Last night I went out to dinner with my regular dinner-having crew. We ate at a Greek place in Glenelg (old beachside suburb), so after we left at about ten pm I took a detour down to the beach to see who was still out and about on a weeknight, cooling down. There were hundreds of people on Jetty Road and down towards the beach, including lots of kids, all in shorts and sarongs and thongs (the foot kind; I wouldn't know about the other), many of them queuing at the ice-cream shops, all of which were open. The pub was heaving. I had to drive at walking pace for about a kilometre to get out of there.
This morning I got groggily out of bed and staggered down to the baking back half of the house, and this was the sight that greeted my eyes:
She's waiting for me to get up, tip a bucket of water into it and turn it on, which I immediately did. (This should answer Skepticlawyer's question a few posts back about how the cats are coping.)
Early in the afternoon I went outside and flung a large, ultra-lightweight cream-coloured cat rug over the lemon tree to try to stop the leaves scorching and shrivelling any more than they already have. The minute I got into the sun I could feel the skin burning on my face and arms.
Mindful of the 14 old people who died suddenly at home over a twelve-hour stretch in Adelaide yesterday, I rang my dad this morning to see how he was and to discuss the arrangements for Sunday, which is his 82nd birthday. 'I'm fine,' he said. 'I'm getting quite used to this heat. In fact, I rather like it.' I had a sudden flashback to his 80th birthday dinner, at which he sat back expansively over a plate sparsely scattered with cake crumbs, drained the last of his champagne, and said 'Right. Now I'm striking out for 85.'
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