Behind our Ashburton lodging grew a potato patch. Behind the potato patch withered a row of little old cars. The land owner had erected a flash new Quonset to showcase his bright, shiny, restored car collection. I left a note on the locked gate. The spud grower phoned, and through his rather muddy accent, said pictures were ok, with him. In the dewy dawn we hopped the fence to search the castaway bones for colour. Drew red blood on the barbed wire. Took green stinging nettles on the shin. One of the old Canterbury cars sported a crimson door, an azure fender, and corrosion unveiled a lacy purple petticoat.