If it hadn’t done enough already, the damn drought cut my feet to pieces. Not content with destroying three seasons’ crops and the kitchen garden, it’d now sucked the emerald from the lawns, turning a pleasant, silent walk into a bristly, crackling hobble.
In the summer it was the crickets, in the winter it was dad’s gumboots. Schlep, schlup, schlerp- we giggled the noises to each other and always thought they sounded like German verbs. Achtung! Dad’s home from the sheds. If it was raining at the time it was a quick staccato: quash quash quash.
I’m a girl for a cocktail and I’m not intimidated by a long list of ingredients, but what I discovered in my gutter during the storm was awe inspiring. Leaves, twigs, mud, gumnuts, pigeon shit, tennis balls and dead birds, all swished together by the swirling, rushing water. The end result came out of my tap as a cloudy fusion of floaties with a gritty aftertaste. You’ll never find that on a menu.
I like the rain better than the wind; at least when it’s wet I can use an umbrella. There’s no escaping the wind. In the cold it finds every little crack on my face and ploughs a few more. When it’s hot the wind grouts them with dust until sweat makes grubby little rivers flow. Either way my skin is left battered by the attack.
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