Catch Up

 My friend, Andrew, is demolishing his house. With the garden stripped away and a partial dig out, it's perched precariously on the edge of the hill, its front starkly revealed. We've had some rowdy nights of dancing in that living room, exercising a good deal of caution at the end of the party to negotiate the path safely back to the street. The house is near the Port Hills Fault so got well shaken on February 22nd. Like mine, it has been steadily deteriorating during the years of EQC and insurance settlement
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I do some gardening then head to the beach where the ocean is still fresh and only the hardy brave the water. I visit an old flatmate for a catch up Christmas drink. Flats are temporary homes which we share with random people who become our friends, our future partners, or lessons in what is not going to work. Like family, physical immediacy generates intimacy and life long relationships eventuate. Nic is a flatmate who has endured as a friend, and I'm happy she's within spitting distance of my new flat. It takes ten minutes to walk but, when I try a short cut up the hill and through the trees on the way back, I'm on the road for an hour.