My father had lived in Te Kūiti his whole life. So had his parents. He was born there and now his name was on a sign outside an accountancy firm. He seemed to always be on his way to and from the office in his blue Fiat Tipo, his only passengers the many lever-arch files sliding around in the back seat. Or he was off to rehearsals for the town plays that he acted in. He lived deeply inside the town, was known to everybody, and perhaps because of this, he seemed to live elsewhere from me. As I got older, we had less and less to say to each other. By the time I was ten we had stopped speaking to each other much at all. I avoided him and he seemed to avoid me too.