THE Department of Conservation launched Conservation Week two days ago by swinging a wrecking ball at the hallowed John Scott Aniwaniwa building.
In the end, the pioneering Maori architect's gift to the nation's built vernacular was afforded all the sanctity of a Mexican piñata, with DoC's deputy director Mervyn English flailing about with a club.
As a teenager, I once spent a week volunteering at DoC's Mt Bruce wildlife reserve. I fed kiwi and takahe, handled tuatara and tended to a lame pukeko named Simon. I was hooked. DoC's duty of care to a threatened heritage was engrossing.
It helped matters that with me was a blonde PhD zoology student with a smile so pretty I couldn't hold her gaze. At night, in our small DoC cabin where the bullish Wairarapa rain hammered the roof, I dreamt the two of us would save the world, one kaka at a time.
Neither love interest materialised. It didn't take long to figure females seven years my senior were acres out of my league.