Last Tuesday, an earthquake struck Christchurch. I was in the Town Hall Auditorium with fellow teachers waiting for our Paid Union Meeting to start when the lights went out and the polygonal sound baffles hanging from the ceiling started to sway. After unsuccessfully trying to get our heads under the seats (when you are not sitting on them, they fold up) the four of us left the building and joined hundreds of other people in the middle of Kilmore Street. I remember waiting for someone to come and tell us what to do next - it took me a while to realise that the disaster had not just hit us, and that we needed to look after ourselves.
Some of us went to the corner of Kilmore and Colombo to check out the collapsed buildings for trapped people. Some of us found colleagues and wondered about doing a roll check. Some of us headed home in determined fashion. Some of us stood and wondered what we should do, and eventually moved around the corner to Colombo Street directed by a man with an armband on. We wept, hugged, shared handkerchiefs and continually tried to text or call people we love.
I am going to write my earthquake story in installments between doing useful things.
