There is an Easter that lives on and on in my memory and it really was the most uneventful thing. Uneventful, and I was as happy as a clam.
It was 1979, second year of university. Home was an old two-storey house in Boulcott St, across from Press House; one flat up, one flat down, three or four flatmates: my mate Spider and me and whoever else might have drifted in that month.
The owner, Mrs Varuhas, lived in Island Bay, worked on the production line at GM in Trentham, called in each week to collect the rent. She called me in her strong Romanian accent Mr Slacks. Her sentences began with No well, a kind of Eastern European yeah nah.
