Remember, back in 2010, when Christchurch had that big earthquake? The country sent all the journalists they owned down there, to tell all the rest of us about it. They cried ‘miracle’ in the street; what with all the buildings coming down and no one getting squished.
I remember feeling bad for the rich people who owned that lovely brick homestead that was pretty much demoed.
But mostly, I was just bored and sick of hearing about it. The St Kevin’s crew all whinged about how Christchurch just needed to man up (and let’s face it, they deserved it for choosing to live in a place like that, right? Prostitute murder-ville, right?).
A guy at work was in Christchurch during the quake; he fell down some stairs and broke a rib, and I thought to myself ‘Look guy, you fell down some stairs. What of it? Sounds like the kind of rollercoaster ride that money can’t buy’.
Christchurch, I apologise.
I’m sorry for not taking you seriously; I too don’t want to live in a shaky hamlet.
I know this, because the millisecond of earthquake that I just lived through (originated in San Jose) terrified the shit out of me.
The windows were rattling and all I could think is that the double glazing would be the end of me, because that’s twice the amount of glass to be impaled by, just like in the first scene of Susperia when that silly ballet girl’s friend gets totally nailed in the face by a falling skylight. You know, because of the witches.
So once again Christchurch, I am sorry. You sir, are a brave soldier in this seismic world we live in together.