'Going West' by Maurice Gee
Illustrations by Jo Thapa

In Decemeber we had northerlies. I don't like that wind.
A southerly comes from the Pole, bringing icy rain and sometimes snow, and cutting to the bone, numbing the bone. You bend into a southerly and fight back. It's an honest wind, the true Wellington wind. The northerly comes from behind your back and punches you. It pushes you this way and that and puts a knee in your groin. It doesn't even make you decently cold and won't bring its rain in honest loads, but wets you and then, hypocritically, dries you out. It seems to have no source and no direction. Thumps the house, and leaves it still, then gives a sneaky heave and seems to push it out of square.

All my days in Wellington I hated the northerly.