It’s eerily quiet around here, and I’m finding myself a bit testy.
Like something’s about to happen, a “calm before the storm” feel about it.
Schools are shutting down for their holiday time, traffic has eased off, and the latest temperatures seem to be keeping the silly old fool three doors down in front of her television as she soaks up the air from whatever cooling system she has in place.
I’m convinced she was given a leaf-blower for her birthday and now feels compelled to expel every leaf from her driveway three times a day – before I wake up in the morning, while I’m napping in the afternoon and during the 6 o’clock television news.
Let’s hope she’s rediscovered the joys of current affairs and chooses to prolong her heat-induced hiatus.
I know it’s not a police matter, but my prickly heat isn’t going away and I’d hate to do something rash.
The poor old thing’s never seen me give someone a piece of my mind. I’m sure she’ll be able to give as good as she gets, but raising my voice isn’t a comfortable path for either of us.
Forgive my digression.
December’s an odd time as tempers fray and unusual things happen.
Our constabulary warns of increased burglaries this time of year, and I can absolutely understand why.
Think about it. Who’d want to work for a living in this humidity?
Much easier to break into the house of somebody who has actually worked 40 years and sits wondering whether their superannuation will last as long as they do.
Unless of course the thief is a teenager on crack who’s planning to hock my television on Facebook marketplace so they can afford to keep themselves off the streets for a few days.
I told you I was testy.
Our weather bureau tells us to be prepared for storms, and while the leaf-blowing lady is heeding the advice to the extreme, she can ease off the noise already.
I’ll clean my gutters and do my bit around the yard, and then there’ll probably be floods at which point I’ll be thanking council because they’ve saved me the expense of flood insurance because their mapping had my house under a wall of water.
As a result, insurance refused to cover me, so I figured I’d take my chances against a flood 3m worse than 1974, which is what it would take to reach my floorboards.
If Armageddon does occur and I’m taught a horrible lesson of circumstance and clogged drainage, then we’ll all be shacked up at Aunty Ethel’s place. She lives on the hill at Shailer Park.
Sarcasm. The lowest form of wit. Only happens when I’m testy.
It’s also the time of year politicians tell us stuff they don’t really want us to hear.
The period between Christmas and New Year is the best time to drop new taxes on families who are busy burning their bikini lines in paradise.
Instead of watching the nightly news, they’ll be pigging out on pancakes in a beachside mall.
Most won’t even notice, but trust me. When I was a boy walking the festive beat in newsland, we knew there’d be some juicy stuff over the break.
Crafty spin doctors dropping the next round of bad news at 5pm on a Friday afternoon is the oldest trick in the book.
Multiply the severity of the cause by three at Christmas. I’m sure they have a folder for it at the back of the filing cabinet, dripping with blood from the apprentice who tried to pull it out early for a prime time audience.
Be damned with you, apprentice. You’ll lose your job AND your hand if you try to release bad news at a time people will actually see it.
Testy, testy, testy.
Hey Wanda, my rash is flaring up and the powder’s running low. Do you think we could go for dinner at a place that can afford air conditioning?
