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Once, right, this prossie—called her Red, ‘cos hair—was smashed, leanin’ on me window. Smudged it, the cow! Wanted to yell, but she looked knackered, eyes all dead. “What’s the use of it all?”—that’s me, quotin’ Adam again, feelin’ all dramatic. Gave her a fag instead, she mumbled thanks, shuffled off. Made me sad, precious, real sad. She’s no Eve, sittin’ pretty with her lute—just a lass stuck in muck.

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I’m standing there, trying not to laugh, when I bump into my mate, Jake. He’s got this wild story about getting lost in the bush near Opotiki. Apparently, he thought he saw a ghost. I’m like, “Dude, it’s just the trees playing tricks on you.” But he’s convinced it was a spirit. Classic Jake, always chasing ghosts.

Iwi leader says 'Ōpōtiki-style' raids possible in Northland meth crackdown