Summer is here.

You know its summer when the massive sprinklers at the park have been set up and intermediate kids walk home past the fence; their uniforms soaked. I walk across the park and sneeze every ten metres. We talk of the yellow powder covering the footpaths. Someone concludes its pollen. You know its summer when you don’t think it’s crazy to swim in a) the town fountain b) the library/art gallery fountain or c)the random arty sculptures around town which have water in them or d) splash around in the random water thing in the Opera House plaza. Normally the first two would be considered scum. Normally only little kids would splash in the latter. But in summer, I will jump in them clothes and all. Moreover, I will invite my out-of-town friends to do the same. They happily oblige, but only because no one knows them. When I suggest jumping in Wellington fountains they don’t seem so keen. I remember summer two years ago when Luke and I splashed and sat and lounged in the town fountain, the one split in half by the railway lines, by the city stage, the town clock. By everyone. And the little Pacific Islander kids jumping in with us, and their parents in their lavalavas going No! Oh such a bad influence. And even when it was semi-raining in the mugginess of it all, we sat in that fountain with the little kids and drank a 3Litre of orange juice between us, with straws. That day was good. I tried to write poetry about that day, but it never worked.