"What about this one?" A rhetorical question pops from a woman steering her husband into a clothing shop.
A cross-dressing Polynesian couple sit on a bench seat holding a tiny black and white lap-dog. They're then harangued by a group of young boys. I'm reminded of the recently deceased Carmen when one vents her spleen. "Yeah, you'd better keep walking you ****," one yells.
A few feet away, blissfully ignorant of the standoff, a tiny Asian girl splashes away the searing heat in a fountain. The shocking language from the seat behind her continues. I hope English is her second language.
Retailers via their signage urge me to enter. One enticed with "Spoil yourself". A sign outside an adult sex shop states: "Be a devil, come in".
The French bakery is shut. People-less with chairs up on tables, it lends a melancholy note.
The kebab joint is open.
The Mexican place shut.
As was the sushi outlet.
That's Heretaunga St on Boxing Day. By the end of my 45-minute stroll yesterday I still couldn't say for sure whether the CBD was open or shut.
Most trade? Hallensteins. Bursting at the seams.
Most regrettable? "Sorry my lease is up" signage peppering Heretaunga St west.
Most poignant? The Albert Hotel. Hastings' oldest building just celebrated its 127th Christmas - maybe its last before the wrecking ball.
Most kitsch? The hanging flower baskets. Like walking through a rest home.
Most colourful? The cross-dressers. Despite the repugnant language, it's gutsy to strut your stuff in the provinces. (No one would have looked twice on Wellington's Cuba St).
Most memorable? A woman feeding her baby boy on a seat facing the Wesley Methodist Church. Nestled between the church and the Opera House, it's delightfully Madonna & Child with a Spanish Mission twist.
