Spring has definitely sprung! The jasmine is blooming, the magpies are swooping, and the cane toads are backstroking around the dogs’ water bowl.
Sadly, the Spring rains haven’t arrived yet, so the ducks are waddling about with water bottles.
The nearby bush is so parched that the gum trees are dropping branches like confetti, which is making the daily stroll with the dogs an exercise in death defiance.
It’s so dry that my mate, the Gentleman Farmer, hasn’t struck a match this Spring either. A repressed arsonist, he’s normally super keen to light up his block around this time of year to deter unwanted pests like snakes, rats, mice, in-laws and certain beer mooching townie mates.
His farm remains flame-free as he watches his dams dry up with the growing anxiety of a condemned man staring at the calendar.
But last weekend the skies promised showers, so I stood in the yard and waited eagerly for the downpour. Sadly, what came crashing down was an amount only slightly greater than a political promise.
As a cruel wind blew away the clouds, I celebrated the blessing of two millimetres of liquid gold by whipping off my t-shirt and doing a little dance of gratitude about the yard. This may explain why the only thing actually plummeting downward in my street are real estate prices?
It’s no good moaning, so I’ve been doing what I usually do to generate rain; at least in my area.
I’ve polished the car and parked it outside, cleaned every window in the house and dusted off the cement mixer; if that doesn’t bring down a deluge of Biblical proportions then, so help me, I’ll go camping!
I love this time of year, but honestly, a little rain would really put a spring back in my step.