Woke at 10am, or 8am or 9am, depending on which chronological error you believed. Worked out how to sue the shower but still struggling to make the most of the tiny mirror stuck at shoulder height over the hand-basin. Unlike hotels with their vast bathroom mirrors that enable feats of manscaping not possible at home, B&B's adopt a policy of mirror minimisation that requires I position myself in a yoga posture to get my head in range and then I can check a range of up to 3 teeth for food scraps.
I decided to visit Arrowtown, a village 15km north of here. Announcing this in the B&B dining room, a fellow guest brandished a timetable for the bus service, defying me to make sense of it. Conceived as the colourful offspring of a ransom note, tide table, and an aptitude test for Bletchley Park, the brochure did its best to disguise the fact that I should go to the corner at 5 minutes after the hour and wait for the bus.
It's then a 45 minute journey with diversions to the shopping mall, airport and a housing estate before we're in the village. It's much cleaner looking than QT although it's a very small affair with a short main street of cafes and shops selling every conceivable by-product of merino and jade, occasionally infiltrated by purveyors of souvenirs of mind-boggling naffness, much of which has escaped the scrutiny of the 1981 International Convention Against Trading in Products Made of Broken Pieces of Seashell.
Queenstown souvenirs; Matthew, the baby of the family
After a couple of hours I return to Queenstown to wait for Team America. A heavy rain sets in, giving them a chilly welcome to the South Island.
Finally gathered, I find they're very well organised and retrieve enough ingredients from the local supermarket to work up a large batch of spag-bog before the NYE fireworks begin.