I was helping my brother move this afternoon. Well, move is probably too kind a term, mostly being strong for him and filling plastic bags with rubbish. I had forgotten what Auckland student-type hovels look like after even the rats have moved on to more salubrious surroundings.
We were carrying some stuff up to the car when we started talking to this slightly older guy next door. He must have been in his 50s, probably late 50s. I could tell he was an ex hippy by the tibettan hat he wore, the japanese mon prints on the front door and the jungle of beautiful plants that were threatening the sidewalk.
Anyway he was cleaning and sanding in the lower flat next door (it was a converted bungalow, flat up top, one built underneath), painting too I think. Generally tidying up. We chatted about this a bit. He said he he lived upstairs and that he was doing this so he could get some nice people in. The last ones had just moved out and he was spending a couple of weeks fixing up.
Now I immediately thought that he had just bought the place and was fixing it up. But no, he was even renting upstairs and had been there (with no rent increase) for 10 years. He was cleaning and painting just so that he could get nice neighbours.
A true NZ moment. That’s what makes me want to come home.
