Winona is back at work, smiling at everyone who asked her, Did You Have A Good Time in Melbourne?  In reply, she murmurs “Yes, no…”

Something was a little off, in Melbourne. The spring clothes in Melbourne were just as hideous as the ones in Wellington.  Perhaps that was why the hordes of commuters were clinging to their winter black, as Wellingtonians did. The weather was just as indifferent – a little less windy, but raining in torrents.

In the shops, the laneways, the luxury box at the AFL stadium, she had peered around for what Melbourne had that Wellington didn’t. Apart from Quick Brown Fox, Alice Euphemia, and lots of very large sandwiches and long blowdried hair, it was hard to find. It dawned on her that, perhaps, she wasn’t missing anything by being in Wellington. And when the news about the Christchurch earthquake came through, she quit looking and started sending text messages home, despite the roaming costs.

The wireless revolution had not yet come to Melbourne. So, in their short-term apartment, with a nephew on each side of her, Winona had channel-surfed on the TV until they found news that showed Christchurch. As they watched, one nephew nestled into her, hiding his face. The other one plucked at her elbow and asked questions that she wished she could default to their parents, like “What if we had an earthquake at our house? Would it fall down? We’re going to have an earthquake in Wellington, aren’t we? They said so at school.”

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