“You like buildings, do you?” A mature female voice is addressing me.
I am in Victoria Street, and about to click the shutter on this image, an uncommonly handsome view of the Central Police Station – a strong contender, I reckon, for the title of Wellington’s ugliest building.
Standing at my right shoulder, the speaker is clad in a striking mauve jumpsuit. Jauntily perched on her head is a smart little summer hat. She is not someone I know.
I smile as she wishes me the compliments of the season.
“I like anything that catches my eye,” I tell her. “So be careful.”
The clock ticks three times as she registers what has been said. And then both her thumbs go up. “Nice one!” she declares.