Cuba Street is my favourite place in Wellington. It is both a street and a cultural statement at the same time, and I have found myself frequenting it regularly since moving to Wellington earlier in the year. It is a unique part of, not just Wellington, but of our entire nation. Its major attraction is its frenzied variance of activities. It possesses multiple bookstores, cafes, pubs, eateries and a delightful and highly entertaining children’s playground – all of which have offered me the chance to while away many a spare hour.
I love nothing more than spending a couple of hours sitting outside a drinking den or cafeteria, smoking cigarettes, getting quietly chopped on non-craft beer and keeping up to date on all the latest gossip about me in Salient magazine. I also enjoy the instant gratification one feels at shaking your head and muttering “fucking hell” as some freakish entity walks by. It’s God’s work. There are occasional unpleasant moments that one must endure – for instance, being asked by some slippery longhair hawking Hare Krishna propaganda if you’re open-minded (I’m unaware where this particular rumour started). Aside from these occasional instances, Cuba Street is a thoroughly nice place.
Having made my feelings clear and pledged my allegiance to Cuba Street’s multiple charms, there is one stain on its reputation that demands immediate redress: its lack of public toilet facilities. As a gentleman of sound breeding and distinction, I patently refuse to utilise the amenities provided by private businesses in the area. Being both an indecent and entitled act, asking to use the private toilet of a hard-working, middle New Zealand businessperson is simply below my station.
I’ve done some additional research into my first-world problem. According to Google Maps, it takes eight minutes to walk from one end of Cuba Street to the other. Over the last few weekends, I’ve been conducting my own exhaustive research by pacing back up and down Cuba Street to put this theory to the test. It is possible to walk the distance in just under eight minutes, although this only occurs if one is decked out in Crocs, a Lycra thong and windbreaker jacket. It is also heavily dependent on other variables such as weather conditions and crowd congestion. Furthermore, one must be walking at a spanking pace that is beyond most people of a certain vintage. It also does not take into account the multiple distractions available.
I’m not the kind of person who internalises my first-world problems. Therefore, I have decided to start applying pressure on those in power to do something about my major gripe. All readers of Massive are encouraged to join the closed group on Facebook I am considering launching. Enough is enough! This is an issue that all reasonable New Zealanders must start concerning themselves over.
How many more times must I be forced to wet my pants and defecate in back alleys? I might be a gentleman of means, but I cannot continue to lavish my Grindr dates with two-star hotels in Petone. I DEMAND action.
With a mayoral election about to grip Wellington shortly (Massive will get around to covering this at some stage this year), I demand that my first-world problem becomes a major talking point. I want every candidate to declare publically where they stand. I imagine there are bigger issues of the day – global warming, Syrian refugees, manspreading on public transport – but all these must be put aside because I am offended.
Thank you for reading about my first-world problem. I’m off to wash my hands.