Whole lotta shakin' - part II

In the past I have felt as if I have had to stand up for Christchurch.  Because it's not Auckland.  It's not Wellington.  Put bluntly, Christchurch is generally less exciting and cosmopolitan than either of those cities.  But it has its charms nonetheless.  Most of important of these is that this is where most of the people that I care about are. 

Maybe we don't have movie premieres here, and the inner-city shopping, even before a lot of the shops caved in, was not really up to scratch, but on the whole I like Christchurch people.  We don't fling our arms up in woe or indulge in an orgy of hand-wringing when something doesn't go right, we just get on with it.  Or maybe that's just a Kiwi thing, but allow me to be parochial for a moment and assign this attribute to mainlanders generally.  We're bloody good sorts, I think.

But on with the story, which we started yesterday.  When we last saw our plucky heroine she was in Edgeware on a bicycle...

10.00ish - 10.30am - Having checked in on our friends to find that they've gone out for a walk, we continue to scope out St Albans and Edgeware on our bikes.  Technically this is "rubber-necking", I guess.  We don't feel guilty about it though.  We're not causing any traffic issues (because there pretty much is no traffic) and this is our "patch".  Of course we want to know how badly damaged it is.  And we're en route to our buddy Consuela's house (who has the luxury of electricity) so it's not purely for the "entertainment" value, if that's what you'd call it.

One of the casualties is the Coptic church on Edgeware Road.  Part of the front of it has fallen off and the stained glass window, frame and all, has fallen out.  It's this section of road that saw Jane Young and Hannah Rossiter killed three years ago and a memorial to them sits out front of the church.  There has been altogether too much carnage on this bit of street in recent times but at least on this occasion no one has died.

We cruise around on our bikes and note the brick fences and chimneys that have come down.  In a few instances the whole side of a house is missing.  I can look straight into someone's bedroom and see their pink plastic suitcase sitting on top of their wardrobe.  It's like looking at a really big doll's house.  I feel quite lucky that I live in a wooden house that has held itself together. 

We see roofs that have massive holes in them where the chimney has fallen through and I can't help wondering what it would have been like to cower underneath that roof at the time.  You'd probably think you were about to die, and again, I can't believe that nobody did.

10.30ish - Get to Consuela's house and compare stories.  They live in a four-flat building that has lost a chimney.  For some reason when I look at the broken bricks on the side of their driveway I can't help thinking of the wicked witch of the west.  All the various flatties are hanging out together and it is decided that beers are called for.  It's not even 11am but everyone has been awake for hours so this seems entirely appropriate.  I also gratefully accept a dram of Glenmorangie that someone offers me.  Garden furniture is set up in the driveway and we all sit in the sun drinking.  It seems like the only reasonable thing to do. More friends stop by for a visit.  It's sort of how I imagine Londoners during the war congregating together amongst fallen masonry.  There's something so comforting about being in a group of people.

11ish - 2ish We've drunk all the beer.  A state of liquor emergency is declared and three of us slope off to the bottle store around the corner to try our luck.  Funnily enough it's not open.  I don't know why we thought it would be.  After all, it's a place that has a whole bunch of glass bottles on shelves. Dur. We see staff inside cleaning up.  The automatic doors don't open but with our faces up to the crack between the doors we get a whiff of the most amazing smell.  It's like vinegar, Baileys and wet carpet.  It's like orientation week at the student flat from hell.

So we head back to "the flat that has power", as I am now thinking of it.  I realise with some surprise that I am quite toasted.  I've had three whiskies, a beer and a glass of pinot gris and the equivalent of one soysage and a couple of hotdog buns to eat.  I decide to head home for a bit of a rest.

I spend the afternoon at home, Facebooking, texting and tweeting.  Because I have no power and only have a cordless phone, my iPhone has become my lifeline.  Also, I note with some annoyance that the batteries on my transistor radio have run down so my mobile is my only media conduit in the absence of TV or radio.  If I weren't completely in love with it before, I am certainly ready to make a lifelong commitment to it now.

I also spend significant amounts of time clinging to the doorframe of my bedroom as a series of aftershocks rumble through.

6.30pm - Friend collects me to take me to get something to eat since I still don't have power and can't cook anything.  Apparently he's only able to do so because I live just outside the 7pm "curfew zone".  We have no idea where we'll be able to get something to eat but I am ravenous by this stage so don't really care.

Which is just as well because we end up at Burger King in the suburb of Shirley.  This BK adjoins a petrol station which is extremely busy.  I'm halfway through my onion rings and we're watching the massive plate glass windows that surround us rattle in an aftershock before my companion points out that, in the event of another big earthquake, being at a petrol station in the vicinity of a lot of hanging light fittings, neon and glass is probably not the best option.  I make the comment that we are possibly the stupidest people on the face of the planet.  He agrees.  We leave to have a nice calming hot chocolate at a McCafe and to watch unexpected geysers of water shoot up out of the carpark.  So just your usual Saturday night, really.

10.30pm - 6.30am Return home to find that I have electricity again.  I'm really, really pleased and ridiculously exhausted. What I really need is a good night's sleep...

Yeah. As if. I'm kept awake all night by aftershocks.  I think I might have caught two to three hours in between being gripped by terror and riding waves of adrenalin.   Though I've simultaneously become so blasé about them that I don't get out of bed unless it's somewhere in the 5+ range.  A week ago, any of these would have sent me scarpering. Now, it's like "hmm, 3ish, might just stay in bed".

11.30am - Decide to head into town on my bike to see what I can see. My friend Betsy in the US, who I've been in Facebook contact with, wants to know if her old flat is still standing.  There are taped off areas everywhere so it's a very convoluted route I take to her old place and I pass Cranmer Courts where USAR people are doing interesting things with a crane so I stop to watch them for a bit.

I notice a man in a blue suit standing inside the taped area talking to some hard-hatted high-viz types.  And there's something about the back of his head that's familiar.  That hair.  It's John Campbell.  I decide that I want to say hello but have no idea of the etiquette involved.  I've met him once and we occasionally trade pleasantries via Twitter but he is properly famous.  He's a very nice person though, and I decide that he probably would want me to say hello so I call out.  He's about three metres away so I do have to raise my voice a bit which makes me a little self-conscious until I remember that everything is topsy turvy and none of the normal rules apply just at the moment so who cares if I look like an egg?

He doesn't hear me or is pretending not to, so I sort of do look like an egg.

I try again and this time he turns and I'm not sure he's recognised me so I do that thing where you gesture to yourself and say your name with a questioning inflection. Me? Moata? He clicks immediately and strides towards me and quite surprisingly outstretches his arms and I'm suddenly being hugged by one the country's most beloved broadcasters.  Forgive me for saying it, but it's "bloody marvellous".  He seems a bit apologetic that he didn't respond to me straight away but points out that random people call out to him all the time, which of course must be true.

He's got that really concerned expression on his face that I've seen in countless television interviews but this time it's directed at little old me.  He asks how I am and I babble incoherently about shaking houses and toppled chimneys and such.  He's rubbing my arm the whole time with the sort of sympathetic demeanour that you'd usually associate with someone's elderly maiden aunt.  It is, quite frankly, gorgeous.  We chat for about five minutes and then I feel that I should be on my way, and I get another hug for my trouble (!!) and he inquires if I've written anything about my experiences yet.  He particularly likes my observation about all the stars, so I decide that I'll have to include that.  He says he looks forward to reading it.  Gulp.

If I fancied John Campbell at all I'm sure I'd have a massive crush on him.  He really is one of the nicest people I have ever met. 

1.00pm - 6.00pm The afternoon is spent visiting.  I go to four different houses and have cuppas and biscuits at all of them.  I go to the mall and buy some supplies (wine and batteries) then to the pub, where I finally find out that our friend D had a little boy at 11.14pm on Saturday.  We all "text bomb" the new dad to wish him a happy Father's Day.  Baby's name is Bodhi and there's no news if he is the antichrist and therefore cause of the earthquake.  Remind myself to check his head for odd birthmarks when I finally get to meet him.  Alternatively he could be the saviour of the human race and the well of souls is now full?  Anyway, mother and baby are well so that's the main thing.

I have to say that I'm mightily impressed with my fellow Cantabrians and how well they've been acquitting themselves in the face of so much upset and lack of sleep.  Our nerves are raw from the regular aftershocks but we're hanging in there.  How are you?

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