Muriwai.

Te Pa Takapu; Muriwai.

It was inevitable that I would pick up the empty bottle from under the flax bush.

I rubbed a film of dry clay from the old glass to reveal the word, ‘Fino’.

Colin sat in front of me, his beanpole legs drawn up under his chin, his long, bony fingers clasping his knees, his feet pointing neatly down.

‘What do you want’ he asked laconically.

I said ‘I want to paint as well as you did.’

‘You had better speak to Don over there’ he replied, grimly pointing at a small black and white bird with a ridiculous orange beak.

I said. ‘That’s not Don Binney, that’s an oystercatcher’

‘I must be more drunk than I realised’ said Colin.

We sat in companiable silence for a little while until I asked if I could have my other two wishes.

Colin said that ‘it didn’t work like that anymore.’