One day when I was nine or ten I went for a walk with my granddad on Patea Beach, and as we came around the head he saw a huge piece of cliff fall away from the cliff to stand, upright, beside it. I didn't see it but didn't doubt him; he was pale, shaken-- I had no reference point-- and there was the broken cliff.
   This morning I missed my bus and walked alone for the first time in ages, enjoying April wind on my eyes which I strained last night reading comments in the dark as my son went off to sleep. Someone explained there that we do not know our great great grandparents, nor our great great grandchildren. So there's no real reason, she said, to care what will happen in a hundred years' time. But you can look if you want to: it's your foot there on the pivot point, your limbs lost in molten air.