Question time: How a quiz night

February

Iam new to this district. I am also a Covid cliche – fled the city in the middle of the pandemic, landed on top of a windy hill with neighbours close enough, but not so close you run into them every day.

I have a bunch of friends, but they’re mostly back in the city, and making new ones is not as easy as it was in primary school. Can you even manage that in your 50s? How on earth is it supposed to work?

According to the science, it is more difficult the older you get – and it’s not because I’m uncool/awkward/verging on hermit (although incidentally, I think I may be all those things).

Apparently the science of making new friends goes like this: Continuous unplanned interaction + shared vulnerability = friendship opportunities.

Ah yes, bonding over shared gripes, that sounds familiar.

The friends I have out here are bonded through a common love of horses, aka being a willing slave to the every whim of the equine overlords in the paddock outside the kitchen window, while figuratively burning fistfuls of dollars catering to their needs.

Those are quality friends, though, for which I’m grateful – the kind of mates who, if I were ever in trouble, would jump in their utes and be here within minutes. The research shows it takes 50 hours to make a casual friend and 200 hours to turn that into a close friendship. I know I need to make an effort. Say yes to everything. Take all the offers, try all the things.

One of my neighbours, Libby, slips a casual question into the conversation; ‘‘Would you like to come to quiz night? It’s every week at the [bar in nearest town]?’’

Would I ever. I love a quiz. And some low-stakes fun on a Tuesday night sounds just the ticket. Yup, I’ll be there.

March

This is not low stakes. This is competitive as all get-out. Actually, I’m astounded at how ruthless even I become, once the first question is called. I’m also delighted by the ragging you get when you duff a question. It’s hilariously brutal, no-holds-barred public humiliation. The quiz is run by ‘‘indie’’ company Gee Quiz and it’s low-fi: no screens, no quiz-leader-as-wannabecomic. Just Ethan – who is lovely, efficient and endlessly patient with all of our nonsense – and his portable whiteboard.

There are between six and eight regular teams, ours is called Bubble Trouble (a hangover from peak pandemic times) and everyone has their specialist subject. Allow me to introduce you to:

Amy: Team leader, pop culture, ‘‘what’s the link’’ and word puzzles.

Adie: Movies and sport (crucial), and anything related to Ireland or the Irish.

Libby: Literature and science – particularly body parts, connective tissue and related stuff – and the periodic table (important for any quiz team).

Brian: Geography master. Once answered ‘‘how many vowels in the capital city of Burkina Faso’’ in record time.

Steve: Encyclopaedic music knowledge, word puzzles and random eclectica.

Michelle: Maths. Incredible maths. And the QWERTY keyboard (more important than you’d expect).

Leon: Movies, gaming, geography, ‘‘weird shit’’ and tech. Also in charge of team morale.

Mila: Occasional team-member and decades younger than most of us – brings valuable young-person knowledge, especially post-90s music and pop culture. Had to quit due to work commitments. Great loss to the team.

Then there’s me. TV, song lyrics and general knowledge. And, presumably, acing any and all questions related to Australia. We’ll see how that goes.

May

It’s not going well. I don’t mean the team as a whole – we either win, or come close to winning, every week. But I haven’t been forgiven for failing to identify the name of the Australian sporting team that TV celebrity Don Lane supported throughout his life.

This was a bonus baffler question (where you get one clue each quiz round and the earlier you get the right answer, the more points you get) and therefore incredibly important to the overall score.

The answer, by the way, is the South Sydney Rabbitohs, and we were the last team to get it. I may never recover from the humiliation.

We discuss all getting the letters ‘‘Shhh!’’ tattooed on our index fingers, so often do we have to admonish someone or other in the team to, ‘‘whisper the answer, don’t shout’’.

July

A bombshell! I learn Bubble Trouble did not always exist in its current form. Back in the day (last year) the team was called Leopards Who Can’t Change Their Beer Spots. There was a schism – details murky but let’s put it down to ‘‘creative differences’’ – and half the team left for the Whangaparaoa franchise. We might meet them in the final, if we do well.

August

We drive, Libby and I, to quiz night in the dark these days and mostly in terrible

weather. Sometimes it’s a hard ask to drag yourself away from the roaring woodburner and into the storm, but it’s always worth it once you have a glass of wine and something from the food truck on the table in front of you. And the company, of course.

I’ve come to rely on the camaraderie of Tuesday night and these growing friendships. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

I’ve redeemed myself by guessing the bonus baffler first round. The clue went something like this: ‘‘I am a band, formed on the Eastern seaboard. My lead singer quit law school to join the band.’’

Most in the room went back and forth debating various American groups. ‘‘It’s Midnight Oil,’’ I say, with the tiniest hint of smugness.

The team looks at me with scepticism, but I hold firm. And I’m right. I may dine out on this for a while.

September

A prolonged battle amongst the team over a question about cheeseburgers has left Michelle seething, and we can’t blame her.

Did we really imagine the number of burgers eaten in the US per annum, could be three trillion? She argued hard against it but was overruled. The rest of us feel regretful.

Libby, with her periodic table expertise, answers an incomprehensible word puzzle in startlingly quick time. What is FFEIFEREE?

‘‘Irons In The Fire’’. Genius.

October

I spend Labour Day weekend springcleaning, listening to the radio on headphones to block out the roar of the rented carpet cleaning machine. On RNZ, host Emile Donovan is interviewing Brendan Lochead, the guy credited with bringing quiz nights to New Zealand 20 years ago. I learn:

● It was a hard sell – bar owners he approached claimed it would never catch on.

● That proved untrue – his product is now in 350 venues around the country.

● They’ve expanded to Australia, but have to dumb down the quiz questions for that market. Hmm.

We are into the championship round – 10 weeks of cumulative scoring which will determine the winner among the five franchises. I am pumped for this. I start cramming answers from online quiz lists.

November

We’re neck and neck each week with one other team at our franchise. I ask one of the quiz organisers how the venue for the grand final will be decided.

‘‘Oh, there’s no in-person final this year,’’ she says.

Apparently finalists have complained in the past about having to travel out of their home district on a Tuesday night. This is a huge disappointment, we’re gutted. Conversation around the table about other people’s piteous lack of commitment ensues.

December

It didn’t matter in the end. We came second in the championship round, and not a close second, either. In the final few weeks I’ve been feeling something – mild panic? – at the idea that quiz will no longer be there.

I’ll see my new mates at other times of course, but Tuesday quiz has become a fixture, a social necessity in my life. We look forward to it. Greet each other with hugs. We scrap. We laugh.

We learn about each other through the very act of consultative questionanswering. What will I do without it?

It’s OK, Amy tells me. Quiz never actually ends – it just starts all over again next week.

Dates in the above narrative may be wildly incorrect.