Editorial: Vista changes on a roof

People don't believe me when I tell them my painting lecturer at university art school in the 1970s was always the first person to take his clothes off at student parties.

Then, he was highly respected. No doubt in today's prudish, safety-obsessed climate he'd be sacked for dangerous impropriety.

When we weren't dancing naked we spent a lot of time up on the decrepit corrugated iron roof of our Christchurch student flat.

We were lured up there by walnuts, which constantly blew off the big old tree in the backyard, hitting the roof like gunfire, and were often the only food in the pantry.

After we bounded effortlessly up the walnut tree and jumped the gap, we were entranced by the panoramic view, a feature otherwise completely lacking on Canterbury's monotonous plain.

One flatmate was so inspired by the fresh perspective, he placed an ad in the newspaper (way before texting begat flashmobs) urging everyone to sit on their roofs at 3pm on a certain date. On the appointed day we all climbed up, scanning the distances expectantly for a new mass movement.

Nothing happened.

Not another living soul was sighted except, perhaps, faraway, a faint, lone roof painter.

One Guy Fawkes, science students in a nearby two-storeyed villa packed a Ford Popular with explosives and lit it ceremonially with a flaming torch, to the soundtrack of Arthur Brown's I am the God of Hell Fire, pumped through the neighbourhood with the megadecibels only science students could devise. I witnessed the explosion from behind the peak of the roof, hanging on by fingertips, figuring it was the safest place to avoid flying car parts.

I was fondly reminded of roof-sitting last week by current Wellington students posting social media pictures of contemporary efforts (sunbathing, with deckchairs, bikinis and cocktails of course).

Then my heart was gladdened to see television reports of Dunedin students keeping up tradition with a wildly excessive street party of yahooing humanity, jam-packing streets, front yards and roofs alike; partying up large before they morph into crusty old prohibitive legislators.

Reportedly one roof collapsed under the strain, (with no injuries) and several inebriated students fell off, or were in danger of doing so.

Organisers claimed it was a great event for Dunedin, but police and a killjoy councillor tut-tutted on cue.

Sure enough, before nightfall and any prospect of the customary ritual sofa burning, police closed it down, arrested 15 and threatened a total liquor ban.

Reports of student activities are like weather coverage - always the worst in living memory, possibly because memories are so short.

Over the years recreational roof sitting in these parts became limited to special occasions: to watch car rallies sliding by in volleys of dust and stones, to wonder at spectacular meteor showers, or for drawing expeditions perched precariously on the peak with paper and pencil in the centre of a 360 degree horizon.

Lately though, the most regular reason for roof work is far more mundane; the dreaded task of clearing out the guttering.

Somehow, 40 odd years later, clambering up isn't so easy any more. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

No one takes their clothes off at parties either.