I've been busy
It's another very, very hot day here. The panic stations are manned and ready for the demented British public who are working themselves up into a right old lather over the mercury's steady ascent towards the nineties (old money) or mid-thirties. There isn't a cloud in the sky and the day already has the feel of a mid-Summer day in Melbourne; still, dry and potent. A few days like this back home and we're expecting the announcement of a Total Fire Ban and wondering if this will be the year for that long-overdue season of bad, bad bushfires. The theory exists that Australia's bushfire seasons are cyclical, and that a very bad season is overdue. That there's another Ash Wednesday out there, waiting to happen.
Nothing like that is going to happen here, but something of the atmosphere that precedes the bush fire season is definitely in the air.
In tribute to this crazy weather the Brits are not taking a midday siesta in the cool of the verandah, oh no. They're not switching on the air-con and keeping indoors, oh no. They're stripping off and running around in the open. They're scarlet to a man, woman and child; and the warnings about heat stroke and the rapidly rising rate of skin cancer are just white noise.
Meanwhile, closer to home, the hole in the ground is still there. No progress has been made. My money, which I bet on us not having a pool in our back yard any time this summer, is looking very good. I'm off to work this afternoon because someone phoned in sick (now there's a surprise in weather like this) and then on to friends to play happy families - they DO have a pool in their back yard.
Did I mention that I've been busy? I've been promising myself I'd take some photos of his room. It isn't sadly true to say that the detritus he gathers about him is strictly confined to this one room - it has an unfortunate tendency to spread downstairs to the living rooms, however the worst of it remains behind the closed door of his bedroom.
I can't capture the pervasive odour of stale cider (it must come out of his pores as he sleeps and stick to his unwashed clothes) but I can photograph the mounds of crap he lives among. Some might and perhaps will say that the state of the room is a highly negative reflection of me, my application as a wife (and housewife) and my ability to make a husband out of a man. To which charges I must confess my self guilty.
I have no pretensions on the housewife front. I acknowledge my deficiencies in this area by resolutely not making a mess. If you make a mess, clean it up. If you don't like cleaning up, don't make a mess in the first place. I expect him to clean up after himself. I go out and work to keep the roof over our heads, he can do his bit. I have to concede that through all the years I've failed to manipulate him into being some semblance of a civilised, domesticated human being.
I've never attempted to manipulate him. Instead I said to him in simple, clear and unambiguous language what I expected. I guess I am a failure as a woman. I should have learned like my sister to bat my eyelids and wiggle my arse and dangle my cleavage and manipulate him into doing what I wanted with the threat of a withholding of failures.
God, I'm useless as a woman. But I do have the pictures of his bedroom. I dared enter today and took some snaps. They're awesome.
Nothing like that is going to happen here, but something of the atmosphere that precedes the bush fire season is definitely in the air.
In tribute to this crazy weather the Brits are not taking a midday siesta in the cool of the verandah, oh no. They're not switching on the air-con and keeping indoors, oh no. They're stripping off and running around in the open. They're scarlet to a man, woman and child; and the warnings about heat stroke and the rapidly rising rate of skin cancer are just white noise.
Meanwhile, closer to home, the hole in the ground is still there. No progress has been made. My money, which I bet on us not having a pool in our back yard any time this summer, is looking very good. I'm off to work this afternoon because someone phoned in sick (now there's a surprise in weather like this) and then on to friends to play happy families - they DO have a pool in their back yard.
Did I mention that I've been busy? I've been promising myself I'd take some photos of his room. It isn't sadly true to say that the detritus he gathers about him is strictly confined to this one room - it has an unfortunate tendency to spread downstairs to the living rooms, however the worst of it remains behind the closed door of his bedroom.
I can't capture the pervasive odour of stale cider (it must come out of his pores as he sleeps and stick to his unwashed clothes) but I can photograph the mounds of crap he lives among. Some might and perhaps will say that the state of the room is a highly negative reflection of me, my application as a wife (and housewife) and my ability to make a husband out of a man. To which charges I must confess my self guilty.
I have no pretensions on the housewife front. I acknowledge my deficiencies in this area by resolutely not making a mess. If you make a mess, clean it up. If you don't like cleaning up, don't make a mess in the first place. I expect him to clean up after himself. I go out and work to keep the roof over our heads, he can do his bit. I have to concede that through all the years I've failed to manipulate him into being some semblance of a civilised, domesticated human being.
I've never attempted to manipulate him. Instead I said to him in simple, clear and unambiguous language what I expected. I guess I am a failure as a woman. I should have learned like my sister to bat my eyelids and wiggle my arse and dangle my cleavage and manipulate him into doing what I wanted with the threat of a withholding of failures.
God, I'm useless as a woman. But I do have the pictures of his bedroom. I dared enter today and took some snaps. They're awesome.
posted by Enyo @ 11:51 am
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