Out of nowhere, Peter suddenly burst into tears. He’d been talking about the aftershock yesterday morning and how worried he was about his missing cat. *

Men of a certain age don’t do tears very often. At least, not with strangers. I gave him a semi man-hug, told him it was ok, we were all feeling the stress. Truth is, it might not have taken much for me to join him. Or any of us.

Tonight my office volunteer Pauline and I  parked the caravan in Avonside, worst hit part of my electorate. A steady stream of constituents trickled in out of the light rain. Don whose house has had its back broken but been declared habitable. Alison, who fled her home on Saturday and sent her rattled kids away. She’s wanting the house inspected to confirm if its safe, has little money to do so and is getting confusing advice from the Earthquake Commission. Graham, who still hasn’t got water on. A man concerned about portaloos not being dotted around enough places and limited locations for water from tanker deliveries. And Peter, who like many people is feeling very frightened.

Tonight at the Linwood Welfare Centre, it’s chocker. Many are older people who simply want to be with others. I take a bucket of daffodils to thank the volunteers who are turning out by their hundreds. Earlier, I drop into Volunteering Canterbury’s manager, Ruth Gardner, running a Facebook page for quake volunteers from her quaint inner city cottage rather than her usual Hereford St base. She’s swamped with so many offers that she has no work for the students who’ve rung me from Banks Ave School raring to go. I collect seven of them, all bearing shovels and spades. Avonside appears all dug out. We find a woman on River Rd in Richmond who is grateful for help clearing tonnes of silt out of her back yard.

Back to the inner city for what I understood to be a councillors/MPs visit around the damage done to the CBD. It’s really just a return to that damn, now demolished Spanish restaurant for more photo opportunities and Mayor Bob makes clear that it’s his opportunity.

We walk past my now vacated electorate office. It has been ‘green stickered’ suggesting it’s safe but I explain to TVNZ’s Simon Dallow that I am not prepared to make my staff work through force 5 (or bigger?) aftershocks on the third floor of a brick building with a rickety lift. Today we opened in temporary new premises at 232 Cashel St, handily opposite Centennial Pool where I regularly swim. A pool big enough to hold a whole city’s tears. 

* For concerned feline followers, our cat Paddy turned up after three days and is safely in a cattery.

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