westerlies

Ours is a strange little street. It's not a cul-de-sac but it's as quiet as one. It's about half classic wooden state housing and about half private built brick houses, all around mid to late 1940's - I can imagine it full of young families post war. It would have been great for games of street cricket - a decent hit would've seemed like it could make it all the way over South Dunedin to the harbour.
Jamie next door is a plumber and he tunes his motorbikes on a Sunday, Andrew down the road dismantles Nissans in the front yard from time to time, Petra's dad drives around in his 7 series BMW like a 1990's drug lord, the guy across the road with the cartoon moustache can't work as a painter anymore because of his back and so he is frustrated by the tiny details not finished on our house. The lady on our other next door is a university professor with an unknown number of cats.

And then there's us. A designer who is becoming a doctor and a designer who is teaching and trying to decide what's next (because he knows he doesn't want to teach or design forever).