Evening wear could only mean pyjamas, and catching a glimpse of Miss Venezuela in a well-fitting pair of flannelettes kept me glued to the bean-bag.
So you can imagine my disappointment when she rocked on to the stage in a full-length cocktail dress and jacket.
Going from what I've seen and heard in the past few years much of Hawke's Bay's citizenry is as confused as me.
That is, pyjamas are an increasingly legitimate choice at supermarkets, petrol stations, McDonald's and the pub.
Just last Saturday I stood behind an evening wear contestant in her early 30s at Pak'n Save's checkout.
She'd accessorised blue and white pyjamas with a knee-length blue bathrobe and fluffy rabbit slippers.
We weren't in the express aisle.
This was no mad dash for milk. Hers was a leisurely, shuffling, full-trolley spot of shopping. She even had time to chat about the All Blacks with the checkout operator.
I wondered if she'd disengaged with life. Was she thumbing her nose at society? Or was it much simpler than that? Was she simply clad in clothing's version of comfort food?
Maybe she was staging a silent protest at the absence of pyjamas in modern pageantry.
Either way she had no idea of me standing behind her guessing as to her motivation.
Many think motivation is the issue: "If I can make the effort to get up, get dressed, put makeup on and go to work then they can surely find the time to at least slap some pants on", a colleague claimed last week.
She's not alone. Disapproval of the phenomenon seems to be the overwhelming consensus.
But the only emotion I walked out of Pak'n Save with was jealousy.
Jealous that I couldn't do it. Jealous at the freeing of this woman's mind. Jealous at the hours she saves not worrying about what others think of her as she buys food for her family. How liberating.
And besides, when did supermarket shopping become a black-tie event?
If speaking fashion crime, I consider it far less offensive than the dribbly adolescent set who belt jeans below the pelvis to float their rancid boxers out the back.
Every time I see that most offensive of teenage outfits I'm tempted to remedy it by doing something violent.
But I digress, and I'm somewhat of a hypocrite.
Our zones for dress suitability are both arbitrary and fluid.
I sometimes throw caution to the wind and retrieve the morning paper from my letterbox wearing nothing but boxers.
I've done that so often now it feels kosher.
So much so that a few months back, in a warmer season, I ventured even further and placed recycling on the kerb, wearing the same outfit.
I've yet to conquer the corner dairy though.
As daring dashes go, it's become my Everest.
So I say kudos to you girls of pyjama pageantry. Your complete lack of status anxiety has become a delightful thorn in the side of those who have nothing better to do than regard your bedside manner as a sartorial slur.
All power to Miss Hastings and Miss Flaxmere.
You've gone where Miss Havelock North is too scared to venture - where even Miss Venezuela failed to go.
Mark Story is assistant editor at Hawke's Bay Today
