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The Stanford apartments in Auckland where the author lived
The Stanford apartments in Auckland where the author lived

SocietyJuly 8, 2024

I lived in a shoebox apartment. I’m glad they’re coming back

The Stanford apartments in Auckland where the author lived
The Stanford apartments in Auckland where the author lived

Poor-quality, cramped and ugly as hell – but Duncan Greive was thrilled to live in a shoebox apartment.

In your early 20s you don’t think too hard about what’s going on around you, it just is. We didn’t know it, but in 2005, Auckland city was in the last boom times of the pre-digital era. It seemed normal that there were a dozen venues to see live music on or near Karangahape Road. It seemed normal that there were at least five print magazines paying you to write about music. And it seemed normal that the city was dotted with cranes, many standing up so-called “shoebox apartments”.

The phrase was not meant as a compliment. They were derided as “future slums” by a lobby group named Urban Auckland, which successfully took the council to court over their design. This pushback ultimately led to a rule change, driven by then mayor Dick Hubbard with support of Labour-aligned City Vision, which specified various restrictions to developments, such as making the minimum size of a two-bedroom apartment 70 square metres. As the below chart from the Substack Apracitas Economics shows, the change had a profound and lasting impact on apartment construction.

In 2005, I was only dimly aware of the furore, of the disgust shoebox apartments aroused. In 2005, I was living in one. Named the Stanford, it had sprung up in 2004 on Nelson Street, where it still stands today. It’s just up the road from the Harvard apartments, both built by a developer named Conrad who clearly thought that naming these thin, cheap apartments after Ivy League institutions would confer borrowed prestige. That seemed objectively funny then, and the joke has aged well, I think.

My apartment was near the top of the block and did have expansive harbour views. Otherwise, it was pretty rough. It consisted of two bedrooms, one big enough for a queen, the other for a single. There was a tiny bathroom with a laundry cupboard, a tiny kitchen-dining-lounge and a slightly scary tiny balcony. The whole thing topped out at 41 square metres, or a little over half the size of the new standards. Which is to say that by the time I had moved in, it would have been illegal to build the Stanford apartments.

Living in a shoebox

I lived in the Stanford for most of two years, from 2005-2006. I was a single dad who had his daughter every other week, and finishing up a graduate diploma in journalism at AUT. The years prior had been hard. I’d had my daughter just after I turned 21, while working at a liquor store and being a really bad arts student. 

Attempting to show up as a dad, I quit studying to become a postie, working six days a week for less than $400 in the hand. After a couple of years I left that job under strained circumstances, and took a job at Datacom changing tapes in their data centres. Three 12-hour shifts, back-to-back, alternating days and overnights. That was another couple of years, towards the end of which my relationship broke down.

Through that period finding a home had always been tricky. I moved into the shoebox about when my daughter started school, but she had already known seven different addresses. Moving was driven by a variety of factors, but cost was up there. I was torn between wanting to be a free person in their 20s, and wanting to be a dad. After trying and failing to find a flat comfortable with having a kid around half the time, I ended up taking a look at the Stanford. It was $250 a week for two bedrooms – I could afford it alone.

Honestly, it wasn’t great. These things really were tiny. My bedroom had no window, and there was only a tiny thin slit of a natural light into the other bedroom. The lift had already started to smell, and I wouldn’t say I was proud to live there or loved hosting people. But it was my own place, the first one I had all to my daughter and me, one I could lock and know would be the same when I returned. 

The location was objectively perfect. I could walk my daughter down the hill to Freeman’s Bay School a few hundred metres away. We’d often stop to buy some extremely ripe fruit from Asian Grocer (I’m not being racist, that’s its name) on the way, a fact my daughter still jokes about to this day. Then I’d walk on to AUT. Or, after graduating, to Ponsonby, where I had my first office job at Satellite Media, uploading 140-character music content to the Vodafone mobile site. 

Later that year, I got my dream job – editing Real Groove magazine, a publication I had grown up reading, half in awe of writers like John Russell, Kerry Buchanan and Troy Ferguson. I also started seeing the woman who would become my wife while living in that shoebox. In retrospect that apartment was where I started to get my shit together, started to have a sense that I could be something more than a fuckup.

I’m not here to tell you that apartment was the reason why. It was unbearably small – you couldn’t really have anyone over, or not for long. The carpet was cheap, the fittings were already starting to go. The sense of neighbourliness described in Olga McAllister’s gorgeous essay on growing up in a (much larger) Soviet apartment block was absolutely not present, or not for me at least. The apartments were objectively ugly, though not so bad as they were made out at the time.

But the upside overwhelmed all that. I was right there in the city. As a young music critic, I was a few minutes’ walk from those venues on K Road, and from a half dozen record stores. It was not much further to friends’ flats in Grafton and Kingsland. Those weeks when I was a dad, it was easy. The other weeks, going out was as easy as leaving the apartment. I had a car, but no carpark, so barely drove it. An urbanist’s dream, years before I’d find out what an urbanist was. 

It was what I needed at that time, however much it offended the sensibilities of design snobs and planners. I feel confident in saying many other residents, transient as we often were, felt the same way. We were there because it was better than the alternative. 

All that life and growth was snuffed out at the stroke of a pen while I was living there. Stats NZ data shows the number of “multi-unit homes” – many of which were apartments – crashed from a rolling average of almost 10,000 being built in 2005 to fewer than 2,500 five years later.

If not a shoebox, then where?

Another characteristic of the inner city when I lived there was that homelessness barely existed. I remember vividly an extraordinary double-page feature in the NZ Herald which looked at life among the unhoused then. It mapped specific characters, and if you spent a lot of time in the inner city, it seemed a near-complete survey. 

The idea that you could now map the scale of human misery that a lack of housing has brought to Auckland is unimaginable. As the ’00s wore on, the GFC hit and the next decade began, the city acquired its current reality, with hundreds of people making lives on the streets of downtown and its fringes. It’s now a countrywide phenomenon.

That’s the backdrop of the reforms announced last week by housing minister Chris Bishop. I travelled into the city to see him deliver a speech about housing last week, in a cramped room at the Rydges Hotel in downtown Auckland. He spent long periods wading through the thickets of regulation, through the acronym soup of the MDRS and the NPS-UD, and paid compliments to Auckland’s groundbreaking 2016 unitary plan, which started the process of unshackling land for development and finally saw us surpass the heady mid-00s for construction of multi-units.

But the part which leapt out for me was not technical, it was moral. He announced an override of the minimum dwelling size standards – a return to plausibility for the kind of place I lived in 20 years ago. In front of a room full of people involved in construction and leasing, with tables for Colliers and CBRE and Crockers, he made a simple case. “You know what is smaller than a shoebox apartment? A car or an emergency housing motel room.” That’s our current plan for dealing with people who don’t have a house, and it’s indefensible.

The rest of the reforms he announced are big. They are a continuation of an enormous body of work which started with Auckland’s unitary plan, was driven forward by Phil Twyford’s revolutionary NPS-UD which created a huge potential for urban density, and now reaches a powerful climax with Bishop’s Going for Housing Growth package. 

It’s not beyond criticism – my colleague Joel MacManus points to the dangers of its removal of rural-urban boundaries as having the potential to create plentiful cheap housing where no one wants to live. But to me those issues are less material, and likely to be less impactful, due to the return of the maligned shoebox. 

I left Bishop’s speech during questions from the floor, the first of which dwelled on how to protect valuable growing land like Pukekohe at the edge of cities. There are hard, complex questions of tradeoffs which planners and officials will untangle as best they can.

In an Uber, someone in clear distress staggered out in front of us. It should have been shocking, instead it was routine. 

A few hundred metres up the road, we drove past the Stanford, standing plain and firm in the morning sun. In a few years, maybe there will be a few more like her. And, in time, that might mean a few fewer people wandering helpless and in harm’s way on the roads of our half-broken central cities.

Keep going!
(Image: Getty)
(Image: Getty)

The BulletinJuly 8, 2024

The stunt marketing campaign for a new mental health charity, and how it went terribly wrong

(Image: Getty)
(Image: Getty)

On the Suicide Reduction Trust, a viral marketing campaign, and a court hearing. A special edition of The Bulletin by Stewart Sowman-Lund. To receive The Bulletin in full each weekday, sign up here.

A prize too good to be true

Back in April, I spent some time looking into a fledgling charity called the Suicide Reduction Trust (SRT). It had caught my eye after a reader tip-off about a TradeMe listing they believed might be a scam. The listing advertised a raffle with the prize too good to be true: a free house. And not just any house, a $2m Auckland mansion, along with cash for furniture and a brand new Tesla to boot. The raffle was advertised as raising funds for the SRT, which had launched shortly before the win-a-house promotion. While TradeMe pulled the listing, telling The Bulletin that it went against its rules, the raffle was legitimate, as Stuff’s Tony Wall reported at the time. But who was behind it and why?

A costly marketing exercise

The raffle had been issued a license by the Department of Internal Affairs in March, but questions remained about the Suicide Reduction Trust itself. RNZ’s Katie Fitzgerald reported that the charity was unregistered and the DIA was assessing its application. The DIA confirmed to The Bulletin a decision had still not been made on the application.

The man behind the trust is Dave Jaques. According to Wall’s report, he has a varied past. A former police officer, truck driver and small engine mechanic, Jaques retrained as a lawyer and went bankrupt between 2006 and 2009. This report in the NBR (paywalled) from 2017 detailed a failed lawsuit by Jaques against former business partners.

Speaking to The Bulletin in early April, Jaques said the raffle was a means to fund the charity, which he was inspired to launch because of a desire to develop “emotional awareness for men”. He added: “I wanted to help men talk nicer to their significant others [and] cope with anger management, and that has moved onto premature sudden death, which is of course not just about men and not about young – it’s everybody. Our point of difference is self-awareness and self-acceptance.” Jaques said he was funding the house being offered for the raffle, though Wall’s report for Stuff specified there was a cancellation clause dependant on raffle sales. It’s conditional upon his raffles being able to sell up until a certain date, if he can’t sell them, then… we’ll sell it to someone else,” Milestone Capital director Teghbir Singh told Stuff.

The trust launched a costly advertising campaign for the house raffle, with billboards around central Auckland and ads on TV and radio. But, as Stuff’s Caroline Williams reported two weeks ago, it wasn’t enough to generate the level of ticket sales needed to justify giving away a house. Jaques said he required $2.5m in raffle sales, but as of late June, about ​​$232,000 worth of tickets had sold.

A stunt gone wrong

A couple of weeks ago, an email arrived in The Spinoff inboxes with a provocative and, to be frank, shocking subject line: “Auckland lawyer hangs himself on Auckland motorway overpass.” It was from Jaques, criticising the media for failing to cover his new charity. The body of the email clarified this was simply an attention-grabbing stunt. “I’m going to do you a favour and give you the newsworthy clickbait you so badly desire and this morning I’m going to hang myself from an Auckland motorway overpass and you’ll have the story you really want,” he wrote. A few hours later, reports started to emerge of a man dangling from an overbridge, attached to a harness, causing delays to shocked rush hour commuters after two lanes were closed by emergency service. Newshub reported that Jaques was throwing leaflets at the speeding traffic below. He was later charged in relation to offensive behaviour and endangering transport. A police spokesperson told The Bulletin he will appear in the Manukau District Court later this week, having been remanded on bail.

A post on the SRT’s website confirmed that not enough funds had been raised for the house promotion and the raffle was cancelled. Refunds would be issued to anyone who had purchased tickets. “It had been the board’s intention to invite people to make a ‘donation’ with their refund, but given the level of hostility to [the] protest, and to prove the Trust was never in this for the money, we will not be making this suggestion in our communication to raffle ticket purchasers,” reads the statement. The board consists of Jaques and retired businessman Warren Megget. A further post confirmed the board had not been alerted to the stunt in advance. Jaques acknowledged it could have “a profound impact on the Trust’s reputation and way of operating” and said “he may have in fact caused more harm than good”.

Images: Stewart Sowman-Lund

The bigger picture

While the SRT’s unusual approach to publicity is undoubtedly the most intriguing part of this story, there is a bigger picture. The charity has an admirable mission: reducing suicide in New Zealand. Though as Fitzgerald’s report for RNZ notes, the details of the work planned by Jaques and the trust are vague, such as “therapy that promotes self-acceptance”.  The Trust’s website has details of some of the planned programmes, though whether these will be possible given the unsuccessful raffle fundraiser remains to be seen.

Mental health has been a focus for the coalition government, with Matt Doocey appointed as the first minister for mental health. I spoke to Doocey last year about his ambitions for this portfolio, which included achieving cross-party support for mental health initiatives. Since taking office, the government has followed through on its pledge to fund Mike King’s Gumboot Friday. We looked at some of the controversy around this in The Bulletin back in May. Before the weekend, the government launched new mental health targets, though as Adam Pearce at the Herald reported, there were questions around the lack of available data for some of these. The spotlight has also been on the government’s Suicide Prevention Office when, as reported here by the Herald, it faced closure during a round of public sector job cuts. It was confirmed to stay open, but RNZ’s Anusha Bradley reported in May that it might not have any full time staff despite added scrutiny over its performance.

Even after Jaques’ arrest, large and provocative billboards for his trust remained on display around Auckland. One simply directs people to a YouTube video called “Suicide Guy has a big RANT”, which has around 750 views. It’s a hangover from an unfortunate publicity stunt gone wrong. But, in their eye-catching way, perhaps they’re still encouraging a deeper conversation around a difficult subject?