8. Dear Running Shoes

Dear Running Shoes,

I used to have dreams where I would run and run for hours.

Sometimes in my dreams I would lean back, and at a particular angle I could take my feet off the ground and yet keep on running.

Sometimes I would think to myself – on a nice day at an empty beach, or at a park walking the dog, or rambling along watching the shadows of the clouds on the grass, or in the rain – sometimes I would think that if I just started running I would never stop.

“Here comes the bus!” my friends would say. “Lets run!”

“I don’t run,” I’d say, and it became my catchcry.

“I don’t run,” and I would walk briskly for the bus.

I walked across Wales. I walked the length of the Thames. One day I will walk the Pyrenees. But I don’t run.

And still I had those dreams and still I thought to myself if I could just start running I would never stop.

But everyone knew – Me doesnt run.

I don’t remember exactly how it happened but one day I did it; I went for a run.

I ran for two minutes and then I stopped and walked. And then I ran again. And walked some more.

I bought shorts and a t-shirt and a sports bra and strong hair elastics.

And then I bought you, Running Shoes. My very first ever.

When I start running I can’t run forever.

But now that I’ve started I know that I will run forever.

Your first and only owners,

Me

7. Dear Antarctic Wind

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

down right

down left right

and often up

up from the pavement

up left

up right

god damn up up up

harassing the clouds. They race over the clocktower faster than the second hand

zoom

like the boy racers on Kent Terrace

zoom zoom.

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.

Me.