I Love My Leather Jacket

Rich gang, Poor gang, Tamaki's gang, Patch ban.

I wear my leather jacket like a great big hug
Radiating charm - a living cloak of luck
It's the only concrete link with an absent friend
It's a symbol I can wear 'till we meet again
Or it's a weight around my neck while the owner's free
Both protector and reminder of mortality
It's a curse - I cannot shirk responsibilities
From the teacher to the pupil, it's a gift to me
So I love my leather jacket, and I wear it all the time
I love my leather jacket

Lyrics: Martin Philipps.

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House of ill repute

After the hīkoi, Tuesday night was wild and windy - if you can believe that in Wellington. Matty and I slept soundly, unaware of the murky history of the small house we were staying in, as mentioned in my last newsletter. When we returned to Auckland, I received this message from a reader…

Now you’re home again, I can fill you in on the interesting history of the house in Walter St. I’m not sure if it was the husband or boarder of the woman who lived there, but he disappeared, and it’s rumoured that she killed him and buried him under the floorboards.

Around 20 years ago, I was working in real estate, and a colleague in my office had the property listed for sale. The police contacted him, asking him about the previous owners. It’s a well-known rumour around Wellington.

If I recall correctly, the vendors at the time weren’t keen on the police going in and digging up the subfloor, and the police didn’t have enough evidence to really do anything about it. Whether they’ve investigated since then, I really don’t know.

It was a fascinating place, but I’m glad I didn’t know. There was a drawing on the mantel of when there were two similar homes side by side; I imagine hold-outs against developers. I’ve always found such houses interesting, whether old workman’s cottages lingering in now expensive suburbs or houses overseas built on a narrow footprint to minimise taxes.

Unappealing Breakfast

Before we left, I had the great displeasure of watching the Prime Minister:

My expectations were low, but this was pretty bad. There was no acceptance that he had caused this, no acknowledgement of the hurt; he just wanted to make light of it for the people who weren’t at the Hīkoi. The ones who wonder what all the fuss is about and cannot relate to how people are feeling.

Cath said, “Let me guess……..He’s helping improve Māori outcomes and meeting with iwi leaders up and down the country.”

Darien: “Yeah, I thought so; she could have drilled more into what he admitted they’ve already done, like removing the Maori Health Authority, co-governance, the stupid ban on Maori names in public services, etc. and the long list from NZ First.”

Terri: “I found she let him rant his usual bollocks and sloganeering instead of pulling him up on his BS.”

Josephine: “He sent a very clear message to those that were on the hikoi, both in the north and south islands and those that came to Parliament grounds that they were not worthy to front.

By not fronting yesterday on what was a truly historic and unforgettable day, he showed his utter contempt and disrespect for the tens of thousands of people there and for Te Tiriti o Waitangi.”

This is the best summation of Christopher Luxon’s approach to the Treaty Principles Bill that I’ve seen:

While I’m talking about that bill that needs flushing, Emily Writes has put together an excellent guide on making submissions, which I’d really encourage you to take a look at:

How to make a submission against the Treaty Principles Bill

Welcome to Air NZME

That drive to the airport in Wellington can be very attractive. Iconic images of wooden houses built upon the hillsides and the white tops of the waves with the wind still up. It's hard to imagine anyone getting excited about the drive to the airport in Tamaki Makaurau.

Audrey Young and Barry Soper were waiting to board at our gate. I’d seen Audrey the day before on the balcony of the beehive overlooking the protest, an aloof General with her side bit-players without lines. However, I hadn’t seen Barry, or “Baz”, as Audrey referred to him, in the flesh before. He was older than I’d imagined.

I considered introducing myself as a left-wing writer and asking if they’d met one before, but I respected their privacy and vintage. It’s not every day you see an eyewitness to the signing of Ti Tiriti. Instead, I posted about it; by the time we took off, there were quite a few suggestions: