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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.

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”.

ella sage i'm outside your family home and you are over the ocean          (as many people whose feet have kissed this corner of footpath are).  you speak to me in the gently tossed sunset. i am in her golden underbelly.                    we have to stop meeting like this. burn against the salted skyline,  open my knees on the coarse gravel between gutter and white lines,           pretend pain is real enough to feel from seven ninety two k's apart.          my blood passes between your teeth, twilight tincture. behind me the concept of a suburb       burns          and the evening stretches ever onwards. i raise my hands to swing from the horizon          take me with you. shins slicked, smoke stacked, sirens slowly falling silent. nothing (good) happens in this old, empty city.  the streets flood.            we used to burn with desire. i still get nightmares of drowning on my way to school after hillside road became a river. the embers get so cold.                   green flash over mt cargill          sun swallower sending smoke signals over the cook strait           swing down the horizon till it's all ours. ella sage (she/they) is a 20-year-old writer, editor and student currently living in ōtautahi. ella's work can be found in Canta, Create Happy Magazine, Gremlins Ōtautahi and bad apple, on her own substack inthiscorneroftheworld and in co-authored substack summer of love alongside bram casey. if you fail at finding her poetry online, look to the ocean - it's usually singing the same songs ella does. while ella is currently serving as managing editor of Canta, the student magazine at UC, she couldn't deny a request to have a poem accompanying the least famous girl at the waffle house by her longtime collaborator/twin flame/soulmate bram casey. sunset, wākari, ōtepoti takes inspo from bram's poetry and the views from outside his family home on a balmy september evening.

A feed for fuck-all Continuing on from last week’s Munch, here are further variations on a theme of sandwich.  Where’s Charlie?  What: Bánh Mì.   Price: $15.00 When: 11:00–2:00pm; Monday–Friday.  A golden -brown shell hiding limp lies and dissatisfaction.  ⭐ Pōneke loves its Vietnamese food; between Kent Terrace and Lambton Quay one might pass (in no particular order) The Old Quarter, Apache, Pho Viet, Lemongrass Kitchen, Nam D, Go Vietnam, Go Vietnam (again), Saigon Taste, Saigon Delights, and the questionably-named Where’s Charlie? Take a walk through the Hub and you’ll find him once more, tucked under the stairs to the library. While their foreign policy leaves much to be desired, Vietnam’s cuisine is obviously a popular one.  So I thought a bánh mì from Where’s Charlie? would skyrocket to the top of my list, expecting it to be tempered only by its price tag. Instead, it was both expensive and disappointing.  A bánh mì thịt is by design a dynamic recipe: French-style baguette spread with paté, butter and mayonnaise, then filled with Vietnamese pickled vegetables and marinated pork. It can be hearty and fresh at the same time; sweet, sour, salty, spicy, all in a convenient sandwich. This bánh mì was not that.  There was no zing to it apart from the vinegar in the mayonnaise, which was weak. Soft strips of carrot and sliced cucumber disappeared in a white mush of mixed spreads, without any of the richness I’d expect from the liver paté. Not even the purported sriracha and jalapeños came through with any kick. I picked the ‘classic’ filling—Viet ham and BBQ pork—which was… aight. The two meats were hard to distinguish, without the smokey-sweet flavour that I’d hoped for from the pork. The ham was thick-cut, which was nice and lended the bánh mì more heft, but little else.  To add insult to injury, I was still hungry after. The sandwich was a couple inches longer than a sub of the day, but not even equally filling. There was something satisfying in crunching through the crust of a baguette, but this was short-lived and left me hankering for more as soon as it was gone.  Where’s Charlie? gives a slight discount to Vic students, selling their bánh mì for a dollar cheaper than on Lambton Quay. But at double the price of a sub, it’s not nearly worth the expenditure.  Hunter Lounge What: 2-for-1 Margherita Pizza. Price: $10.00 When: 3:00–7:00pm; Fridays.  **** ⭐⭐ Shut up. A pizza is a sandwich: spreads and toppings on bread—albeit open-faced. And for the taxonomic sticklers reading this, at the Hunter Lounge you can get two pizzas for the price of one and then put them together. Boom, unequivocal sandwich.  Everyone who’s ever attended a VUWSA quiz will have discovered that the Hunter Lounge does rather good pizza. Their menu offers some reasonable dinner options, ranging from a $10 Margherita to the $18 ‘The Graduate’ meatlovers. In fact, the medium Margherita makes an alright lunch too, but making the trek down through the Student Union and sitting in the bar in between lectures just never seems to happen.  However, sweetening the deal twofold makes for a brilliant way to end a long week. On Friday evenings, one blue note gets you two Margheritas, which is a grand dinner that could even leave a few slices for a hungover Saturday lunch. The pizza sauce is sweet and a little tart, to cut through the chewy mozzarella and what I suspect are parmesan flakes. All of this comes on a fresh and got-to-be-hand-made base that’s rolled thin and baked until a little charred. A lot of the dough’s flavour comes through with their Margherita, because they are frugal with the basil. It is more plain than one might expect, but certainly still a tasty pizza made with high-quality ingredients.  If you’ve got any budget left over for a drink, their jugs of Abandoned lager are as cheap as Tui from JJ’s. I’ve had many great friday nights start with a couple of pizzas and a jug here. Dinner deal aside, however, I think the Hunter Lounge still makes for a solid, mid-tier lunch option. It’s not much further than Ramsey House and almost as homely, better value than most places around the Hub, and even one pizza goes a decent way.

When your humble author awoke on Friday, 13 March with tonsils the size of Luxon’s bald head constricting her inflamed airway, some more superstitious readers might blame the unlucky date. I was certain, however, that a call to Student Health might provide some relief from the raw, burning pain I was experiencing with every breath and swallow. How sorely mistaken I was.  Calling just before 10 a.m., I was quickly informed by the receptionist that urgent same-day GP appointments were already completely full. Anecdotally — via the two different receptionists I spoke to — the service had received a record number of calls that morning, akin to flu season.  My options were: wait and call again on Monday at 8:30 a.m. (70 hours away), call Healthline for advice, take myself to After Hours, or book a phone appointment with a nurse. When I asked whether the nurse could prescribe antibiotics or anything stronger than the paracetamol, ibuprofen, and lidocaine spray I was already taking, I was told that wasn’t possible.  Upon seeing me sweaty and slightly tearful for the second time that morning, the clerk at the University Unichem pulled his mask up a little higher and suggested that, yes — I probably needed something stronger. Feeling panicked, unable to afford a regular GP, overwhelmed and let down, I decided to push through the day on over-the-counter medicine alone. I diligently conducted a COVID test in the Salient  office and attended my three-hour mandatory tutorial that afternoon.  By evening, however, it became clear that the pain wasn’t going anywhere — it was getting worse. Spurred on by my friends, (“Dude, you need  a Doctor”), I let my flatmate drive me to After Hours at 8:30 p.m., figuring a few hours wait would be better than nothing at all. Imagine my surprise, then, when we were told at the desk that After Hours was shutting for the night due to staff shortage. I was directed to the Emergency Department. I arrived to a full waiting room, feeling slightly ridiculous — yes, I am here for a sore throat, but no, I don’t have anywhere else to go. The triage nurse was dubious, but after shining a light down my throat (the first physical examination I had received all day), she told me that I should stay, on account of the tiny hole that was supposed to be my functioning airway. Nine hours after my arrival, I finally left ED at 6 a.m. with a generous supply of prescription pain medicine. The following days were spent reflecting, in a codeine-fuelled haze: what is going on with the New Zealand healthcare system?  The issue is broader than any individual experience. It rests not with the incredible doctors, nurses, and other medical staff that bend over backwards every day to ensure that as many people as possible receive high-quality care, but with a general lack of funding and infrastructure. Staff are burnt out, hospital beds are full, and appointments are in overwhelming demand. Workforce shortages place increasing pressure on the system as workers continue to head overseas for better wages, hours, and conditions — and who could blame them?  New Zealand’s healthcare system is primarily government-funded through taxation. It saw a budget increase of $5.5 billion for hospital and specialist services, primary care, and community and public health in 2025/26. There was a 6.43% increase in general practice capitation funding, alongside $180 million in new funding for general practice. While this sounds promising, it’s important to remember that healthcare funding must keep pace with population growth, meaning increases are expected every year.  Clearly, the current uptick isn’t enough.   On Tuesday, 17 March, health minister Simeon Brown announced an additional $25 million investment to boost hospital capacity, increase staffing, and prepare for winter demand. Again, this sounds substantial — but when spread across the country, the impact is minimal: just 12 additional winter beds for Wellington and a 0.47% increase in staff nationwide. While a step in the right direction, it is, at best, incremental—like peeing on a house fire. Or, as Salaried Medical Specialists executive director Sarah Dalton more eloquently told RNZ: “I wouldn’t call it an investment or a plan, I’d call it a band-aid.”  Fleur Fitzsimmons, National Secretary for the Public Service Association Te Pūkenga Here Tikanga Mahi, was similarly critical: “Minister Brown cannot claim to be preparing hospitals for winter while his Government has spent the past two years imposing cuts and job losses right across Health NZ. You cannot gut the workforce and then paper over the damage with a press release.” And it’s true. The same minister also asked hospitals to cut back $510 million late last year in “efficiencies”, claiming that “back-office waste” could be “re-invested straight back into patient care.” That amount makes Tuesday’s bonus look hardly mollifying. Brown has also begun decentralising Health NZ, with the aim of allowing regions and districts to recruit and deploy staff independently, while maintaining central oversight for strategy and standards. In 2025, it was revealed that Wellington hospitals were, in some cases, waiting up to six months for approval to begin recruiting frontline staff. While decentralisation may improve responsiveness, it also risks creating uneven capability and workforce gaps between regions. Mauri Ora Student Health & Counselling specifically is funded largely by the student-paid Student Services Fee, with 59% allocated to health services, counselling, and pastoral care. Routine medical appointments are generally free for domestic students, though charges apply for international students and specialist services such as medicals, ECGs, minor surgeries, and some vaccinations. Here too, additional funding for staffing would ease pressure, freeing up additional appointments for distressed students.  Wait times for counselling and routine medical appointments in 2025 typically sat at six to seven weeks. March and April are traditionally busy months for the service, as new students must see a GP before prescriptions can be issued. Same-day urgent appointments typically fill by noon — though on my ill-fated day of March 13 they were all gone by 10 a.m. This is in part due to a reduction in same-day triage appointments from 22 at the end of last year to just 12 per day over the past two weeks, in an effort to prioritize continuity of care.  Mauri Ora now walks a tightrope between reactivity (same-day care, triage) and proactivity (ongoing care, scheduled counselling)—one that may be fraying under the strain. Yes, my tonsillitis was not life-threatening, and I won’t pretend others haven’t endured far worse. But it was painful, prolonged, and—critically—difficult to treat affordably and accessibly. Internationally, New Zealand is still seen as a safe, stable, and liveable country, with a healthcare system comparable to Canada, the UK, and many Nordic countries. Increasingly, however, it feels as though that reputation no longer reflects reality.  Funding, policy, and workforce strategy must change—and quickly—if Aotearoa wants to maintain a healthcare system that is truly accessible.

An account of a mature student returning to study after 30 years in the work force Marek Pipi If you had said to me in 1996, when I graduated with a B.A., that one day I would return to Vic for postgraduate study, I would have told you where to go. As much as I loved my time here, I was on a mission: get my teaching diploma and become a mover and shaker in the classrooms of Aotearoa, New Zealand. Now, at fifty, I find myself once again walking past the Hunter Building each morning, making my way to a lecture. What bought about my change in attitude—or rather, who—was my grandmother. At ninety, she began asking me to return to university. A great educator herself (and a Dame), she told me she had the perfect thesis waiting, along with all the material I would need, sitting neatly in her home office.  I was too respectful to tell her  where to go, but managed to change the subject every time the topic arose. Why on earth would I forgo a stable salary to become a poor student again? No thank you. Last year, at ninety-five, she passed away. I was overcome by a deep sense of regret. Why on earth had I not fulfilled her wish when she asked? I returned to school and informed the principal that I would be going back to university. I was coming back to study, by hook or by crook. At the end of the year I resigned officially and spent Christmas packing boxes and moving furniture into storage. Then my pay stopped. I had a mild panic attack.  At the same time, I was trying to navigate a new way of applying for courses, loans, and allowances. In the nineties this was all done on paper—forms, envelopes stamped. No log-ins, no passwords, no mysterious links. They say the digital age is supposed to make things easier, not harder. I still prefer paper. I arrived from Hawke’s Bay and set off to the train station for my first day back as a university student. Until recently I had been the Year 9 Dean at school. This, I realised, must be what my girls felt like on their first day. Then there was public transport. I needed lessons again. We used to buy ten-trip tickets that the conductor or bus driver would punch in with a little click.. Someone showed me how to buy a Snapper card, download the app, and load money onto it. Thankfully the automated message on the train reminds us that “if you are using a Snapper card, please remember to tap off.” Wellington has changed, so has Vic. The city is slower, quieter.The walk up Lambton Quay no longer feels  so rushed. On Fridays, it almost feels like a Sunday, with so many people working from home.  At Vic in the nineties, there was no Hub, no docking stations, no monitors or vending machines on every floor. Only one place sold coffee, in the courtyard outside the library, and I recall there only being only two eateries on campus. Our readings came in a heavy booklet of photocopied chapters called a multilith . Te Kawa a Māui, Māori Studies was a group of quaint villas in front of the Marae, where today stands the three-level, modern, art filled building known as Ngā Mokopuna. One of the most obvious and beautiful changes I have noticed in my first weeks back is how safe and natural it is to be part of the rainbow community on campus. The self-expression and freedom to openly be yourself, without judgment, shows me how far we have come as a society. When I was here for the first time, I used to mince around these hallways in sarongs, wraparound skirts, and all sorts of eye-catching get-ups. But that came from personal confidence,  not because I was seeing others like myself. In my day, no one had sent out the memo that it was okay. In other ways Wellington has not changed at all. My favourite clothes store, World, is still open.So is Logan Brown. Slow Boat Records—an inner-city institution—still spins jazz records as you walk through the door. The colored buckets still tip water noisily along Cuba Street. Buskers still sing at the train station and on street corners. And the weather—this weather—will never change. As I sit on the sixth floor of the library looking out to the harbour, there is a calm within. Who cares if I dropped from a $3,000-a-fortnight salary to $300 a week (that I have to pay back)? Who cares if I have my first assignment due next week and haven't started yet? Who cares if I’m surrounded by students who are the age of the Year 13s I was teaching just months ago?  All is well.  I am supposed to be here.  My course-related costs and living allowance appeared in my account today. Once I submit this annotated bibliography I’m going to head down to the Puffin Wine Bar and buy myself the most expensive cocktail they have. I’ll raise the glass and toast my grandmother. Look Nan. I’m finally doing it.