1 thought on “020

  1. Somewhere in New Zealand’s collective memory there’s an idyllic childhood that involves sliding down the hills on Nikau palm leaves, or swinging on a length of rope with a knot tied in the end of it over a river and dropping into the swimming hole, really long flying foxes that cross over a blackberry filled gully and end in a big patch of goey mud… even our playgrounds are “safe” compared to some of that.

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