Wazzer thumps downstairs unwontedly early on Saturday, startling her landlady, Willow. “Oh! Did you just get in?” Willow asks, surveying Wazzer’s black crinoline, platform boots, and elaborately scrolling eye liner.
“No, I’m going to be in somebody’s horror film today. They’re doing a 48 Hour film.”
There are many signs that one is entirely and comfortably established in Wellington. The barista who says, “Good morning,” and starts to make your regular coffee, unbidden. Never having to invite anyone anywhere, because you are confident you’ll always run into someone you know. And the text message on the Friday night of the 48 Hour Film Festival, asking you to be an extra. Maybe Peter Jackson didn’t need you to be an elf, a hobbit, or a dead orc, but you can still participate in some Wellington stardust. That’s the way to do it, not by spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on some naff copyright violation.
Wazzer and her tulle take up most of the small kitchen as she tosses some food into a grocery bag, humming happily. “I’ll be back later, around four,” she says. “We’re gonna be up at the cemetery in Karori.”
As she goes out the door, Willow calls out, “If they need anybody else, um, you can send me a text! I can come by
yay, I love the 48 hr festival here too!