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Eleanor Thorpe I sit in a wooded glen tucked beneath Salamanca Terrace. Tall karaka trees surround me; kawakawa and other shrubs strain for light in the undergrowth. Tradescantia—an invasive weed and conservationist’s never-ending foe—sprawls across the forest floor. Before me, emerging from three unceremonious storm water pipes, flows Te Awa o Kumutoto. Her bank offers a kind of sanctuary, a whakatā (break) from the hectic bustle of my university day. I am only a hundred me

Right. Tone shift. None of that soft, therapy-talk nonsense you’ve been getting lately—this is straight off a Speight’s cap. Your Unc is back. You’ve got a situation on your hands. You’re keen to get with someone who’s already told you exactly who they are. They’re here for a good time, not building anything serious. On top of that, there’s a 7-ish year age gap, and your mates are all saying “don’t go there.” That’s worth paying attention to. So before you do anything, cut th