Saturday Morning With Jack Tame

I’m writing this in Central Park. I’m right up in the North East corner, sitting on a bench by the Harlem Meer, 100m or so from the apartment where I lived for the second half of my twenties. It’s so familiar. The warm evening air, people laid out with picnic mats, a guy with a big plastic bin of churros. Kids chasing each other, squealing, skylarking, the sound of traffic crawling down Fifth Avenue. Across the road, staring down the length of Central Park is my favourite obscure building in all of Manhattan. The views from this thing would cost enough to make an Oligarch’s gulp. But it took until a couple of years ago for the city to finally convert it from its previous use: a low-security prison. I haven’t been in New York for two years. When I was last here, post-Covid, it felt a bit dark. Back in the day, I used to be so blasé about safety – I felt more threatened in central Christchurch late at night than I did in East Harlem. But Covid changed that. You could sense people were fearful and untrusting. It