Deus ex Manawatu.

I can’t claim I didn’t know that Palmerston North belonged to Jesus – it was mentioned, mentioned and mentioned again (and by mentioned, I mean brandished as a dire warning). What I can lay claim to is the habitual disregard of advise based on second hand experiences. Lucky for me, His heavy hand is everywhere – poking me in the eye as I walk across The Square and idly regard the cenotaph, tugging on my earlobe when I catch the sharp intakes of breath at my frequent, explosive blasphemy and slapping me in the face on a daily basis at work. (If I had a loaf or fish for the number of times I’ve heard that work simply won’t be accomplished on a Sunday (deity forbid having a few lemonades at the local!) I could feed the multitudes – no parabolic miracle required). It shouldn't continue to shock and awe, but it does - clearly, those going to hell are slow learners.

I have every intention of making my mark on my new home town; live long and loud enough anywhere and you can't fail to, but it suddenly occurs to me that the traffic is both ways. No doubt this time next year I'll be a Palmerston North-ed version of my former self; flattened and perpendicular. Would it be appropriate for an atheist to pray that such a version doesn't include church goin'? A dear friend of mine reluctantly moved to PN after a long stretch living joyously amongst the winding topography of Wellington. She remembers spending the first night in her new house on Main Street in the throes of a panic attack, running desperately to the bedsides of her 2 children, gripped with the need to assure them that no matter what, they would never become 'straight line people'.

Dear Baby Jesus,

Please save me from such a fate,

Not yours,
Rachel.