The green, green grass of home.

Every few weeks or so I find myself craving some green, green grass and I'm not talking about Te Puke Thunder either (you Aussie's can google that).  Real green, not insipid khaki, brown-yellow green grass, but lush, juicy, sweet smelling, good enough to eat, Emerald green grass.  I miss seeing paddocks of Fresian's drunk on the juiciness of it  (New Zealand farmer's don't like to move outside of the square when it comes to their cows, it's Fresian all the way with the odd Jersey or two thrown in to pretty up the herd), I miss the feel of it, the smell of it, the knowledge that there is nothing more scary than a giant earthworm slithering around amongst the shoots.
Sometimes I imagine myself running through fields of the stuff, under a cloudless, bright blue sky (it is my imagination so I can omit the clouds), with a light breeze tousling my hair, skirts hitched up to my knees and Michael Langdon at the front door of our log cabin waiting to greet me - no wait - I think I'm confusing my imagination with a TV programme from many moons ago.
Ok so the reality is I imagine flinging myself full-length on the lawn and smooshing my nose along the ground, just like my poodle did as soon as he could escape from the bathtub, blissfully ignoring the horrified stares of onlookers as I drink in the smell, feel and taste of real, green New Zealand grass, before gracefully returning to my feet, brushing a couple of wrinkles from my spotless white dress and getting rid of the leaves in my hair with a practised toss of my luscious locks.  Of course in reality I would emerge from this drunken-like stupor covered in mud from the recent rain, with prickles embedded in my nose and a number of neighbours wondering if they should call 111 to report an escaped psych patient.
And it's not just the grass I miss, it's the things that go along with it; grass stains are not a common sight on the knees of youngsters over here, the ground is too hard to fall on without breaking a bone for one thing, and, more than a few seconds spent out on the lawn will in all likeliness result in a bull ant attaching itself to your behind, for another.  I miss hours spent under the sprinkler in the middle of summer and waterslides covered in Sunlight dishwashing liquid.  I miss sitting under a tree with soft grass cushioning my precious hiney and not a bull ant, green ant, red ant, yellow ant or bloody rainbow-coloured ant in sight and it just doesn't feel like summer until you've had a foot full of Onehunga prickles to extract.
Ahhhhhhh the green, green grass of home, I think I might try to grow some lawn in a planter box to tide me over until my next New Zealand holiday.

Until next time..............