Even a baby swear word would have some writing a long letter to my editor and getting me in trouble. Photo / 123rf
Warning! This article contains language some readers may find offensive.
Nah, actually it doesn't. I'm not allowed. Even a baby swear word would have some people - you know who you are - writing a long letter to my editor and getting me in trouble.
Instead, I'm going to make oblique references to swear words.
The references will be obvious enough for you to know exactly which cuss word I mean, but vague enough so you're not offended by the actual word in black and white.
What hypocrites we are.
Come on, admit it. You love a good "Whakatane" when you've jammed your finger in the cutlery drawer. We all do. Yet we get a little precious every now and again.
The other day, New Zealand First MP and Wairarapa cowboy Ron Mark said, "Shut the fudge up" in Parliament. He didn't mean for the microphone to pick it up.
He also didn't mean for the sign language lady to do the fingers on telly. But it happened, so upon him rained demands for an apology and he did apologise.
Again, what hypocrites we are. Kiwis are some of the worst cussers in the world. I don't have evidence to back up this broad generalisation, but I do have two stories.
First up, my boss has just come back from a bigwig job over in the Middle East. We went out for coffee to suss out whether we like each other much. I didn't do that good a job because about four swear words in I realised I was carrying the f-bomb load all by myself.
I apologised for swearing. He told me it was okay, but he chose not to indulge and, actually, he had noticed the foul language.
Yes, he said, we Kiwis are more potty-mouthed than others.
I wouldn't have given much of a shirt about what he had to say on the matter if it wasn't that I was still bearing my burden of embarrassment from a recent misjudged f*** in the US.
Yes, I spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone booking a rental car that wasn't at the pick-up point I'd arranged and, yes, the guy didn't give a shot and, yes, he was being a dick, but no, I didn't need to tell him that I was getting sofa king frustrated.
"Ma'am, don't cuss at me," he said. The best I could do in response was squeak with embarrassment that "it's okay where I come from".
And that's the thing. It is okay where I come from. My people don't mind if a conversation about the weather suddenly contains references to pooh.
I reckon our foul language is a reflection of who we are. We're pretty relaxed people. We're relaxed about politics, we're relaxed if you want to have another beer, we're relaxed about the words we use.
I'd rather belong to a tribe that gets on with enjoying our conversations - even if we're perceived as a bit crass from time to time - than a group of uptight twits concerned about appearances and climbing the corporate ladder. I'm not necessarily talking about people from US rental car companies.
Huge disclaimer. My day job's in telly and about every six months I'm gripped with an irrational fear that on this particular day I will finally end my career by accidentally saying the unspeakable on air.
I avoid phrases like "a country view" in case I drop an "r", but I'm hoping you will all agree swearing is okay, so I don't lose my job should that day, heaven forbid, ever arrive.
I don't deserve to be fired over an accidental swear word, you know. I'm actually a GB. For those who don't know, that means a good b- [Ed: that's enough].
You decide if my week-long ban on high heels has been a success. I kicked it off in Jandals. On Tuesday, I'd managed to convince Parliament's high-heel addict Paula Bennett to try flats for a day. She's surprisingly short and not even high-viz tights can distract from that truth.
By Thursday I had my husband in heels for solidarity. They kill the calves, he says. He understands now.
At 6pm on Friday my feet weren't aching the way they usually are. Tomorrow I'll be back in heels. One person can't sustain a revolution.
Let’s take a look at the science.