The Sunday Essay is possible thanks to the support of Creative New Zealand
Original illustrations by Toby Morris.
We kid ourselves in this place. Spring turns to summer, and suddenly every road leads to the beach. The country wants you to buy an ice cream. We forget that it is fleeting, that for so much of the year the fields are sullen, the sun as dull and feeble as a one-bar heater on the blink. The wind carries all the cold of the mountains, of Antarctica even. Trees shudder, the exotics bare. Mist rises from the grass. How do we cope? Poorly is the usual answer. Many of our homes are unable to keep out that cold. We pull a jersey on, although are wearing shorts, even jandals still for reasons we cannot explain. And when the washing machine chirps complete, we drag a laundry rack into the lounge and festoon it with our damp socks and undies.