… her very own sweat.
(Just thought you’d like to know.)
It’s been hot. Hot, hot, hot. It’s been so hot, I cleaned off the six weeks of mould that had accumulated on the paddling pool during our monsoon, stripped my three children down to their nethers and threw them in.
It’s been so hot, that we have scraped the rust off the three fans that languish unused like white suits of armour in our bedrooms, and switched them on.
It’s been so hot that I washed down our trailer trash garden furniture, dried it and arrayed brightly coloured tablecloths upon the tables to make pretty.
It’s been so hot that I swept the terrasse and hosed it down to prevent it from dehydrating.
It’s been so hot that our universally retired neighbours are scaring us by wearing their vests and skimpiest bathing costumes in their gardens.
It’s been so hot that apart from the sound of happy neighbours chatting in their gardens, all I can hear is the shush-shush of hoses as they water their well-manicured lawns and flowerbeds.
It’s been so hot I can hear our own lawn growing, along with its very good friends, the weeds.
It’s been so hot that lemon beer has been the only thing to drink.
It’s been so hot that salads have been the only thing to eat. And ice-cream.
It’s been so hot that Burg has a party atmosphere. People are jollier than the Professor of Jolly at Oxford University.
It’s been so hot that I’ve seen loads of friends, eaten lovely food, paddled in a brook, watched my kids wave sticks at pinatas, lounged on a rug under the shade of a large umbrella, enjoyed a braai at home, strolled into town and walked home with an armful of roses as a present for myself and a new vase to put them in. Best of all, on the way to and from the supermarket, I rolled down the window of my car and played Bob Marley and the Wailers loudly for the benefit of all humankind.
Every little thing IS going to be alright.