Meteorologists & Eye Drop Sellers

It’s supposed to rain, but it just won’t. Instead a system (doesn’t that sound techy and meteorological, like I already know what the weather guy or girl is going to say when they come on the evening news) is hovering, bigly, just outside the catchment of greater Sydney. Oh, how I wish it would rain. On me.

I took an umbrella this morning, having treated the weather forecast seriously, and … nothing. Looked a little bit overcast. Then I went outside and it wasn’t overcast at all, just sort tacky and sticky and sweet smelling, in an artificial sort of way. Sunny, but too bright, suggesting it was raining somewhere, but not on me.

Laetitia took her brolly too. And had no cause to unfurl it. I feel bad – but I feel worse when I know there is the chance it might rain, and this has been confirmed by the Bureau of Meteorology website radar, and I think it won’t affect us, we’ll be home before it starts, and Laetitia appears on the doorstep, dripping wet.

And maybe there are other things to worry about – in fact, there definitely are other things, which are far more important – but I want relief, to breathe, to relax and stretch out, figuratively, like a certain cat I know who likes nothing so much as enjoying himself when the dogs are away (or even just outside for a while). I want that kind of elaborate extending of limbs and rolling around on a Persian carpet, and yawning – a lot.

The best thing of all seems a holiday of the mind. Turning it off for w few days, or turning off the negative bits would provide much needed maintenance. Just to put the machine in the garage for a few days – nobody needs to look at it and tinker and change the oil, I hope.

But that’s not possible.

This is what it is. Being an adult.

My eyes hurt and it just won’t rain. Eye drops and weather forecasts routinely let me down. I can’t sleep; well, I can’t sleep properly, and this week isn’t going fast enough. I want a break, no commitments, just bed and wine and sleep. But this isn’t an option now.

It’s not really a sensible option, most times.

And I’m whingeing.

I enjoy whingeing. I’d like to say it’s uncommon, but it isn’t.

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Published in: on February 16, 2011 at 7:09 pm  Leave a Comment  

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