Private boarding house horrors

By Max Rashbrooke In Money, Politics

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13th October, 2012
Every time I entered my room at Malcolm’s, the smell of mould hit me: an overpoweringly damp, fetid, vinegary odour that seemed to infect everything it touched. It was a good match for the room itself, a sad amalgam of dirty, mould-spotted walls, filthy carpet and decrepit furniture. It made me feel beaten, broken down, already depressed – even though, unlike anyone else in the boarding house, I had an escape route. I was, thankfully, there for just three winter weeks, researching a book on New Zealand’s rich-poor divide, and trying to understand something about the places where the unfortunate ...

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