MY uncontrollable weeping was not caused by the thought I may never again visit Christchurch after dark.
The offspring will be glad they will no longer witness me, headlights blazing, repeatedly hurtling down a variety of Christchurch streets, trying to work out where the hell I am.
While the new anti-cruising bylaw there relates to situations where attention is drawn to the sound or power of the vehicle's engine, I knew questions would also be asked about the sound and power of my swearing and grim about-to-commit-a-drive-by-shooting demeanour.
As sad as it is that I will never be able to enter the garden city by night, the tears were the result of my attempts to slice an onion with a plastic knife.
Those of you who may feel I have taken more than usual leave of my senses, should instead acknowledge my attempts to be an upstanding citizen.
Justice Minister Simon Power (would it be sexist to call him Super Nanny?) has me worried some under-18-year-old, discouraged from the popular youthful pastime of buying his own knives, might enter my kitchen, pinch a few of my blunt offerings, and sharpen them up for stabbing people.
The only way to prevent such mayhem is to convert to plastic.
As I sobbed, my public spiritedness knew no bounds.
I realised the time had come for all good Dunedin men and women to come to the aid of the party for the Rugby World Cup.
While Aucklanders remain in a tiz, let's beat them with our own wow factor.
In my own case, I will be happy to copy the Aucklanders and hire out my house for $20,000 for the three Dunedin games.
You may consider that a little steep, but I reckon I could squeeze at least 30 people into my humble abode.
Their combined body temperature would render environmentally unsound forms of heating unnecessary.
Like the Auckland snobs, I will be offering a full pantry as part of the deal, loosely translated as a freezer full of cheese rolls, pies and saveloys with a few litres of tomato sauce thrown in.
I would have included a fridge full of booze, but that would be irresponsible.
There's no Jacuzzi, but a fire lit under an old bath in the garden could provide that outdoor spa experience.
Should the lovely chaps and chapesses of the volunteer fire brigade turn up to party poop, I will give them a stern Anne Tolleyish lecture about the national interest.
If it is good enough for school terms to be altered for the World Cup, then what's a few fire regulations between friends?Besides, they should be impressed with my fire safety.
Since there will be laser shows and no fireworks at the new stadium, when my guests take the waters they will be given the option of waving about sparklers I have been stockpiling since the millennium.
For those disappointed at the new stadium's lack of fireworks, and therefore no accompanying satisfying gunpowder aroma, I am commissioning a lab-coat-wearing university student to fast track production of a gunpowder cologne which gives the smell but no bang for my bucks.
This might involve some unnecessary questions from ethics committees, antiterrorism authorities and even Aunty Judith (Collins), but those of us with the wow factor also know how to woo.
Party central will be provided in the woodshed.
Unlike those overhyped Auckland sheds, no expense will need to be spared to do it up.
A couple of recycled bits of corrugated iron on the roof to stop the leaks should do the trick.
Further, my property will offer the complete tourist experience including wildlife (the cat, birds, possums and the odd hedgehog) and old ruins (anything you care to name on the property).
Among the attractions for which I will charge extra are the quirks of the toilets, both of which fill never-endingly if your flush technique is not on the button.
Adventure tourism will include bungee jumping off the top deck, and those who want a working holiday can abseil around the building to give the upstairs windows their first decent clean in 20 years.
There will be volleyball on the front lawn.
Participants will fight hypothermia dressed in the skimpy outfits beach volleyballers wear but, instead of sand, they will negotiate a bed of macrocarpa nuts from the family's latest tree-felling extravaganza.
If nothing else, it should test the mettle of the ACC system.
I could have gone on, but after half-an-hour with swollen eyes and the onion almost diced, I felt it was time to officially lay down the gauntlet, or at least the plastic knife.
It's our party and you can cry if you want to, Auckland.
The knives are out.
Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
