Loving Southland, as only a local girl really can

UPTOWN GIRL

If there is one thing that grinds my gears, it is having to defend Southland. Especially to people who should know better. I’ll admit it, I spent a lot of my teenage years rolling my eyes repeatedly and criticising what I perceived as a mall-less Mordor.

(Invercargill’s nine-month-long winter, check.)

But these days, there’s no faster way of getting my hackles up than somebody else twisting the knife in.

It’s kind of the same with your siblings – you’re allowed to make fun of them as much as you want, but if anybody else does . . . look out.

I was having a harmless yarn to somebody about our big trip away, when things turned sour.

The offending sentence? Something along the lines of ‘‘you’ll be wanting to escape the clutches of that dank, miserable beep-word, won’t you? And never, ever returning? EVER?’’

This out of the mouth of a person who spent a solid chunk – take my age and multiply by two – living here.

I’ve always spent hours daydreaming about leaving.

(Sometimes when I am meant to be writing this column. Oopsies.)

Then, when I am smack-bang in the middle of a long-haul flight back home, I’ll start fantasising about the second I can take off my shoes and sink my toes into grass, glorious grass. Which is exactly what I did as soon as I touched down in Invercargill. Bliss. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like the fact every time you go into town, you bump into boys you would rather pretend you never pashed.

What I do like is the sound of next-to-nothingness, and random strangers and even – egad! – sales assistants who are friendly for no reason.

I like that I can complain when it takes me 10 minutes to drive home from work each night, instead of my usual seven, because of the roadworks on Queens Dr.

(Seriously, city council, how long is that puppy going to take to fix? And here’s a broad question for everybody out there – is there a specific reason Kiwis use such an unneccessary amount of road cones?)

Yes, there are times when I get a bit exasperated with Southland.

This happens most often when I see an abundance of polar fleece walking down Esk St. Sometimes all I want to do is take people gently by the arm and, head hung in dismay, guide them back to their homes, where I fossick through their wardrobes and save them from themselves.

The grass is always greener. But in Southland, our grass is always green.

Literally.