We live in Havelock North – that place Auckland housewives go to stock up on their Coleraine (it’s a posh red wine).
Also known as a top spot for a mega quick weight loss programme – you can lose up to 10kg in JUST ONE WEEK.
In fact, it was the gastro bug that kept our inaugural viewing party numbers low, but we had one beaming in by text/phone and the promise of full numbers next week.
In honour of the occasion, we’d Housewived ourselves waist up – fur, scarves, earrings, nails and lipstick. Below the midsection though, it was still pure country – jeans and Uggs.
The show started with promise. We instantly loved Louise Wallace’s vertiginous left eyebrow. Gilda was smoldering and instantly intriguing. Anne was pure pussyshit crazy.
We saw Angela toss some autumn leaves over her “big unit” (Louise’s words) and give everyone a copy of her useful book on which combination of beading, lace, sequins and stilettos would best suit your shape.
In fact, the whole ep was kind of about Angela. Here’s what we know: she’s a model, mother, author, stylist, designer, coach, and fancies herself as the next Oprah. Gilda – the undisputable star of the show – doesn’t like her. Which helpfully set up the first major drama of the series.
Watch our behind the scenes clip with The Real Housewives of Auckland. Story continues below.
Then Michelle, a Brit model, breezed in and stirred the pot by assuming Angela was “plus size” – leading, in turn, to the series’ first tears. I’d bet money – my own, not inherited, in fact earned by my own hand – that they wont be the last.
Oh and stomach-churning line of the night (and that’s something coming from Havelock North, where churning stomachs are a specialty) goes to Julia’s husband Michael who uttered the ACTUAL words “Darling, you need to understand, I pay for the pants and I get into the pants. That’s my role.”
Do we like it? The consensus is that we can’t not watch it. For starters, we want to see more of Gilda’s extraordinary wardrobe. We’d also like her to give us a smokey eye lesson. We want to hear more mirthless, hard-arse Michelleisms. And if Anne could dance for us some more that would be fabulous.
