The Txt Trail (Part III)

by Ant Stone on February 21, 2010

in Features

I hereby bring about the conclusion to this fascinating journey through a backpacker’s mobile phone, namely my own. In this litany of lairy and libellous e-notes, I arrive in Wellington, New Zealand where sleeping dogs howl beneath the native yellow missiles.


“The way she snores, she sounds like a wounded walrus.”

“The inside of the plane was a gallery of round-edged frames, exhibiting aerials of my world

“Arriving in Wellington at night; the burning embers of a midnight cityscape”


“The soundtrack to a video store: ‘Have you seen it? ’”


“The hills take on the silhouette of sleeping dogs


“Lada Niva”

“Sometimes I think a person who waits for the green man, could be a piece of art


“NZ has worst road death toll in western world”


“Is there such a thing as ageism in NZ? I don’t believe so. Progressive Youth Movement — any older people? Flight of the Conchords appeals to all ages.”

“Spot lit theatres showing throwbacks to a bygone era


“Napier is a town of spies. People hoarding round the back of the aquarium spying on seals. Metres away, a row of adults spy on child skaters in the SK8 Zone.”


“An elderly couple board the bus. His hair is wet, striped with a comb through steel-gray. Hers is bottle-brown, waved and kinked. They reek of stale mischief and a union of lavender-scented rooms, splattered with slightly torn doilies and green glass cats.”


“To really understand a culture, you have to start with its childhood. Hairy Maclary.”


“Bus shelters [in Wellington] are made from ultra thick concrete, not unlike bomb shelters. Protection, perhaps, from the numbered yellow missiles which prey on its public.”


“Lower Hutt has a much more classy population. The kind who have sordid affairs. Yummy Mummy’s et al.”


“Immigration number [in NZ] is higher than birth rate”


“Twenty minutes. It’s such an awkward period of time. It does not give me time to walk around that corner, to that café, to sup upon some bitter leisure. Neither does it lend itself to lunch, nor does it give me ample moments to lose myself in the book I always seem to carry. Twenty minutes is not short enough to take five, or long enough to catch forty. So, what should one do in twenty minutes? Surely not everyone has the foresight to write this Twenty Minute prose, and on the flipside, as the author I may have given you my Twenty Minutes, but in return you’ve only give me three to five!
Twenty Minutes could become your time for reflection, but in reading this to realise that, you’re fated to rush reflection and frankly you should probably save time and spend a minute to recreate deflection.”


“The wind sock for Wellington Hospital is shredded. Testament to the infamous winds, detriment to the famous rescue helicopters.”


“People who wear “funny” t-shirts annoy me. You wouldn’t wear your sex life on your sleeve, so why tell a joke on your chest?”


“Is it a result of so much intelligence and thought, that library’s are so often visited by young love?

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