Kristin Hall: I've become a victim of crossing rage

Any New Zealand resident will tell you their town has its ups and downs.
While Hamilton boasts a stunning array of culturally themed gardens it also doesn't boast anything else. While Thames can lay claim to a comprehensive Four Square they are also rife with toothless men who try to get in your car when you ask for directions.
While W(h)anganui prides itself on its optional extra consonant, many believe it might never recover from the presence of Michael Laws.
In the same light there have been many instances over the past three years that have inspired me to think that Aucklanders are the most hideous breed of people to ever walk the Earth.
Although it is impossible to lump a city of 1 million inhabitants into one stereotype-friendly mould, there are times when I am determined to believe anyone conceived in the confines of the now "Super" city is a wearer of suspiciously shiny shoes, frowns upon slippers in public places and cannot pronounce the word "Maori" to save themselves. This kind of bitterness most often surfaces when I am in the city. I use this morning as an example:
I am waiting for the lights at 9.30am in the spewing rain with a full backpack, two armloads of groceries and a diminishing will to live. After waiting for what seems like a miniature lifetime, the little green walking man finally appears overhead and I proceed to cross the road. For some reason on this particular occasion the little green man chooses to cross the road at the speed of sound, leaving me in the middle of the traffic, with an angry little red man flashing at me and an accumulating line of large unfriendly-looking vehicles.
Now, any lucid person would have been able to see that unless I was capable of developing wings, a time simulator or the calf strength of a triceratops, I was not going to be making it to the other side at the same time as Sonic the Green Man. Nevertheless I blinked the rain out of my eyes, abandoned a runaway onion and attempted to hustle myself to safety.
It was at this point, with five metres till curb touchdown, that a particularly pretentious-looking Elton John clone in a Mercedes proceeded to honk aggressively, advance towards me at a stroke-inducing pace and scream a collection of adjectives too expressive for family-oriented publication.
I carried on my way in a rage, muttering under my breath and praying Elton would drive into a cement mixer on the way home. Then I saw something tall and pink in the distance. It was Walter.
Some of you may remember Walter from a column I wrote last year. He is 65, deranged and wears a fluorescent pink raincoat regardless of the weather. He remains one of the only strangers to willingly help me without asking for anything in return. About this time last year, I was returning from holidays broke, hungover and carrying everything I've ever owned in a somewhat overwhelmed suitcase. I was also walking up the street known by locals as "The Concrete Everest".
After several attempts at balancing all my worldly possessions, my urge to vomit and an oncoming hernia, I gave up, collapsed in a pathetic sweaty heap and began to think living on the corner of Wakefield St wouldn't be so bad. Then Walter appeared, offered a hand and redeemed my belief in the existence of saints.
He took my bags, told me his life story in between puffing his way up the hill and shook my hand at the top, telling me he would say hello to his cat for me. I have remembered him ever since.
Walter was not helping anyone when I saw him today, in fact he was doing quite the opposite, standing directly in front of the bus timetable and singing the Albany route to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, completely obstructing the view for all the slightly more sound members of the public.
My bitterness disappeared like an irritable vapour cloud. Although I knew Walter couldn't reprimand Elton, improve Auckland's traffic system or even recover my stray onion, it helped to know there was one more Auckland citizen who wouldn't know road rage if it ran off with his raincoat. My doubts about Walter's short term memory meant I didn't say hello, but I did smile at him, wave and hoped to God that he procreated at some point, one more Walter in the world would be a very good thing.