Fish and ChipsIt is early evening, dusk in the street, husky purple, the smell of slumbering spring in its breath, pedestrians scuttling, wind gushing with umbrellas padding the skies.Listen. It is evening stomping up Heretaunga Street, office doors closing, street lights sleepily flickering, sodden smog traveling over supermarket and corner shop. Sunset, dusk, the chorus of car horns, clunk and click, tramping home.It is Tuesday night. The door of the nameless Fish and Chip shop jangles open, red white checkered table cloths swish in response, two underpaid staff glumly pick at cell phone buttons. Oil cackles in the sea-shelled stove, the till tinkles