Y’know, every summer I live in Perth, I make a Herculean effort to ignore something. Not just any random old thing – it’s the same every year. It gets to the gritty, sandy, dusty midpoint of January once all the insanity of what’s cruelly called the “holiday season” and I get some time to reflect on stuff once again, and I find myself deliberately ignoring the weather.
I just assume, from day to day, that It’s Going To Be Hot, and the only pattern-making I observe with respect to the weather is whether or not it’s my day to switch on the bore-fed reticulation.
I try really hard not to think about how long it’s been since it rained, and how much longer than that it’s been since it rained substantially, and how last rainy season just didn’t yield enough to get us through comfortably, and how it gets worse and worse every year. I don’t let my mind follow that logic chain, preferring to skip ahead to the action step, without entering into the desperate dwelling-on phase of the whole subject.
And then yesterday I made the mistake of listening to the radio. Normally it’s pretty safe because I prefer to listen to Triple J, an eastern-states based station that mostly ignores the presence of us inconveniently timezone-challenged Western laggards. But yesterday the “novelty” feature on one of the newsbreaks I heard told me that some weather statistic had been smashed by the Western Australian summer, once again. Something to do with the least number of days on which it rained in a three-month period (three days, I believe)…I get glazey when meteorologists start talking stats. They’re worse than cricket commentators.
The upshot was that I started panicking about the weather. And I was doing so well, what with all the sand around here wherein I can comfortably stick my head. Admittedly, said sand was getting very dry.