Dear Antarctic Wind,
You cant beat Wellington on a good day, they say.
Wellington can beat you on a bad day, they dont say but they should do.
Wind, you harass me through these almost-modern streets, launching chip packets and my own hair into my face, whipping me, blinding me.
The rain in Wellington comes in several directions – down left
and often up
up from the pavement
god damn up up up
harassing the clouds. They race over the clocktower faster than the second hand
like the boy racers on Kent Terrace
I wonder if their outrageous speed is partly your fault, pushing them, provoking them.
I find you very provoking.
I curse more than usual.
I say things like “god damn this god damn city!”
Sometimes I even blame the whole country.
You infuriate me.
And yet I am so happy when I’m at home listening to you howl between this building and the next one, when I am under the duvet with a cup of tea and a novel by Sir Walter Scott. But sometimes I imagine that I can hear our recycling tumble down the street, the cans disturbing the sleep of the rough sleepers, the glass shattering, the paper flying up Mount Victoria.
Oh wind wind you make me so uncomfortable.
I shouldn’t have had beans for dinner.