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But It Feels So Real to Me  Robyn’s Sexistential Often these days I find myself evangelising to my peers about the left-of-field Swedish pop rebel Robyn. If the name doesn’t ring a bell—which, despite her well-documented and wide-ranging influence (Britany Spears, Lorde, Charli xcx, Taylor Swift), is surprisingly often the case—all I have to do is sing a few lines from her 2010 sleeper hit, “Dancing on My Own”:  “I’m in the corner / Watching you kiss her / Oh-oh-oh” . Everybody knows it. I mean, I started two different dancefloors at two different house parties with that song on Easter weekend alone. (Yes, they were both with largely the same social circle. No, I’m not embarrassed. Yes, the trick works every time.) Those three famous lines—that’s Robyn’s entire aesthetic in a nutshell: alone, cornered, dumped; weirdly spying on her ex; and then releasing it all in wordless exclamation. Add to the sharp simplicity of her lyrics her oddball musical stylings—electro-pop melded with 90s eclecticism, a pinch of original 80s synthpop, and a fistful of hand-over-heart, pen-to-paper, honest-to-God balladeering—and the song is undeniable, uniquely Robyn’s. As Jia Tolentino summarises in her new, authoritative profile of the singer in the New Yorker , Robyn’s music often has “sorrow as the content, ecstasy as the form.”  Sexistenial is her ninth album, her first in eight years, and in some sense it’s a return to the electropop sound of that 2010 work on Body Talk, the album from which “Dancing on My Own” is drawn. But where Body Talk was something of a sprawl, encyclopaedic and nonlinear, both in its textual history—it was first released in three smaller EPs from which selections were made to form an album—and in its narrative form—its songs are sung by a number of ostensibly fictional narrators— Sexistential clocks in at a tight twenty-nine minutes. It also feels more strongly placed on its author’s voice, as the now forty-six-year-old Robyn, split for good from her long-term on-again-off-again partner, considers her singleness anew and decides to have a baby on her own, both IRL and on the album. In those senses, Sexistential follows her previous record, 2018’s Honey , quite fluently: another short, chronologically formed, semiautobiographical album. But where 2018’s Honey showed the singer’s new interest in the loops and hypnotics of club music, Robyn’s emphasis on Sexistential is on songs once again, plain and simple.  Well, there’s a bit of music history for you, kids—and that’s only considering her latest three projects, not mentioning the early period!—but what about the songs? I just adore the way they’re working here. “Sucker for Love” is an early favourite in the tracklist: replete with a moan in the chorus, I love its serious posturing, its insistence on not being misunderstood or deemed a sentimental loser. “ I used to have thicker skin / But I chose to let you in ,” she sings on the bridge. And I love that she chose , willingly risking destruction—“Not a sucker / I’m a sucker for love.” Before that gets to be too much, the tracklist turns over to “It Don’t Mean a Thing”, and she declares something quite different—melancholic, even—as across its amazing, recitative-style verse melodies she discovers how much memory fails to capture of the past, how letting go is as much a choice as it is the only choice.  There’s another very great streak in the phone-sex dancefloor romp of “Talk to Me”, the record’s second single, as it collides with the title track and is thrown into relief: “Fuck a app, I need me some IRL ” is the killer opening bar of “Sexistential”. Robyn gets raunchy and funny here, horny on IVF, scrolling on dating apps, going out and feeling herself. But before you don your fascinator and clutch your pearls, let Robyn sing you back home on the next track, “Light Up”, with its stunning metaphors ( “I was looking at you like a mirror / All I could make of the glitter / Was my mistakes”  !!!) and the anthemic, stadium-ready longing of its chorus, “Baby light up / Light up the way to your heart.” Now that’s sexistential: that need for human connection through it all.  If anything’s missing on Sexistenial , it’s that 90s eclecticism I previously identified as a key aspect of Robyn’s style. The most eclectic thing here is the title track’s mom-rap— provocative enough, definitely (please see the alternately confused and awestruck YouTube comments under her recent SNL performance of the song). I guess there’s also some random Japanese vocal sample on “Blow My Mind”, but nothing quite as wacky as, for example, one of the Body Talk deep cuts, “Dancehall Queen”, in which Robyn and her producers lovingly appropriate Jamaican music for three minutes straight. That’s an aspect of the Robyn I love: an artist so sincere and straight-up—gifted, too—that she’s able to flaunt her “bad” taste in a lowkey insane you-can’t-cancel-me tease.  But why rag on an album as front-to-back brilliant as Sexistential , Jackson, for what it’s not , when what it is is so good? Maybe there’s a nuttiness missing here, but when Robyn talks, you shut up and listen. Earlier I mentioned the “sharp simplicity” of her lyrics, and, for me, this often manifests in a kind of sage-like quality, a quality that persists even over some of those earlier 2010 tracks in which she didn’t have a hand in writing the lyrics directly. Sexistential ’s lead single, “Dopamine”, runs on this high, sage, gnomic articulacy. Spread over a massive synth pad, a bassy vocal sample, and saw-tooth synths and arpeggiators passing up and down pass filters, Robyn’s melody rides in on a clear stream, speech-like and deceptively simple: “I know it’s just dopamine / But it feels so real to me / I’m tripping on our chemistry / It’s firing up inside of me / I just need to know / That I’m not alone.” There’s a constant turning over of the line, of meaning, in a search not for resolution but for complexity. Robyn has never made anyone feel less heartbroken, just better about being heartbroken—we’re not dead yet.  Not to get too sexistential or anything, but for just about my entire life, I’ve been told to stop overthinking, to stop overanalysing, to just get over it . As it happens, me and my friend, the one who really switched me on to Robyn, dated for three-and-a-half months last year. Just three-and-a-half months! But the truth is that there are still days from September, October, November—days in which I must have done plenty of things, seen plenty of friends, gone to classes, and cooked meals—when most of what I remember is his face. Robyn is the pop star who never gets over anything, who hurtles toward conclusions only to loop around and give things another go, who sighs, cries, then white-girl raps her way back to strength, who lets it all hang out, because she knows deep down that sorrow shared is sorrow halved. So of course she’s a sucker for love, not because she’s a fool, but because there are too many things in this world that can’t be so easily gotten over, not least the world itself; too many feelings that can’t be helped or neatly resolved, only released.

Bi-Weekly Game Reviews  Christopher Curtis  Pikmin has the potential to be a real comfort game, and if you find real-time-strategy games daunting at all, this is one I can wholeheartedly recommend beginning your journey with.  The gameplay loop is simple. As Captain Olimar, you have 30 in-game days to repair your spaceship. You will do so with the help of your little buddies, the titular Pikmin. They are scavenging little critters who will carry just about anything—from ship parts to wildlife carcasses—back to your base with the power of teamwork. Seems simple enough, right? Yeah, it is. But it’s also so much more.  Perhaps fittingly, it really is “the little things” that make Pikmin such a special game. The five areas you get to explore each invoke a feeling of serenity, bursting at the seams with both the tranquil and violent aspects of nature’s beauty. The predators aren’t even really enemies—they mind their own business in the wilderness and sometimes even sleep—until they catch your scent, when they will indeed assert their higher position on the food chain. Combine this with the underspoken yet quite soothing soundtrack, and the goofy noises just about every critter makes, and it’s really easy to find yourself immersed in this planet’s natural order.  Each of the three varieties of Pikmin you find have their own strengths. While you can create just about as many as you’d want, you can only deploy 100 on the field with you at any time. This creates a fun micro-strategy of how many of each type to bring, who to keep with you while exploring, and who to carry resources back to base. That last part is especially important, as in order to keep a healthy pool of each Pikmin type, they need to harvest the wildlife; this means fighting predators, which likely means many a Pikmin death. Don’t forget, you also have that 30 day time limit, and I do mean day . By nightfall, you must leave the planet’s surface, leaving behind any Pikmin who weren’t with you or at base. Unfortunately, these little friends will not survive the active predators at night.  If this went from sounding simple to stressful, don’t worry. Those 30 days of 13 minutes each is honestly plenty of leeway, and you don’t even need to recover all your ship parts to beat the game. Feel free to take your time learning the game’s mechanics at your own pace. Get lost in the charming—albeit visually 2001—world laid out before you, and learn about the ecosystem naturally through play and diegetic journal entries. Perhaps you’ll find a new comfort game in Pikmin ( or its three sequels) and an appreciation for RTS games as a whole through its accessible yet deep take on the genre.  Pikmin was originally released on Nintendo Gamecube and later for Wii. It is also available on Nintendo Switch and Switch 2 via the remaster Pikmin 1 + 2 .  Gameplay: 9/10  Writing: 6/10  Aesthetics: 6/10

In 1971, US President Richard Nixon declared drugs “public enemy number one.” What followed was the War on Drugs—a campaign built on a simple idea: that harsh punishment could eliminate drug use.   It didn’t. But the way it framed drug use as something to criminalise continues to influence much of Western drug policy, including Aotearoa’s.   The Misuse of Drugs Act 1975 frames drug use primarily as a criminal issue, rather than a health one. The consequences are severe. Supplying a Class A drug can carry life imprisonment—the same maximum penalty as murder. That equivalence is telling. It shows how the law understands drug offending: as a reprehensible harm to society that must be punished at the highest level.   The Act also reshapes the rules of guilt. If someone is found with a certain quantity of drugs, the law presumes intent to supply. The burden shifts. Instead of the state proving intent, the individual must disprove it. In practice, this sits uneasily with the principle that people are innocent until proven guilty.   Taken together, these features reflect more than just “tough” policy. They reflect a system built on deterrence, punishment, and control. This is what the War on Drugs was all about: reducing drug use and dealing by imposing harsh criminal penalties.   But the question does not end with what the law is. It is important to consider how the law is applied. Who benefits from this law, and who is being systemically disadvantaged from this policy.   Laws do not enforce themselves; people do. Police decide who to stop, who to search, and whether an offence results in a warning or a charge. That discretion matters most in low-level drug offending, where the same conduct can lead to very different outcomes.   Those differences are not random.   Around half of New Zealanders will use cannabis in their lifetime. Yet in 2022, Māori made up 45% of cannabis possession charges and 49% of convictions, while representing only 17% of the population.   That disparity cannot be explained by use alone. Rather, it reflects how this law is enforced.   When discretion is exercised unevenly, certain groups are more likely to be stopped, searched, and charged. That increases the likelihood of conviction. And once that conviction is recorded, its effects extend far beyond a prison sentence.   A drug conviction follows you. It narrows employment opportunities. It restricts access to housing. It makes financial stability harder to achieve. Each consequence may appear limited on its own, but together they accumulate, shaping a person’s long-term position in society.   This is how hierarchy forms: through a pattern of perpetual disadvantage. One group is more likely to be policed, more likely to be punished, and more likely to carry the enduring weight of that punishment.   Over time, those patterns harden. They begin to determine who has access to stability, opportunity, and security—and who does not.   That is what makes the system caste-like. It is not simply unequal treatment in isolated moments. It is the way those moments compound, producing durable social divisions.   This dynamic is more visible in the United States, where drug policy has disproportionately targeted Black communities. There, a conviction often carries the label “felon”—a status that limits access to housing, employment, and in many states the right to vote. It marks a person as permanently lesser in the eyes of the law.   Aotearoa is not identical, but the mechanism is recognisable.   When criminal law disproportionately targets certain groups, and attaches long-term social and economic consequences to that targeting, it does more than punish behaviour. It reshapes social position.   That is when policy becomes social structure.   In that sense, Aotearoa’s drug law cannot be understood as neutral. It operates within a broader history of colonisation—one in which legal systems have repeatedly been used to control, marginalise, and disadvantage Māori. Punitive drug policy does not sit outside that history, but continues it.   But it does not have to be this way.   One of the most enduring legacies of the War on Drugs is the assumption that punishment is the default response—and that anything else is soft, naïve, or radical.   It isn’t.   We have spent more than fifty years testing the punitive model. Drug use has not disappeared. Harm has not been eliminated. Instead, we have seen the opposite: rising overdose deaths, persistent addiction, and widening inequality. The system has not failed because it was not harsh enough. It has failed because punishment was never capable of solving the problem it set out to address.   Other approaches exist—and they work.   In 2001, Portugal decriminalised all drugs, shifting drug use out of the criminal justice system and into the realm of public health. Possession no longer leads to prosecution. Instead, individuals are referred to dissuasion panels made up of health and social service professionals. The response is not prison, but support: counselling, treatment, and community-based interventions (where appropriate).   The results are instructive. Drug-related deaths have fallen. HIV transmission rates have dropped. Levels of substance abuse use have declined. At the same time, the burden on the criminal justice system has eased, allowing resources to be redirected elsewhere.   Portugal did not eliminate drug use. But it did reduce harm, and that is the point. Drug policy is not fixed; it is a set of choices about what we prioritise, who we punish, and what outcomes we are willing to accept. If those choices are producing predictable harm and inequality, they are not neutral. They are decisions of what society is willing to accept.   And decisions can be remade.   More than fifty years on from the declaration of the War on Drugs, the evidence is no longer uncertain. We know what punitive policy produces. We know what alternatives can achieve.   The question is no longer whether change is possible; it is whether we are willing to choose it.

Michaela Caughley Freshers’ flu — the informal name for the rapid spread of viral illnesses at the start of the university year —is driven by  fatigue, close living quarters, big group events, and the ever-present fear of missing out. Almost every student learns what it is through word of mouth or, more commonly, by catching it themselves.  Most people push through and come to campus. For many, it's just a cough and a runny nose. But for others, freshers’ flu is far more than a simple cold.  I am a chronically ill student — meaning I live with multiple long-term health conditions — which has led to me becoming disabled and significantly at risk when I catch a cold, flu, or COVID-19.  In 2022, I caught COVID-19 and was hospitalized with severe neurological symptoms because of my underlying conditions. I’ve thankfully avoided it since by masking, hand sanitizing, and relying on communication from my friends when they’re feeling unwell.  I've caught colds over the past few years, and each time I become significantly unwell. My chronic illnesses flare — meaning they worsen — resulting in severe tachycardia (a very high heart rate; mine can reach 200 bpm from simple activities), vomiting, severe joint pain, and fatigue. These symptoms make my already disabling conditions absolutely debilitating.  In 2025, I caught one of the later waves of freshers’ flu and, as usual, it hit me incredibly hard. I experienced severe nausea and vomiting that left me barely able to eat. While these symptoms improved over several weeks, I never returned to normal. In fact, in the months that followed, my health declined further. Over time, I stopped being able to eat much. As a result, I became underweight and malnourished, was hospitalized, had to withdraw from university for the rest of the year, and had an NJ tube placed — a feeding tube that goes through my nose and into my small intestine to bypass my stomach as I can't tolerate food. It provides the nutrition, hydration, and medications I need to survive and function.  My life is further taken up by medications, running feeds, flushing my tube, attending appointments, and managing chronic nausea and vomiting —alongside also managing other symptoms —while  trying to live my life and be a full-time university student.  This is already exhausting and debilitating. My health is at a severe risk if I catch another illness.  Other conditions, such as myalgic encephalomyelitis (or ME/CFS) are often triggered by viral infections. ME/CFS is a severe chronic illness that, in its worst forms, can leave people bed bound and unable to tolerate any form of light, sound, or human interaction. Becoming sick can significantly lower a person's baseline, shifting them from mild to severe.  Catching a cold, flu, or COVID-19 can result in anyone becoming chronically ill or disabled. The chronic illness and disability community is one of the only minorities you can join at any point in your life — and, frankly, joining it in some form is almost inevitable, whether through old age, illness, or accident.  For many other chronically ill students, freshers’ flu has similarly severe impacts.  I sent out a survey to students in the Disabled Students Association. The results were striking: 67% of respondents considered themselves immunocompromised, 83% have caught freshers’ flu or other  illnesses while at university, and 83% said that catching any form of illness significantly impacted their health.  Many respondents described severe joint pain, fatigue, longer recovery times, and long-term impacts after  getting sick.  One student shared that after catching the flu while in halls, they experienced not only the usual symptoms but also chronic illness flares and even a dislocated rib from coughing due to a genetic condition affecting joint stability. It took them two weeks to recover from the acute illness, and several months to return to their baseline.  Another student reported being bedbound for two weeks and having to drop a course. Similarly, another was hospitalized in April 2025 due to catching an illness and ultimately failed a course as a result.  Others described how pre-existing lung damage worsens with respiratory illness, leading to coughing that can last for several months after infection.  One who's on immunosuppressants for Crohn's disease shared that they now get sicker more easily and suffer ongoing complications from frequent chest infections.  In one final example, a student explained that they now require a walking stick due to the long-term impacts of COVID-19.  Most respondents reported taking measures to avoid getting sick. Hand sanitizing was the most common, alongside masking, distancing from unwell people, and taking vitamins/supplements.  When asked what they wanted the general student body to understand, several responses stood out:  "I have a lifelong chronic illness due to catching Covid. To them it's a couple of weeks of not feeling great but to me it's the rest of my life and my ability to participate in society."  "I just want people to know that even though it is important to go to class, when you are sick it is so important to stay home. Even if you feel ok enough to go to class, you can pass your illness to someone who might be really affected, and it can have long term consequences."  "Just because you don't get that sick doesn't mean others are the same. A small sniffle to you could have another person bed bound. We're in a big university, and those in halls are living with many people, it's not just yourself you need to think about but those around you too."  "Infecting other students in your lectures will have a greater impact than working from home for a few days. Don't come to campus sick."  For those of us with chronic illnesses, we simply want to feel safe and to access our education like any other student.  It is frightening and stressful to sit in a  lecture hall hearing people coughing and sniffling, knowing the impacts catching that illness could have on you and your friends.  I have significant anxiety around catching COVID-19 due to my past hospitalisation and fear that my health —particuarlly my ability to eat—could deteriorate even further.  I have worked so hard to be able to attend university despite my health challenges. The reality that someone attending campus with a mild cold could result in me being hospitalized or forced to withdraw is deeply frustrating.  If you can, please stay home when you are sick — even if it's just mild for you.  Many lectures are recorded, and lecturers and course coordinators are accommodating if you communicate with them. They don't want to get sick either.  If you absolutely must come to campus while unwell, make a conscious effort to protect those around you: wear a mask, hand sanitize, cough into your elbow, and maintain distance where possible.  If you’re in halls, many offer isolation meals. Hall staff and RAs can deliver these to you, assign isolation bathrooms, and support you in recovering while protecting others. What may be a simple cold for you can be life-changing, debilitating, or life-threatening for someone else. It's the difference between mild inconvenience and a life-altering illness for others — and the small actions you take might  literally save someone's life.

Part three of a three-part opinion series exploring affordable food options on campus at Te Herenga Waka.   Ah, Kelburn. Te Herenga Waka's largest, busiest, and—depending on who you ask— most culinarily blessed campus.  I’ll admit a certain bias: I’ve never had classes anywhere else. Still, it remains my campus, softened further by the fact that everyone I spoke to here was markedly kinder than the architecture students I encountered last week.   Kelburn boasts the widest spread of food options across the university’s campuses. The question, then, isn’t whether  you can eat—it’s whether what you’re eating is worth the price. Even amid this abundance, certain institutions loom large. The Lab, for instance, continues to hold its ground, locked in what might be described as a cold war of baked goods supremacy. Its cheese scone, once a dependable $5 staple, has crept up by fifty cents this year—an increase students noted with the solemnity usually reserved for rent hikes or whatever Christopher Luxon says next. Still, loyalty persists. One student confessed that on forgotten-lunch days, they simply “grab a cheese scone from The Lab and tough it out.” Not everyone is convinced. For some, the Lab has crossed the invisible threshold from indulgence to excess. In response, students turn to alternatives that balance cost and comfort. Subway’s sub-of-the-day maintains a staunch stronghold, queues swelling predictably between lectures. Yet perhaps the most passionately defended spot is the  Kimchi Noodle Bar. Here, $10 hot meal combos—rice, protein, and salad—offer both sustenance and, crucially, a sense of familiarity.  Denys, the man behind the counter, is spoken of less as an employee and more as a campus figurehead. “The nicest person on campus,” one student insisted. Another, in a much longer tribute, distilled their feelings into a simple refrain: “I love Kimchi Noodle Bar because of Denys.”  Another popular choice was Maki Mono, though it was frequently described as “overpriced”. It seems the strategy here is to play the long game: waiting until post 4 p.m. where the sushi becomes heavily discounted.  One student tells me the $3 discounted sushi rice “is ideal for fried rice in the evening.” A double whammy, perhaps? Elsewhere, enthusiasm becomes more measured. Where’s Charlie surfaces occasionally in conversation, though often accompanied by a caveat about cost. A lecturer described the bánh mì as “nice and healthy, not heavy”—praise that, while genuine, seemed to stop short of full endorsement once price entered the equation. But if you’re looking for a low-cost option, Krishna is the resounding solution. Students told me that a “$6 samosa goes far.” Or, their famous $8 Krishna plates (curry, salad, rice, dessert) “are good bang for your buck.” Krishna also has the added benefit of all of their meals being vegan friendly. They have held the fort at Kelburn for over 20 years now and there seems to be a good reason they are still around. Our editor noted that if you have a little extra to splurge, the $11 lasagna is fantastic and still cheaper than your sushi (and probably holds more nutritional value).  Likewise, Nga Mokopuna, serves $8 student meals every day of the week. A lesser known option, but definitely one of the better ones. When I arrived, they were serving Southern Fried Chicken Burger and Fries. Delish! The only miss? That they don’t have any vegetarian options. But if you’ve got the budget for Krishna, and looking for meat, they’re certainly the best option on campus.  For the best deals, though, I was told to head to Ramsey House. It’s located just down the road from the Murphy Building, and $2 tea and coffee is delivered daily. But the real treat comes on Thursdays and Fridays where $2 toasties and brownies are offered.  Ramsey House is run by Te Herenga Waka’s Chaplaincy. As part of this investigation, I  spoke to one of the chaplains there: Karel Van Helden. He tells me that their “primary focus isn't on being a commercial cafe.” They are interested in creating and fostering a space that makes “people feel really welcome, that people's names get remembered most of the time and that there is room to sit or to be.” Van Helden explained that the service began with 50 odd students but that over the years they now see “four or five hundred people a week.”  The $2 toasties are frequently cited as one of the best deals on offer not just at Kelburn Campus, but at Te Herenga Waka in general. Van Helden explained to me that the cheap toasties aren’t designed to attract customers, but as a way “of recognizing a need.” As the cost of living goes up, Ramsey House maintains a strong grip — and kaupapa — regarding providing affordable meals to students. Still, something I’ve heard resignedly since starting this series is that the best choice on campus is the simplest one: to bring food from home. Last night's leftovers are today's slightly marinated lunch, or something like that.  Well, this author isn’t surprised to learn that Kelburn has the best food on offer (mainly because it’s what I expected to begin with). It’s got a  vast array of options, and options that keep it squarely under budget. Thanks for joining me on this three-part culinary journey. I hope that next time you don’t know what to eat, you’ll feel a little wiser, and will think of me chomping down on a $2 toastie, or an $8 Krishna plate.

Connections Answers: First Connection Te ao Māori terms:  Whare, Rohe, Hapū, Taonga Second Connection Things that can be left behind:  Shell, Trace, Cache, Ghost Third Connection Small thin pieces: Chip, Sliver, Crumb, Shard Fourth Connection Extent/breadth: Range, Scale, Spread, Slope

Hunk Unc: How do you get over someone who was great to you when you were together but awful after you broke up? Would you believe it if I said I’ve had a boatful of variations on this one land in the inbox? I’m going to reply to a few of them over the course of the year, but if one of those was yours, please take this advice as universal—not just a one-off. The thing about breakups—whether it’s a friendship, a romance, a situationship, or even a job or class you really loved—is that once it’s over, it’s easy to slip on the rose-tinted goggles. This is generic advice, sure, but there’s a reason people keep saying it. Let’s break it down a bit. Right now, you’re dealing with a full 180. You’ve gone from romantic dates, connection, conversation, and probably feeling properly seen and valued by this person, to someone who’s giving you none of that. What you’re struggling to get over isn’t necessarily just the relationship itself—it’s also the feeling of being valued by them. The late-night chats, the skinny dipping at Oriental Bay, the little memories. You’re missing all of that too. And now those feelings of closeness and belonging have been replaced by them being awful to you. Of course that’s going to mess with your head a bit. Of course it’s going to hurt. That’s normal. Feel it. Have a cry. Chuck on We Live in Time  if you need a good film to absolutely fold to. Now, this Unc won’t pretend to know why you broke up, and he also won’t pretend it matters all that much here. What he will ask is this: what situations are you still putting yourself in where your ex gets to be awful to you? Hear me out. I’m absolutely not saying you’re at fault for your ex’s behaviour. Not even a little bit. But if you keep finding yourself texting them, asking mutual friends what they’ve said about you, or ending up at parties watching them flirt with someone else, then I’m going to gently suggest you take a breather from those behaviours. Because you can’t control other people. No point trying. What you can control is how much access they still have to you. You can distance yourself. You can mute or block them on social media—which, by the way, is completely fine. It does not have to be a big dramatic thing. You can stop asking after them. You can focus on yourself instead of keeping one eye on what they’re doing. And, honestly, you’ve got a pretty clear out here: no matter how good the relationship was when you were together, them treating you badly now is its own kind of answer. A nasty one, sure, but a useful one. They’re showing you something important. When you’re in a relationship with someone, you’ve got every reason to put your best foot forward. Most people do. But no one can keep up a version of themselves forever if it isn’t genuine. Eventually the mask slips. And from what you’ve written, it sounds like your ex’s mask is slipping now. Take that seriously. Take it at face value. Don’t keep pinning all your thinking on the version of them who was sweet, kind, and lovely while they were still getting something from being with you. Look at what’s in front of you now. They’re being awful. And personally, I wouldn’t keep someone in my life who treats me badly, no matter how lovely they once seemed or how much potential the relationship used to have. So here’s the question I want you to sit with for a bit: do you really want to stay hung up on someone who was only kind to you while they had something to gain? Because that’s what this behaviour suggests. Kind when you were together, awful once you weren’t. That says plenty. And if you’re still tangled up in the same social circles, it might be time to make things a bit easier on yourself. Turn the group chat notifications off for a couple of months. Tell your friends you need a bit of space to move on. And maybe ask yourself: why are mutual friends letting this slide? Is this behaviour happening out in the open, or quietly, where it’s easier for people to ignore? Those questions might not just give you closure about your ex, but about the wider circle around them too. Sometimes a breakup shows you more than one relationship you need to rethink. It can be a good chance to reflect on your friendships as well, and on who actually deserves your energy. At the start of the year I got asked how you know whether a friendship is good and healthy. And what I said then, in many more words, was this: pay attention to whether people are curious about you, whether they ask questions, and how you feel after spending time with them. I want you to do that over the next few weeks. Work out who leaves you feeling steadier, lighter, more like yourself. Those are your people. Put your energy there, not into a shitty ex. This advice probably won’t have you get over them overnight. That’d be nice, but sadly that’s not how any of this works. What I do hope is that it helps you start seeing them more clearly, and maybe stops you romanticising someone who isn’t worth the thought. Surround yourself with good people. Limit the ways your ex can reach you. Stop checking in on what they’re doing. And take their actions at face value. At the end of the day, you deserve to be treated well by everyone in your life. Don’t keep making room for people who won’t do that.

For neurodivergent students, Vic’s first-week madness is not just admin, but a barrier for learning.  Molly Laurence Courses are hard enough. But the first few weeks back at university are even worse. New classes, new classrooms, resource layouts, tutorial sign-ups, platforms, schedules, announcements. For most people, I imagine it’s overwhelming. For neurodivergent students, it can be something else entirely.  As a second-year law student with dyscalculia and ADHD, for me, the start of the term feels less like orientation and more like I’m being told to fuck off. Dyscalculia is like dyslexia, but with maths. Where dyslexic people generally face additional challenges with reading and writing, dyscalculic people struggle with numbers, maths, and mathematical thinking. Combined with ADHD, it means that the internal secretary most people seem to have—the one that  books appointments, remembers times and places, and handles small logistical tasks—simply doesn’t exist in my head.  In their place is a small child motivated by bright colours and pretty dresses.  As a result of much work, the university has made real progress in accommodating students with disabilities, and I respect that effort. But when it comes to invisible neurological differences, especially in the administrative chaos of the first weeks of term, the system feels profoundly hostile.  Sorting my timetable for one class at the start of the trimester took me two cups of tea, an hour (I think), tears, and two phone calls.  And that’s not unusual.  It’s a nightmarish onion nesting doll of confusion: each layer giving way to stinging tears and a new level of administrative horror. A quiz I can initially only find on my phone asks me ten questions on a seminar I didn’t realize I missed. I find out I’ve missed two seminars that MyAllocator didn’t say were happening. Strangely enough, when no seems to know what what dyscalculia is—even the student magazine simplistically previously categorized ADHD as “including inattentiveness, hyperactivity, and impulsivity” (shout-out for talking about it, but for the record: I have none of those)—it feels isolating.   To be dyscalculic, and neurodivergent more broadly, is to exist in a world set to a default that isn’t yours. It can feel like death by a thousand Canvas notifications—a constant series of small collisions with systems designed for someone else’s brain. A thousand little moments of: Oh wait — this is a thing as well?? See: me spending what I can only assume was an hour (hello, time-blindness) ploughing through a plate of roast potatoes because estimating portion sizes is apparently a skill people have.  See: my default speed being a fast-walk, because I’m usually running late—and yet somehow still arriving at my class an hour early… again.  See: me fiddling with my rings in a lecture, trying to work out if they feel different on my finger. Have I lost weight? My ADHD drugs suppress appetite. Shit—have I forgotten to eat again? Will I need to come off them? I don’t know if I can do this if I come off them. But how did they fit before? I can’t remember. Maybe it’s completely fine. I’m tempted to buy into the productive-ableist script and say: look, I achieve highly in other areas. I actually do fine in law. I was head girl at school. But that argument is bullshit. My “success” is still being measured within an ableist, neuro-normative scale—and that isn’t actually the issue here. The issue is that the system itself is not built for us to navigate, and is actively making it harder to learn. I’m also both entirely sick but also scared of being slapped with the inevitable can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen response. I know law is hard. I can handle the heat. I am  handling it. But with the sheer difficulty of navigating admin in these first few weeks, it feels less like simply entering the kitchen and more like the university has buttered the handles of the doors and is watching, laughing, as I try to get in. Which makes it especially frustrating that, within the courses themselves, I can see genuine progress happening. What benefits one marginalized community benefits us all, and organisations like Rainbow and Pacific Law are—finally—recognising the barriers that exist and trying to address them.  Last week, a lecturer immediately earned the respect of myself and my friends by starting his first class with a greeting in all three of Aotearoa’s official languages—speaking in English, te reo Māori, and signing his introduction in NZSL. He followed it with a warm Pacific greeting, and a hello to LGBTQIA+ students.  HECK yeah! The university is making progress, and I’m genuinely glad to see it. So why are disabled students still being left out in the cold? My dyslexic classmate in high school discovered that, in English at Scholarship level, NCEA stops offering extra compensatory time in exams. The assumption seemed to be that no one with a learning difference would be engaging at that level.  The lack of acknowledgement and support in law school feels similar. Does the administration assume disabled students will have dropped out like flies by now? Or that, as they dole out our extra ten minutes in an exam like porridge in Oliver Twist , our barriers miraculously cease to exist? I don’t believe so. There’s too many disabled people doing incredible mahi in law to think that, and too many people in the teaching system with warmth and common sense. As that badass lecturer demonstrated, this is a structural issue, not a staff one.  So why does it feel like, in law—and especially in the start-of-term organisational phase—there’s such a distinct lack of recognition or support? I feel like the Little Match Girl, shivering outside a window, looking in at the warmth. And, to be fair, I know I could start a Disabled Law Students’ Association—like the Feminist Law Society, or the Asian Law Students’ Association. I could email people, form a group, and probably have quite a lot of support to do so. Vic is woke. I know I’m not the only disabled person here. It would be welcome. I could build community; create a channel to advocate for people like me in the university. We could make change. But  I don’t have time. I don’t have the energy. I am investing most of what I have simply in getting through each week, and any spare change left is spent meal-prepping or reassuring friends I haven’t forgotten they exist. I’m only writing this —which realistically I really shouldn’t be doing, because I have an 8:30 a.m. tomorrow that I need to prepare for—because it’s either than or rage-crying. Maybe that’s why there isn’t a Disabled Law Students’ Association. Maybe everyone like me is too busy just trying to survive. Sometimes, I can’t even say exactly why it’s so hard. How the grey slots of MyAllocator (seriously—you couldn’t even add colour to differentiate them?) blur together to become interchangeable in my mind. How the times slip and writhe in my grasp like eels in mud. Sometimes, though, it’s obvious.  Some classes have study groups, others have tutorials, and others have workshops. Some start in week two, some in week three. The information is scattered somewhere across four different subjects, five different Nuku pages, multiple announcements, emails (which subject is it for again?), and two separate platforms for viewing schedules—both presenting different information and refusing to synchronise.  And for one—couldn’t tell you which—of the topics floating unaffiliated in my brain, all the tutorials are listed in irregular time slots organised by week—but not weeks of the trimester. Weeks of the year since January. Which means there’s now another thing I need to Google. The three principles we are taught in law are that communication must be plain and simple, without ambiguity or jargon, and that it is concise and direct. In a highly ironic seminar on legal communication that has me keyboard-bashing quotes, an example is given of a wordy statute. The lecturer comments: “It looks scary and hard to tackle. If this was my lawyer writing advice to me, they’re fired.” This beautifully expresses what I find hard to articulate. Dense bundles of information make me feel overwhelmed and—while technically navigable—make it harder, and less likely, for me to do so. Maybe they need to practice what they teach? I don’t expect everyone to understand what this feels like. But it would be nice, at least, to hear an acknowledgement that disabled law students exist—and that not all disabilities are visible.  My expectations, unfortunately, are not that high. I just want it to stop being so darn hard. My flatmate—also disabled—sits on my bed helping me sort out a workshop that clashes with a lecture. They tell me not to give up. Fight the system.  This feels like the scene in the movies where the main character disappears and comes back stronger. English students will recognise it in Joseph Campbell’s story arc as the “transformation,” the “reward” after the ordeal stage, the inevitable dawn after the dark night of the soul. It’s Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde  returning to do whatever she does in pink. The knight rising stronger to slay the dragon. Ser Duncan being screamed at to get up! It’s the “freaks” in The Greatest Showman’s  dubious circus defiantly dancing through the streets with no apologies for being me (erm—them). The underdog story is familiar. Triumph against adversity is practically a cultural template. Harship, in these stories, smoothly and inevitably transforms into success.  But my life is not a movie,  it does not follow a three-act structure. Each darkest night is followed by a new dawn, followed by another night. Every day I walk to class past the Beehive breathing in optimism, and walk home past the Beehive breathing out frustration and isolation and fear before collapsing into bed.  There is no one single test to ace, no bleach-blond princelet to maul, no socially shocking beard to flaunt in a celebration of personal truth. I have a disability. It’s invisible. It’s part of my identity. The construction of the university system right now—like a speed-bump at the start of a wheelchair-access ramp—is a barrier to my learning. It will not go away even if I wreathe myself in a hundred “embrace neurodiversity!” stickers and bury myself in a rotting pyre of sunflower lanyards. A legal education is what, in some insubstantial digital realm, I believe my Studylink has been paying for. But the cost I am actually paying—in addition to my university fees—is something I couldn’t tell you.  This past week has seen me raging on the phone to my boyfriend and my parents, slumping down dramatically on my bed next to my flatmate. It’s seen me putting off studying for five hours that I can’t afford because I feel so paralysed at the thought of navigating the timetable system I can’t sit down at my desk.  It’s seen me realise I missed a workshop, and feel physically nauseous at the thought of the process required to locate the information and get into a new one. It’s seen me sniffing as my flatmate tells me that they’re proud of me—that this is tough, and they see how hard I’m trying. My parents call to check in and ask if I’m sure I want to do this. And the thing is, I do. I love what I’m learning. I find it interesting and inspiring. I know I am lucky to be here. And, personal enjoyment aside, I’m not doing this just for myself.  There is so much in this world worth protecting: our environments, our taonga species, our traditional practices, our rights to participate, and our democracy. The world, as it is, has battles we need to fight for it. Like a certain hapless knight still believing in chivalry—or perhaps the rule of law—I have sworn my oath to defend it: our ecosystems, blue and green, and our glorious, glittering multiplicity of diversity.  Our trans kids, our high-risk communities, whatever-the-heck-else Parliament is trying to destroy right now.  I love this world, and I’m determined to fight for it. Law is how I’ll do that. And I will. It’s just—why do I have to battle to do even that?

Te Herenga Waka’s hardship fund has seen a sizeable increase in applications for financial aid over the past year, reflecting mounting pressure on students as living costs climb. In February alone, forty-eight students applied for asisstance —double the twenty-four who sought support in the same month last year.  Kirsty McClure, the acting Deputy Vice-Chancellor for Students, attributes the uptick to rising living expenses. “Student demand for financial support continues to grow, reflecting the real impact of the cost-of-living pressures on our community,” she said. In 2025, the university received 408 applications to the Weekly Hardship Fund. By March of this year, 102 applications had already been submitted. The Hardship Fund, administered by the university’s Student Finance division, is intended as an emergency measure for students facing financial difficulty. Applicants often cite high medical, transport, or course-related costs, as well as changes in employment or living situations, disability, illness, or family issues. Assistance is distributed through weekly hardship payments, equity grants, and winter energy grants, and is funded primarily through the student-paid Hardship Fee, which rose from $30 to $32 at the end of 2024.  Not all applications are approved. In 2025, 24 percent of Weekly Hardship Fund applications were rejected, along with 21 percent of energy grant applications and 36 percent of equity grant requests. As demand increases, there are concerns that rejection rates may rise further in order to prevent overspending. “Our Hardship Fund is limited, and Student Finance carefully manages it across the year to avoid over- or under-spending,” McClure said. ”Higher demand in one area can affect how funding is prioritised.” In 2025, the Hardship Fund received $537,958 in revenue from the Student Hardship Fee, and an additional $84,000 from donations. Of this, $205,783 was allocated to weekly hardship grants, $185,250 to winter energy grants, and $170,150 to equity grants. Remaining funds supported Disability Access Awards, the VUWSA community pantry and menstrual product stock, and food initiatives during Stress-Free Study Week. Financial strain among students has been building for several years. Annual Student Finance reports from 2024 and 2025 both note an increase in students unable to secure employment, leaving many struggling to meet basic living costs. Demand for assistance with the cost of ADHD assessments was also high in both years. The number of students engaging with Student Finance services rose from 5148 in 2024 to 6577 in 2026. The student job market has grown increasingly competitive. In January 2026, Student Job Search listed 4600 jobs but received 38,000 applications—roughly eight applicants per position. As a result, many students are relying on StudyLink loans, which often fall short of covering living expenses. Aspen Jackman, VUWSA’s Welfare Vice President who sits in on Hardship Fund applications as a student representative, described the cases she encounters as  “real intense”, and reflective of “unfortunate circumstances for students to be in.”  “People are having to choose between groceries, rent and transport,” she said. “There have been students pulling out of courses because StudyLink isn’t picking up the phone to pay fees on time.” Jackman also noted increased demand for basic necessities. “The stands are running out very quickly,” she said, referring to menstrual product supplies and the community pantry. “People are going without and relying on these services.” Like McClure, she attributes the surge in need to the broader cost-of-living crisis. “100%,” she said. “There’s a real need for investment — not just in student poverty, but poverty in general.”  As financial pressure on students continues to grow with rising living expenses and decreased employment opportunities, it remains unclear whether existing university and government support systems will be able to keep pace.

Kera-la-carte What: Kerala (South-Indian)  Price: $13.00–$21.00 When: Lunch and dinner, Tuesday–Sunday Can a curry be profound? Take a friend and find out.  ⭐⭐⭐⭐ It’s a fact that a hot curry can do wonders on a wet, windy, or otherwise shitty day. The warming gravy—a galaxy of spices and aroma—through which, like planetoids, float tender chunks of meat and vegetables. There are few things that can get you back on your feet as quickly. I’ve already waxed lyrical about the curries at Little Penang, which are a steal. But most curry orders will set your bill above $20 from the outset, and that’s before the inevitable question of roti arises.  However, should you find yourself short on cash and curry, and on the far end of Courtenay Place, there’s a little kitchen that can set you up well. I will preface, to get a good deal here you’ve got to cheese it a little bit. Well… paneer it.  Kera-la-carte is a small, South-Indian restaurant tucked in a few shops down from Kaffee Eis. Their interior has a worn-in chic atmosphere, with beautiful woodwork next to children’s colouring-in pages of Brahma and Vishnu on the wall. It felt like a restaurant with a community. On the table one over from us were four men who looked like this was their evening plan; their two tables were laden with plates and glasses, of which they kept ordering more while we were there.  I say ‘we’, because you do need an extra person (and their wallet) to make this a good deal. The plan was to split a starter and a main ($13.00 and $18.00) between the two of us, which somehow came to $14.50 per person (inexplicably but helpfully, their prices deviate slowly downwards between looking at their menu online, in the window, and at the table—the same dishes online are each a dollar more). I thought this might be a stretch to fill two people, but it was worth a try.  We started with the Paneer Pakora, on the basis that they’d be a denser dish than, say, bhaji. The plate itself was very pretty, with six dusty yellow squares and a handful of fried curry leaves alongside, on a shiny dark-green platter. The chickpea batter was lightly spiced with a smokey masala that had notes of charred mustard seeds and turmeric. It was a little powdery but not unpleasantly so, and with an addicting crunch that had me eating all the battered curry leaves too. The paneer itself was more plain, lacking the salt I always expect until I remember it’s not halloumi. Dipped in the sweet mint sauce, they were a nice bite to start with.  Soon after, our Dal Tadka was served, a glorious warm yellow in its white bowl. The bowl itself was well-filled and the accompanying rice was generous, which began to assuage my doubts of being full—both of us ended up scooping a couple platefuls each. The dal’s flavour was complex and impressive. A fresh, gingery brightness opened the palate, which widened as a fired, smoky depth—similar to the pakora—emerged. This was matched with quiet notes of  sweetness from the onion, and a gentle chilli heat that warmed my whole face. All of this fanfare and undertones swelled together in a rich and creamy, almost pudding-like, yellow lentil gravy.  This meal really surprised me, no less by its depth of flavour as its value. Lentils over rice is always a safe bet if you’re after a full stomach, but even between two this meal did well. Not to say that I couldn’t have eaten the whole bowl myself, but it was still a satisfying dinner to share. Building it out with a plate of pakora always helps too.  The menu here is extensive, so there are plenty of possible variations on this theme. The 8-piece pakkavada vegetable fritters could be a good starter, or their different fried chicken offers, for a few dollars more. Any carnivorous mains quickly push the mid-twenties price range, but the cauliflower Gobi Manchurian or the Mutta Chikkiyathu scrambled eggs are good value too.  Kera-la-carte gets a final bonus point for offering an overwhelming gluten-free and dairy-free menu, as well as equal amounts of vegetarian and vegan meals as meat-based. It’s rare to see so many accessible meals that don’t require substitutions or relegate the vegetarians to a salad, without also being a deep flush, green cleanse, detox realignment that tastes of grass. Just rich, delicious, healthy food that offers a bit of something for everyone to eat.

What to watch on Welly’s local streaming service  In the wake of this year's Academy Awards, I’m reviewing some Oscar winning—and nominated—films available to rent on Arovision. Split the cost with your friends, flatmates, or film-bros (maybe a few more than usual… there’s some pricey picks in our lineup this week!) and debate amongst yourselves  whether those trophies were rightly awarded. Go to   ondemand.arovideo.co.nz and get watching! Sentimental Value (2025) —  $8 dir. Joachim Trier, Norway “Apparently having a movie director for a father is not as fun as Francesca Scorsese’s Instagram account makes it seem” —  superpulse, Letterboxd Winner of Best International Feature Nominations for Best Picture, Director, Original Screenplay, Actress, Supporting Actress (x2), and Supporting Actor (but not Casting… go figure). I saw this one last year when it screened at NZIFF. It won the Grand Prix at Cannes, so I knew it would be good. As a child of divorce who grew up with one younger sister and a previously complex relationship with her father, this was a fucking doozy . The film follows sisters Nora and Agnes after the death of their mother, when their long absent film-maker father (played by Stellan Skarsgaard) resurfaces. He has written a new film for Nora, an actor, to star in. It’s an eerily accurate depiction of her personality and life, despite his removal from it.  This is such a beautiful film. Beautiful to look at, beautiful depiction of family dynamics, beautiful beautiful beautiful . Stellar performances from everyone—all four key cast members were nominated… but none took the win. TWO Best Supporting Actress noms and EITHER were a better pick than Amy Madigan… but whatever, I’m not salty or anything. This film had me crying in my little pink Vitz for ten minutes before I could pull out of the car park. My review? Fully deserving of its Oscar win.  Blue Moon (2025) —  $20 (eek!) dir. Richard Linklater, USA “They do a MCU-style Stuart Little name drop in this” —  isaacgreig006, Letterboxd Nominations for Best Actor and Original Screenplay This is a dialogue heavy film set in 1943 New York, which takes place almost entirely in one bar. Ethan Hawke gives an Oscar-worthy performance in his portrayal of famous American songwriter Lorenz Hart, who is drinking alone (well, with the bartender) on the opening night of his ex-musical-collaborator’s new show Oklahoma!  He has allegedly recovered from the alcoholism that sank his career… though keeps ordering “just one more,” as the film progresses. He is hung up on a beautiful young Yale student and can’t stop talking about her. The score is primarily diegetic, as a young soldier/pianist plays some of Hart’s more famous songs from the corner of the bar. The conversations are incredibly witty, though this movie will still make your heart ache—in typical Linklater style. We watch helplessly as a man desperately denies that he is no longer relevant, and no woman (or man—Hawke plays a very bisexual Hart) is in love with him. I love love love  this film (it's in my Letterboxd top four) but this is the kind of movie some chastise for “nothing happening.” Talking happens—lots of it—and that's plenty for me. The Secret Agent (2025) —  $20 (eek!) dir. Kleber Mendonça Filho, Brazil “Need an entire movie about the leg ” —  flynnslicker, Letterboxd Nominations for Best Picture, Actor, International Feature Film, and Casting Awesome. This movie really raised my heart-rate. Set in 1977 Brazil, it follows Wagner Moura’s character Armano as he attempts to flee persecution in a time of military dictatorship. It takes place during the chaotic week of carnival celebrations where he is housed by a badass anarcho-communist grandma and then assumes a new identity. Before getting out of dodge, Armano (now  Marcelo)  is desperate to find a document that proves his dead mother existed. This movie had me crying (shocker), but also laughing a lot! The carnival setting offers some incredible set and costume design. The soundtrack is banger after banger. The storyline is non-linear, jumping between Armano’s 1977 life and a present-day student listening to his covertly-recorded testimony. It takes such an interesting approach to presenting the climax of a story. Moura gives an incredible performance, as does every other actor in the film. An astonishing depiction of political resistance.  It Was Just an Accident (2025) —  $15 (minor eek!) dir. Jafar Panahi, Iran “squeak” —  davidlsims, Letterboxd Nominations for Best Original Screenplay and International Feature Film I’m running over word count, so I’ll just say this— It Was Just an Accident offers the strongest ending to a film released last year. Five stars. Director Jafar Panahi faced political persecution for making this, so honour his efforts and go watch it. I think this film is best enjoyed if you go in blind.  Honorable Mentions   The big dogs of Best Picture contention, Sinners and One Battle After Another, are also available to rent on Arovision for $8 a pop. In the end, OBAA won this battle and took home the Oscar for Best Picture. It also snagged the most trophies of the night with six awards overall. Sinners came out with four, though it made history as the most Oscar nominated movie ever . While I’ll never forgive how he treated Fiona Apple, PTA is my favourite director and I think these wins were a long time coming. Best Picture easily could have gone either way, though.

I Feel the BPM, I Feel the Music  underscores’ U  Obviously I took this job because I have a public humiliation kink, but even I’m embarrassed that I hadn’t heard of underscores, the dubstep-techno-house-hyperpop-punk fusion project of singer-songwriter-producer-mixer-engineer April Gray, except as a feature on oklou’s wintry banger “harvest sky” last year. Well, I’m happy to report that U is an extremely impressive record, largely for just how keen it is to impress us —all the while maintaining its complexity. Gray’s gone and looted all the pop genres long-since thought untouchable and rendered standards of “good” and “bad” taste irrelevant in the face of her tact and skillfulness. I love her handling of song structure: she often moves through the standard verse-chorus-bridge episodes, but explodes them in extended intros, drops, post-choruses, and outros. The music overwhelms its form; it’s exuberant, and as pleasing for us as it is pleased by itself.  “The Peace” threads a killer double-meaning, Gray not wanting “ smoke ” with the song’s addressee, just to “ keep the peace ”—only that The Peace is a brand of cigarettes, and there’s that percussive vocoder ostinato keeping the song on-edge as the two share three smokes through its duration. Lead single “Music” goes silly-dumb (“ When I’m with you it feels like music ”!!) and then rebuilds itself from the ground up in a sudden break after the second chorus. And “Wish U Well” is the closing stunner: with a little R’n’B lilt in the verses, it builds to a magisterial drop around the three-minute mark in which Gray takes the high ground after a breakup: “I can’t go back to you and I know it // And if I’m being honest with myself I don’t want closure / I want to feel the gravity of losing you ”. It’s genuinely moving, both emotionally and physically, though I’m not actually crying—I’m too busy gawking.  Is it too soon to call album of the year? Of course it is, Jackson. (At time of writing, the new Robyn album hasn’t yet dropped, so Salient readers will have to wait patiently over the mid-term break to hear this critic weigh in.) Not that I like to do any of that clickbait ranking tier list stuff anyways. But the fact that I even posed such a stupid question to myself probably is the highest endorsement I can give this record. I adore it. Didn’t Come to Argue  James Blake’s latest album: impressive but a touch underwhelming  It has been a while since the very very brilliant Mark Fisher recommended James Blake’s second album, Overgrown —“Unsure of itself, caught up in all kinds of impasses, yet intermittently fascinating, Overgrown is one more symptom of the 21st century’s identity crisis,” wrote Fisher in 2013. And there is something about Blake’s style—his fusion of hip-hop, house, and RnB in a dark indietronica wash—that, for me, pauses right at the edge of bad taste. It’s a deeply British, metropolitan, “multicultural” sound that at times gives the impression of a posh London kid doing musical anthropology on the black musos he’s been hanging with. If, as Simon Frith once suggested, when we hear most recorded music we imagine the ideal locus of its production (an opera recording evokes the opera house; a dance recording evokes the club), then Blake’s recordings sometimes evoke for me the top-floor sound-proofed spare room of a precocious young man’s decked-out home studio.  Let me be serious now when I say that I don’t mean to condemn Blake to his comfortable upbringing or his university music education—I’ve had both myself; and besides that, an artist deserves the basic respect of being considered on the merit of their work, not their biography. Rather, I’m saying that I think that what Fisher was getting at about Blake—this sense of an “identity crisis” that his music embodies—is in a disjunction between fact and feeling; between, in other words, the various genres and musical languages Blake draws from and the singularity of his bringing them into one work. Blake’s is a voice, a bright baritone that frequents its falsetto, that at once soars and lifts with genuine technique and at the same time is grounded by the bassy, earthy pool of electronics that accompanies it, in a moody contrast of opposites that often reads to me as self-consciously “deep”.  His new album, Trying Times is, like Overgrown , something of a capsule of the indeterminacies and hesitations that populate contemporary life—in love, at work, at home—and inexplicably. I like “Death of Love”, mostly for its Leonard Cohen sample, and then for how it follows in a Cohen-gone-trap kind of procedure, wherein a number of Cohen’s lyrical themes (death, sleep, faith, love, change) are treated with sleek obliqueness. “If we’re on an island all the time / And it’s yours, and it is mine / It’s death” , sings Blake in a particularly gnomic stanza. But he’s already confessed his lyrical gambit a few lines earlier: “It never seemed so hard / To say what you really mean” . There’s Cohen’s sound, treated as sample; there too are Cohen’s lyrical themes, treated in abstraction. Cohen’s fluency becomes Blake’s inarticulacy.  The album is in fact caught up in feelings of inertia (see “Days Go By”) and longings to be set free (see “I Had a Dream She Took My Hand”) and still it makes more complex the ways that these things overlay each other, the cyclic monotony of working life and the teleological glory of romantic love. Oh, I really quite like the title track, with its refrain in the back-up vocals, “As we go through trying times” , lending real gravity to the more lovey-dovey moments Blake indulges, like “ You’re a sight for sore eyes / You’re the life force” . Throughout the album, in fact, Blake comes across as quite straightforwardly romantic, as in the proposal scenery of “Rest of Your Life”—but even that track is bolstered by the fade-in of a 2-step house beat halfway through. If Trying Times were a book of poetry it would be a bore, so we can thank our lucky stars that there’s a musician of Blake’s calibre behind it, tinkering with and deepening the words’ apparent simplicity with his magpie’s eye for musical quirks.  What I’m trying to stress here is the eclecticism of Blake’s style, an eclecticism which makes its only real misstep, in my view, on the Dave feature “Doesn’t Just Happen”. A spliced cello ostinato combines with a baby voice ad-libbing “ Ready? Start! ”—already a little naff—but then comes Dave’s verse: “My girlfriend hates me / Deep down, maybe I do too. ” Deep! But weirdly, I felt myself half-wishing that the rest of the album solicited such a reaction. I wanted something a little edgier or weirder or even more aesthetically offensive, I guess. But then again, maybe I should have taken at face value the claim Blake makes on track six, a sweet compound time duet with Monica Martin:  “I flew, but that was in the past / [...] I didn’t come here / Didn’t come to argue”.