Things have been quiet on the home front but the hellish first week and weekend of work’s all done. We’re even further along - exactly halfway through the second week of work already. To be honest, it feels like I was never even gone on leave.
Anyway, my job’s been renamed to overseer and I am now supposed to oversee the two less experienced designers as well as handling all quotes incoming. It will be interesting when that work model actually manifests one day – at the moment we’re still chugging along more or less the way we always have.
I use “hellish” because the mercury’s been reaching 36°C (96.8F) lately despite the weather bureau’s lame promises of up to 60% rain. The lawns, emerald green two weeks ago, have all become dehydrated, bleached and patchy. We water it when we remember but we’d rather have Mother Nature take care of her own.
On Sunday we had the dogs in and the cats out so the cooped-up felines could enjoy a little fresh air. The dogs were just dandy inside because earlier on Sunday we’d been to the towns to get another ceiling fan on credit - for the living room. You just can’t live without some form of artificial ventilation in this bally heatwave anymore.
Victoria was allowed to join her sisters outside only by special arrangement. She’s in disgrace because on Monday she somehow managed to hurl our precious new DVD player from the precarious perch we created for it. Though cracked and warped from the fall, the stout machine miraculously lumbers on.
Today when The One returned from the local grocer to get himself a cold Coca Cola he threw off his shirt inside to cool down under the new industrial fan. He misjudged the distance to the fan which thankfully was on a low setting. Still, he almost lost his right thumb to one of the metal blades and the house looks like the set off a Robert Rodriguez film – splattered in blood.
I only have very basic and ancient first aid training which means I know how to stop dangling digits from bleeding. The One’s thumb’s wrapped in yards of sticky elastoplast but the deep gash does not bleed anymore.
Meanwhile we munch day-old buns with butter, chilled slices of ham and tomatoes of a bloody colour that we harvest from our scorched veg garden.
Written by I