this place is going to look like the Serengeti at lunch time. I make a hasty exit. This place is for experienced hunters only. Leave the tranquilizers at home – bring the Browing A-Bolt.

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