My last Arts Festival attendance last night confirmed two things –

first the iron law of Arts Festivals  – attending more than four events without express endorsement of each from a trusted friend guarantees that at least one of them will be hideous. For us it inoculates us against more than token early bookings next time. We have to wait for word of mouth reports, and just take the risk of missing out.

A couple of years ago I bewailed the absence of anything like the ratings/reputation mechanisms that make filmgoing so much more reliable. I googled before last night’s ghastliness – but found no equivalent to Flicks or iMDB to provide protection.

That leads to the second reminder – there’s no accounting for taste. We were encouraged to attend an unpromising show by an enthusiastic friend. She was going for the second time. I’ve always seen her as notably level headed.

Now I have to wonder if I’ve been missing the snap of the whip and the whiff of Weimar about her. She warned us it was extremely sexy.

I suspect that being bawled at by a lip syncing overweight aging boy would pretty much eliminate lustful thoughts in most folk.

I know we were not alone in our desperate desire for it all to end. Others in our row had their fingers jammed in their ears. Yet sections of the audience seemed enraptured.

If only we had stayed wandering up and down Cuba St enjoying Cubadupa. Few were there without feeling privileged to be in Wellington at its best.