In three years, I will have lived in New Zealand for two thirds of my life. You’d think, therefore, that the days of hearing “deck” as “dick” and being laughed at for calling jandals “flip-flops” would be long gone.
Just last week, I confused a room full of people by referring to a bottle of Coca-Cola as “pop”.
It never ends. My family immigrated to New Zealand when I was ten years old. I should, by now, be comfortable calling cossies “togs” and crisps “chips”. (And chips “hot chips”.) I simply can’t. I call lollies “sweets”, lollipops “lollies” and ice blocks “ice lollies”. (Or, weirdly, “lolly ices”, which I’ve just read is a Scouse thing. My mum’s from near Liverpool, so that makes sense, I guess.)
I call gumboots “wellies”, kindie “nursery” and sammies “sarnies”.
There are some Kiwi-isms I’ve picked up. I usually, for example, say “dairy” instead of…
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