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Photo: Getty Images; additional design by Tina Tiller
Photo: Getty Images; additional design by Tina Tiller

SocietyFebruary 14, 2022

Everything you need to know about apartments and omicron

Photo: Getty Images; additional design by Tina Tiller
Photo: Getty Images; additional design by Tina Tiller

For people living in high-density housing, the arrival of omicron raises plenty of questions around how to keep yourself safe. So we asked the experts. 

For the socially inept, living in an apartment building is tricky enough without the added threat of a Covid-19 outbreak. Every day we are faced with awkward conversations in the lobby, guilty glances when shuffling UberEats down the hallway, shared Facebook group rows and rubbish room spats. But with the omicron variant of Covid-19 in the mix, apartment life has become a real headache for the thousands of New Zealanders living in close quarters to one another. 

As omicron continues to spread and the country prepares for our biggest infection numbers yet, the government has released a three-phase plan in response to the latest outbreak. But what does it all mean for those of us who share hallways, lifts and balconies on the daily? We’ve read the latest Ministry of Health guidance and consulted with the experts, in an attempt to answer every stupid question about apartment life and omicron that we could think of. 

OK, how is this omicron situation different to delta for apartment dwellers?

“Well, that is a great question,” lied Dr Joel Rindelaub, aerosol chemist at the University of Auckland. “Based on the data we have, it appears to be much more transmissible. So, it means that we have to be extra safe in our apartment buildings, especially now that a lot of cases will be isolating at home. That’s going to be the big difference right there – you will now be much more likely to have a positive case in your apartment building.” 

Tim Jones, vice president of Body Corporate Chairs’ Group, which represents collectives of unit owners within multi-unit buildings or complexes, says apartment dwellers need to stay even more vigilant in the age of omicron. “If you are in a house and you step out into your garden, it’s really not going to create much problem. But with a highly contagious variant, all you have to do is step out of your apartment and walk down the corridor, coughing without a mask on, and potentially someone else coming out of their unit could then pick it up.” 

Put even more plainly, he says that “if people don’t take care in an apartment building, you could be looking at a petri dish for infection”. 

Petri dish of infection sounds pretty bad, how do we avoid that? 

The first crucial step is to wear a mask whenever you leave your apartment. “Definitely wear the best protection you have whenever you are leaving that apartment.” In short, every time you open your front door, there is a potential for exposure. 

Which mask provides the best protection against that exposure? 

Face masks must be attached to the face by loops around the ears or head, which means no more scarves, bandanas, t-shirts, or lettuce leaves. Rindelaub recommends apartment dwellers get themselves plenty of respirator masks like N95s or P2s masks. “Those will help you better than some of the cloth varieties that we have been using previously,” he says. “You want to use the best mask you have whenever you are in or exposed to communal areas to reduce your risk.”

How are we supposed to navigate narrow apartment hallways? 

The Ministry of Health encourages social distancing of one metre when accessing hallways, foyers and waiting areas in an apartment complex. If there is seating in any of these areas, your body corporate may want to either remove them, or at least space them one metre apart. “If you can, definitely try to minimise your time spent in the hallways if other people are also there,” says Rindelaub. I like to employ the Kardashian peek around every corner, but that’s just me. 

What about the apartment lifts? 

Unless you are with your bubble, the use of apartment lifts should be limited to one person at a time. While waiting for a lift, maintain at least one metre of distance between you and your fellow apartment dwellers. Don’t stand too close to the door in case, hypothetically, a woman and her large dog are standing right on the other side of the door and hypothetically you get a huge fright and hypothetically fall backwards into a pot plant. Take the stairs whenever possible.

I have trouble with confrontation, how do I tell someone not to get in the lift with me? 

Although not strictly within his area of expertise, Rindelaub advises that you “use your best judgment” when navigating lift-based interactions. “You could try putting up your hand to say stop and then just shake your head back and forth,” he says. “You don’t even have to talk to people this way.” If you want to stay friendly yet distant while passing a neighbour, here are some alternative greetings that we prepared at the beginning of the pandemic: 

Alternatively, here are some musical cues you can use to tell people nearby to stop right now, get back and show some patience

Who is the point of contact in my building for all things Covid-19? 

As recommended by the Ministry of Health, every apartment building should have appointed a Covid-19 contact person to act as a conduit between cases in the building and public health services. This person could be appointed from the body corporate, and works to support positive cases during their isolation. The ministry has not outlined whether or not the Covid-19 contact person wears a snazzy vest.  

Tim Jones of the Body Corporate Chairs Group says there is a “real problem” in the number of apartment dwellers, especially tenants, who are disconnected from the governance structure of their building. “Both owners and tenants should be making contact with their body corporate, or the committee who runs the body corporate. Then they’ll need to find out if a Covid contact has been appointed and, if not, ask why not?”

If you don’t know how to get in touch with your apartment overlords, your building manager is a good place to start. “It falls back on building management to look after the person who is prepared to disclose that he or she is a positive case and is isolating,” Jones says, “because that will help them to get contact numbers for emergency services, somebody to help friends or whānau to get groceries into them, and to take away rubbish and do all that sort of stuff.” 

If I test positive, do I need to swipe blood on my door to tell people to stay away? 

You don’t need to go that far, but both Jones and Rindelaub recommend sharing the information with either your neighbours or someone from the body corporate. “It would be the neighbourly thing to do, says Rindelaub. “If I was living in an apartment and my neighbour had the ‘rona, I would like to know that so I can take as many precautions as I possibly could.” 

Jones says that sharing this information with others is also useful in the event that you need extra support while isolating. “Unless you’ve got some family or friends who can get in and out of your unit, you aren’t going to get an awful lot of support. Your nearest and dearest support systems are actually your neighbours in your apartment building.” 

Argh, what if I don’t know my neighbours?!

Most apartment buildings will have some kind of Facebook group for residents, or you could slip a friendly note with your contact details into their mailboxes (just don’t spell them out with magazine clippings). 

How long do I need to isolate for if I test positive?

Currently, you will need to isolate for at least 14 days while you recover and be symptom-free for 72 hours, but this will reduce to 10 days once cases ramp up and we move to phase two of the omicron response “Isolating” means you cannot leave your apartment for any reason other than an emergency, which means you will need to think about the supplies and tasks you might need help with from friends, whānau or other residents in your building. 

What do I need to prepare in advance of isolating? 

It pays to write a few things down about the people isolating in your household, including names, ages, NHI numbers, medical conditions and any medications required. In the event that you need to leave your apartment to go to hospital or a managed isolation facility, write down instructions for any pet and/or plant maintenance that might be required in your absence. 

The Covid-19 preparation page also recommends that you assemble a basic hygiene kit including tissues, soap, sanitiser, masks, cleaning products, gloves and rubbish bags. To help with symptoms, stock up on ibuprofen and paracetamol, lemon tea, honey, cough syrup, nasal spray, lozenges and vapour rubs. Also think about entertainment – how’s that Netflix watchlist looking? For more on isolating at home, here’s a handy guide that Siouxsie Wiles prepared earlier.

What happens with rubbish and food if I am isolating? Do I just eat my rubbish? 

You must not leave your apartment to dispose of rubbish while isolating, which means you’ll need to arrange for family, friends or neighbours to lend a hand. Stock up on rubbish bags – it is recommended that you double bag your rubbish before leaving it outside your door. Make sure that nobody is in the hallway when you open your door, and that the door is firmly closed before someone collects it. They will need to wear gloves and wash their hands afterwards. 

It is a similar story for getting food – if you need groceries you will have to arrange for somebody to bring them up to your front door, only to be collected when that person has left the immediate area. Both deliverer and recipient should wear a mask for the entirety of the grocery exchange. If you’ve got a complicated entry system, make sure your support network knows how to use it. 

Your apartment if you don’t organise a friend to help with your rubbish.

If I test positive, am I allowed to access my own balcony? 

You can keep your balcony doors open to encourage air circulation in and out of the unit, but stepping out onto your balcony while positive depends on the layout of the balcony and whether or not somebody else is using it at the same time. If the balcony is not separate from your neighbour’s balcony, or is less than one metre away from neighbouring units, it is a no-go zone. 

How else should I ventilate my apartment while isolating? 

I would try to open the windows to help get that good airflow happening as much as possible,” says Rindelaub. “If you have Covid and you don’t want to spread it to other people, you’re going to want a fan blowing out towards the window – it’s going to suck up all the dirty nasty air in your apartment and throw it outside away from people.” The ministry also recommends positive cases seal the gaps under their front doors, especially if they open into a hallway.

If someone tests positive in my building, who will be considered a close contact? 

The public health unit will determine if someone is a close contact, but expect that definition to vary between different apartment complexes. “Technically speaking, if you are in the hallway and you’ve got the ‘rona, you could be breathing out aerosol particles that could stay there and infect people for around 20 minutes or so,” says Rindelaub. “So it would certainly be advantageous for everyone on your floor to know if there were positive cases.”

The configuration of your apartment building may also be a factor, says Jones. “For instance, somewhere like Stamford Residences [a downtown apartment block in Auckland] is almost a hotel configuration with long corridors with units going off each side,” he says. “If you’ve got 10 units on each side, all 20 of those could be considered close contacts because of the way the airflow is.” 

If you are deemed a close contact, you will need to get tested several times during your isolation period. Public health representatives will provide information on when to get tested, how to safely access testing, and how long you will need to stay in isolation for. 

How do I take care of my physical and mental health while cooped up in an apartment? 

An apartment dweller himself, Jones sympathises with those who might have to isolate in a confined space with little access to the outdoors. “A lot of people will really struggle to live in a one bedroom apartment for a period of 14 days without any real contact and go stir crazy,” he says. Check out this handy guide by Melody Smith on how to maintain your physical wellbeing indoors, and this interview with clinical psychologist Jacqui Maguire about caring for your mental health during a resurgence. 

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Sunday Essay Daniel Blackball Alexander header

The Sunday EssayFebruary 13, 2022

The Sunday Essay: Two-toned shoes

Sunday Essay Daniel Blackball Alexander header

Charles was murdered on a trip to Thailand. New Zealand reporting left out some key details.

The Sunday Essay is made possible thanks to the support of Creative New Zealand

Original illustrations by Daniel Blackball Alexander

In August 2011 my father was watching the news in the front room of a house in Lyttelton that we don’t own any more. He had driven over from the West Coast that afternoon and he was tired. His cousin had died a few days before, but he was fine, he told us. In our family we keep a tight, impenetrable seal over our emotions, and I didn’t ask again. Dad was sitting on the couch with his legs curled to the side when he started to cough. It was awful to listen to, but then he stopped and that was worse. His eyes were closed, and his head slumped forward, mouth gaping open. He stayed like that a moment or two then he opened his eyes and insisted that nothing had happened. “I fell asleep,” he said. I knew then that he wasn’t fine, but I also knew there was no point in asking him about it.

Heart conditions run in our family. A few years later Dad had a triple bypass. In 2011 his arteries would have been narrowing and hardening, slowly restricting the transmission of blood and oxygen like a faulty antenna on an old transistor radio. The stress of hearing about Charles’s death restricted the flow even more, but only temporarily. If Charles hadn’t died when he did, he probably would have ended up with the same condition. He and Dad shared a similar physique as well as a family history. I understood how Dad felt, even if my reaction wasn’t so visceral.

Hearing about Charles made me anxious. Or maybe uneasy is a better word. Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to talk much about it. I tried experimenting with language. Sometimes I said “killed”, other times “murdered”. Or else I would be very precise and explain that Charles was “stabbed”. It didn’t matter how I said it, the words sounded hollow and insincere coming out of my mouth, as if I had miscast myself as the lead in the narrative of someone else’s misfortune. Before I left for the funeral, I told friends that my father’s cousin had died and let them assume it was of natural causes.

Charles was murdered in Thailand in August 2011, on his way back to New Zealand from London where he’d been officiating at a series of croquet tournaments. He’d been elected president of the World Croquet Federation the previous year and part of the role involved handing out large trophies while making colourful speeches. He was pretty good at it. After the tournaments, he’d planned to spend six weeks at a beach resort in Pattaya. It wasn’t his first visit to the region – he went every year.

I remember trying to talk to him about these annual visits. It was a warm evening, and we were sitting outside on my parents’ veranda in Westport. “Thailand’s an amazing country,” I said with all the hubris of a young backpacker, even though I was neither. “I once spent New Year’s Eve on Koh Phi Phi.” I looked at Charles as I spoke and noticed his face was red, the spider veins that trailed across his cheeks clearly defined. He drank his beer and changed the subject. I only realised how drunk he was when he stood up unsteadily to leave and let out a long fart that nobody mentioned.

It’s only when I start writing about Charles that I realise how little I actually knew about him. I Skype my parents and Mum answers, brightly lit against the backdrop of the kitchen. She arranges her fringe over her forehead as she sees herself on her computer screen. We talk about the weather and then I ask if she can tell me what she remembers about Charles, starting with croquet. “He probably learned from Nana Rob and Auntie Con,” she says, “he went everywhere with them.” She calls out to ask Dad, but he can’t recall the specifics, just that Charles had always played. A news report claims his mother – my Great Aunty Jean – taught him to play around the age of nine. I imagine him in short pants and a white polo shirt buttoned all the way to the top, flourishing a small wooden mallet. In my mind, he looks like Dad does in boyhood photos: hair parted to one side and standing up on his head instead of lying flat like it’s meant to.

Mum remembers that he was a New Zealand representative. According to the speech given at his funeral by his successor as president of New Zealand Croquet, he was also a solid administrator and the manager of several national teams. At some point he was awarded a Queen’s Service Medal for services to sport.  

“What else do you want to know?” Mum asks.

“When did everyone find out he was gay?”

“We always knew. Even if it wasn’t in the open.”

“How? How did you know?”

“When he was a kid, he was one of the only boys to do dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Tap. And singing. He once performed Burlington Bertie.” 

“Did his father know?”  

“No.”

“His mother?”

“Jean? No. Or if she did, she never mentioned it.”

I’m Burlington Bertie I rise at ten-thirty

and saunter along like a toff

I walk down the Strand with my gloves on my hand

Then I walk down again with them off.

It’s fair to say that Charles’s sexuality defined him in our family. Sometimes we used it as proof of our own progressiveness in the same way we conjured up names of Māori acquaintances to reassure ourselves we weren’t racist. But in practice we ignored the fact that Charles was gay and, when we couldn’t, we laughed about it. Not when he was around of course. 

In 1986, Charles came home to Westport for my grandfather’s funeral. The night before the service the family sat around drinking and telling stories. Charles perched on the sofa in my parents’ living room, trousers riding up above his ankles exposing his leather brogues. “God, it’s so conservative in this town,” he bemoaned, catching me looking at his feet. “I almost didn’t want to wear my two-toned shoes.” The brogues were brown and black, and to me they didn’t look much different from shoes the other men in my family wore. I was disappointed. There was a story about another pair of two-toned shoes that Charles had worn to Nana Rob’s funeral. Black and white with a heel so high that he stumbled at the gravesite and nearly fell in on top of the coffin. Those were the shoes I’d hoped to see. Of course, even then I knew that the story wasn’t about the shoes. It was about what those shoes represented. His queerness.

I don’t remember much queerness in Westport. Some rumours. The local policeman who had recently left his wife and kids; my third form English teacher who lived with her girlfriend in Millerton, a tiny town north of Westport. Ms Quinliven was my favourite teacher with her curly red hair, love of Bryan Ferry and an incredible story of not washing a pair of togs for an entire summer so that they disintegrated one afternoon while she was swimming in her local pool. The humiliation of having one’s nudity on display had such an impact on 13-year-old me that I can never hear Slave to Love without picturing a flame-haired teenager cowering naked in the deep end of a 25-metre pool. She didn’t stay in Westport long, a couple of years at most.

A few years later, the mother of a girl in the year below me left her husband for another of those Millerton lesbians. I heard a story that the pair of them were kicked out of the Cosmopolitan Hotel for holding hands. People around town were quick to gossip so the story may or may not have been true. Either way, the couple didn’t hang around long. Westport wasn’t a town where openly gay people were embraced. Although now I come to think about it, my first kiss was with a girl. Actually, it was with two girls. We were rehearsing for the next day when we had plans to meet up with some boys from school. Practising for the real thing. 

“Did he ever bring a partner home?” I ask. Mum doesn’t think he did. It seems unbearably sad to me that someone could live an entire life without experiencing that discomforting feeling of simultaneously seeing the people you love through each other’s eyes. “But he lived with a man in Wellington?” I insist. “That was his flatmate,” Mum tells me. In the late 1990s I worked with a woman in Auckland who often spoke about her flatmate. Leanne was 10 years older and taught me how to mollify our chain-smoking mercurial boss who had his fingers in more pies than a dozen bakers. I told Leanne about my boyfriends and she told me she was taking a break from men. She’d had a couple of rough relationships, she said. After she resigned, I found out that her flatmate was her girlfriend. I was hurt that she hadn’t confided in me, but I understood why. I ask Mum if she’s sure the flatmate wasn’t really Charles’s lover, but she’s adamant that he was just a flatmate and he lived downstairs. 

“We stayed in his room when we went up to Wellington for Sue’s funeral.”

“The flatmate’s?”

“Yes.”

She tells me the room was bright pink, and I can hear Dad laughing from the other room.

“And Uncle Scott pissed in the pot plant,” he calls out. 

“Why?”

“It was the middle of the night and he couldn’t find the toilet.”

“What did Charles do in Wellington?” I ask. Mum has a section of the newspaper next to the computer keyboard folded into A4 size. The sun is out in Westport, and when she finishes talking to me she’ll take the newspaper onto the veranda and work through the cryptic crossword. She tells me that Charles worked for the defence force. In a civilian role. Neither she nor Dad are sure what this involved. 

“We’re not good with detail,” she says. 

I remember in my early 20s seeing Charles at my Uncle Ikey’s house in Aro Valley. Ikey made us cups of tea and told me it was OK to smoke inside. 

“Claire doesn’t smoke,” Charles said.  

“Then why is she sitting with a packet of Park Drive in her lap?” Ikey retorted. 

I guess Charles wasn’t good with detail either. 

I find his obituary online and read it out. He was director of coordination, land command and was also employed by veterans’ affairs as an overseas commemorations coordinator. Dad suddenly remembers that Charles worked in London for a few years and calls out that he arranged an Anzac Day commemoration in Gallipoli. “That’s where he converted to Catholicism,” Mum says, “in London.” 

My parents aren’t sure what prompted the conversion. Charles was a professional organist and Mum thinks he played for a High Anglican church in London while he was living there. “Maybe that was behind it,” she says. He’d had a lot to do with Catholics growing up. Plenty of his relatives – my family included – had become Catholics by marriage. And as a child Charles learned music from the Sisters of Mercy. Whenever he came back to Westport he played the organ at the local Catholic church. St Canice’s is a stark concrete building with acrylic glazed windows in primary colours and is always in need of decent organists. I used to attend mass there twice a week when I was at school but now I only go when someone dies. That’s where Charles’s funeral was held. Father Raymond prayed for his soul and told us about the time he met Charles and his sister shopping at the local supermarket. “This is Alison, Father,” Charles said. “She hates Catholics.” 

Five years before he died, Charles took early retirement and moved back to the house he grew up in on the corner of Palmerston and Bentham. When I was a child, retired men were old blokes who staggered from houses, smelling faintly of boiled vegetables, out to their mail boxes and back again. Charles wasn’t that sort of retiree. He was animated and energetic and more Versace pour Homme than cabbage. When the season was right, he’d be out whitebaiting on the Buller river trawling a large scoop net through the water. Charles inherited his “posie” from his father, and then it went to his sister. To be a good whitebaiter you have to be willing to tolerate a certain degree of physical and mental discomfort: sleeplessness, a damp river bank, sandflies, interminable conversations with other whitebaiters about shifts in the river and how the Department of Conservation is trying to ruin the season for everyone. Charles was a good whitebaiter.

He was also a good son. Aunty Jean was unwell when he moved home. He’d sit beside her in their dim, pleasant living room and talk about whatever came into his head. When they went out, he’d patiently take her arm and she’d lean on him as they walked. Family was important. Charles was the one who kept tabs on what everyone else was doing, apprising my parents when he called in to see them. He went around to Mum and Dad’s almost every day. He’d make himself a cup of instant coffee, carry it out onto the veranda and sit and talk to Dad. Neither of them was in any hurry. 

I only remember visiting his house twice. Once after Aunty Jean died and once when I was a child. In the front room was a loom that in my memory took up the entire space, but probably wasn’t that big. I watched Aunty Jean pass the shuttle from side to side and she let me push the weft yarn down with a reed while I pretended I was a clothmaker from the Emperor’s New Clothes. 

And of course there was his volunteer work at the local rest home. 

“What did he do there?” I ask Mum. 

She’s not sure. “Maybe played the piano? Or just talked to the oldies? Whatever it was he would have been very entertaining.” 

She’s right. Charles always acted as if he was in front of an audience, even if he wasn’t performing to a sold-out house. He was a talented musician and an excellent sight reader, with the ability to play and sing pieces that he’d never heard before. After he died, the New Zealand media focused on his altruistic nature – his volunteer work in particular –  but I remember him as equal parts showman and family man. 

Neither of these traits made it into the Thai media accounts of his death. Instead the Pattaya Mail referred to him as the “World Croquet Boss” reporting that he often visited Pattaya in between “jaunts around the world to promote croquet”. After reading this I picture Charles as a Tony Soprano type, smoking Cuban Montecristo’s and negotiating back-room deals. In croquet whites, of course. As inaccurate as it was, I think he would have appreciated the comparison.

In the Pattaya Mail I read that Charles hadn’t been in Thailand long when he met a “handsome Syrian” who – just like the title character in the movie The Talented Mr Ripley – “befriends rich gay men in order to steal their fortunes”. Again, that’s not quite right, not least because in the movie it was Tom Ripley who was gay, not the man whose fortune he stole. And Charles was hardly rich. Or if he was you wouldn’t have known it because as well as being a showman and a family man, the other thing I remember about him was that he was tighter than a parked croquet ball. “He’s so bloody cheap,” my mother fumed during the five years he lived in Westport. “He only comes around so he won’t have to buy coffee and toilet paper.” According to the Mail, Charles was planning to move permanently to Thailand. And set up Pattaya’s first croquet club.

I look at photographs of Mohamad Shanar Ryad, the “handsome Syrian”, taken during the trial. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and wrap-around dark glasses and I agree with the Mail, he is good looking. He was much younger than Charles too. Depending on which newspaper report you read he was either 21 or 22 when they met. The Thai news reports provide me with other information that the New Zealand media omitted. Ryad and Charles had met on two previous occasions. Money exchanged hands. They had sex. But the third time was different. The third time they met they argued and, according to Ryad, Charles pulled out a knife and attempted to sexually assault him. After a struggle, Ryad was able to turn the knife on Charles. It was self-defence, he said. Charles basically stabbed himself. Twenty-seven times. When he was arrested at his girlfriend’s apartment, Ryad had Charles’s mobile phone, laptop and watch. Hardly the fortune that Tom Ripley netted in the movie.

When I look back over the New Zealand news reports of his death, there’s no mention that anything of a sexual nature had taken place. It was theft and murder. A burglary gone wrong. Some things are better left unwritten, such as paying for sex. The reports give a brief outline of Ryad’s background. In Syria he was in the army. He fled as the conflict began and drifted between Thailand and Malaysia for about four years.

He is a United Nations-registered refugee. In fact, Ryad is one of 6.6 million Syrians who have claimed refugee status around the world. Thailand is not a signatory to the refugee convention and so refugees have no legal status and are trapped in a life of insecurity knowing they could be deported at any time. Ryad had a job as a chef but was fired shortly before the murder. In March 2013, he was sentenced to nine years and five months in prison for Charles’s murder. Less any annual royal birthday discounts for good behaviour. If he hasn’t already been released, he soon will be. What then? If he’s lucky he won’t be sent back to Syria. But, irrespective of international law, there’s no guarantee he won’t be deported.

None of this changes anything of course. Charles didn’t stab himself. Despite what Ryad told Thai police after he was arrested. Knowing Ryad’s backstory provides context but not much else. Understanding that someone has a tragic past and an even more tragic future doesn’t remove his culpability. And at least he has a future. And Charles? Why was he drawn to seek out someone like Ryad? He was 56 when he died. Around the age men start to dig out their old vinyl albums and try to shag anything that moves. Was that what killed him? A mid-life crisis? I’m not sure.

The man in the Pattaya Mail isn’t the same man who drank coffee with Dad out on the veranda. (Not that Dad drinks coffee any more. He went right off the taste after his heart attack.) Messy situations don’t often produce simple explanations, no matter how badly we want them to. And I think that’s the point. The shoes Charles wore to Nana Rob’s funeral may have been black and white, but not much else is. 

The Sunday Essay postcard set is now available from The Spinoff shop. The set features 10 original illustrations from the series.