Lost in a time warp

Press, 20 February 1989, Page 4

Lost in a time warp

I was peacefully toddling through downtown Wellington when a man in a nineteenth century

frock coat and top hat accosted me, saying in a broad Yorkshire accent, “Excuse me, is this the twentieth century?” I looked him over, seeking the little emblem that said, “Finder please return to the Khandallah Institute For The Confused,” but he seemed genuine. He was surrounded by six others in Victorian garb including several young ladies dressed in the style of boy chimney sweeps, all of them marvelling at the skyscrapers and horseless carriages. It pays to be fairly philosophical about life. The bigger the city, the more weirdos per head of sane population. Make it a capital city and base the seat of Government there and the climate is right to meet everybody from Mickey Mouse to campaigners for Land Rights For Gay Whales. So there we stood. This relic of Dickens and a bemused visitor from the South Island.

Then a thought struck me. What if he was a

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genuine time traveller? H. G. Wells “Time Machine” for real? What a story! Einstein proved right, the greatest scientific breakthrough of the century! An even more important thought struck me. If he’s a time traveller, he can get me the winning Lotto numbers for next week! I appreciate that Einstein’s theories of space and time were not devised to boost the chances of knowing the sequence of numbers on six coloured balls, but then Einstein wasn’t paying 16.5 per cent on his mortgage either. Unfortunately the moment was destroyed when members of the ragtag group confessed to passersby they were

in town promoting a theatrical production.

I was in Wellington for a Ministry of Defence news media briefing on the Anzac frigates. The sixth floor of the Ministry building in Stout Street, the invitation said.

Finding the Ministry of Defence should have been easy. I had lived in Wellington many years ago and knew the place like the back of my hand.

Unfortunately while the back of my hand had remained constant, somebody had rebuilt central Wellington. ' Office blocks soared where none had stood before. I inadvertently stepped on to an escalator and found myself transported below Courtenay Place into a subterranean world of Valentine Day florists. I was lost.

A garage was nearby and so I sought directions. The fellow there scratched his head and called on the assistance of a traffic officer conveniently standing nearby. The traffic officer also scratched his head.

“The Ministry of Defence,” he mused. “Yes. The Ministry of

Defence. Big building, filled with camouflaged types.”

Another set of directons was issued and by a stroke of luck I found a street the developers had missed and within minutes had found the objective. Getting out of Wellington proved almost as difficult as navigating round its central business district. A taxi to the airport was the simplest but most expensive option. I decided on the airport shuttle bus.

That was fine in theory, but in practice I could not find the shuttle bus stop. More aimless wandering and for several ghastly moments I pictured myself condemned to forever haunt these concrete canyons, rather like former Cabinet Ministers. .

Then another apparition appeared, once again clad in Victorian coat.

“Can you direct me?” he asked.

‘‘Sorry, I’m lost too.” Then I had an afterthought. “Incidentally you don’t know this week-end’s Lotto numbers do you?” DAVE WILSON