A couple weeks back I turned fifty-three, putting me at the younger end of the Te Reo Māori class that I have come to love. It is a weekly two-hour class in the bustling city suburb of Newmarket. The drive there is always doubled on the way home by the kids clambering out of the surrounding schools. The accumulated affluence is presented in queues of opulent cars parked on yellow lines, sensor-operated doors opening and school bags flying through onto ergonomically designed seats. Kids pile into cars more orderly than I ever managed to, and before their feet touch the floor mats their devices are out and they continue to work on their forward head posture….