What I did not mention is that, as pleasant and innocent as it might seem at first glance, Gisborne is also the gateway to a particular brand of torment – the personal hell. And very singular and personal this version of hell it is. I suffer from an intense dislike of polystyrene. The texture of it is mildly unpleasant, but what really gets me is the noise polystyrene makes when one piece is rubbed against the other. For me, it is akin to fingernails down the blackboard. And a very particular distaste it is too, as similar screeching sounds made by other objects do not create the same stomach churning reaction. Even fingernails down the blackboard are on the more pleasant side on a scale of auditory stimuli than polystyrene squealing.
I was thus mortified to find a shop in Gisborne that not only seemed to specialise in polystyrene packing but was packed solid with the offensive material. I counted myself lucky that the store appeared locked and bolted, possibly closed for the weekend, and hopefully sealed and blessed by the power of Christ and Mohammed and Buddha combined.
I have found my hellmouth. Its not in
Verdict: Condemnation upon all places of polystyrene worship.