Morning motorway traffic is a trial, with nose to tail stop-start progress from Petone to the Terrace. Windscreen wipers slap ineffectively on the glass as waves burst on the harbour wall and hurl salt spray across the rows of crawling traffic. Headlights reflect the black wetness of the road and the car ahead, and emphasise the fact that this is winter. On the seaward side of the crash barrier, electric railway units rattle slowly by, populated by shoulder to shoulder commuters. The ones near the window and the heaters, steam gently in their wet overcoats and gaze glumly at the chaos outside while the ones near the aisle, or standing in the door wells, just drip.
Congestion increases from the Ngauranga intersection as the five lanes become three.
The powerful lights of Wellington's container terminal become dimly visible through the steady rain. The view from home, which I love so much, has been obscured for most of the week by the drifting curtains of rain sweeping up the valley. On nights like this, once safely off the motorway, it's a great relief to get inside, shut the door and draw the curtains. Our decision to instal a gas heater last year may never be economic in the sense understood by an accountant, or even the odd economist in the family. The real payback, however, is in the sense of satisfaction to be had from the comforting hiss and the warmth of the flame, and the knowledge that we don't have to take ashes away or bring in firewood.