I live in Ipswich, a regional city in Queensland, Australia. Unfortunately, it does seem to get quite a bad press, largely undeserved. But in some strange way that's why I like it.
I even wrote a poem about it.
An Old Familiar Song
Her lip curled up a little, and her eyebrows rose as well.
Her nose twitched like she caught a whiff of some unpleasant smell.
When answers to her questions about moving house were shared,
her views on suitability were well and truly aired.
“I’d rather live at Noosa, we’ve a unit there you know.
It’s one street back from Hastings, where the trendy people go.
We’ve also one at Surfers, Cavill Avenue, no less.
It’s all about location, a desirable address.”
She prattled on for quite a while, an old familiar song
of pointing out to silly me the places I went wrong.
I thought I got a bargain with a price that’s so much less
than her up market real estate, but I was wrong, I guess.
She finished with, “Each to their own,” that tired old cliché,
and “you get what you pay for” when I tried to have my say.
I guess whenever anyone disputes her point of view
her smug superiority is trotted out anew.
My home has many good points; I could list them one by one,
but knew she’d interrupt me when I barely had begun.
So I just smiled a secret smile. The thing that I love best
about my home town city is - it fails to pass her test.
She’s far too good to live here so I guess she’ll never see
the reason why this city’s ‘good enough’ for folk like me.
I know that she is not alone, there’s more like her out there.
The best thing about Ipswich is - they choose to live elsewhere.