If I have to sit through two traffic-light changes, I'm seething. As a loyal citizen of the People's Republic of Grey Lynn, I may not have sea views (although with global warming, that could change) but I do have proximity to my work place. During the day, I'm 12 minutes away;
when I finish at midnight, it's more like seven minutes until my key is in the door.
While the idea of skipping through fields of wildflowers in the bucolic paradise of Clevedon, or promoting longevity by taking to the waters at the end of my street in Orewa appeals from time to time, the spectre of the traffic jams leading to and from Whangaparaoa have banished those idle fancies until hell freezes over.
Or at least until local councils get their act together - whichever comes first.
Four hours a day in traffic?! I wonder what the stomach and bowel cancer rates will be within this community over the next five years - and I'm being quite serious.
Bottling up all that stress is no good for anyone. There are some positive, chirpy, little, sanguine types who are making the most of the hold-ups. They're listening to talking books, and galloping through the classics. Crikey, on Wednesday, you could have got through War and Peace if you did the round trip between Whangaparaoa and the city.
And I suppose you could learn a new language. By the time the road works are finished, any semi-intelligent adult would be fluent in Mandarin or Maori. And if somebody invented Pilates for passengers, then both body and mind could be improved and this enormous amount of time would not be entirely wasted.
And it's only going to get worse. Look at the Te Atatu Peninsula. Lots of people moving out that way and only one road in and out.
I tell you, Invercargill's looking more and more attractive with every passing day.
