Folks, I live in part of Oz that doesn’t get a lot of rain. We get a lot of Political Clouds, i.e.: they arrive out of the blue, promise ever so much, deliver nothing, then drift away again on a puff of hot air.
Well, last weekend I’d had enough. “I’m desperate to see some rain!” I moaned to Long Suffering Wife.
She shrugged her shoulders then did what she usually does, irritated me further by saying something sensible, “Well you can’t do anything about the weather,” she replied.
“We’ll see about that!” I muttered under my breath, then flicked on the weather report and crossed my fingers and hoped that the weather guru was about to announce a two week downpour of Biblical proportions for our region.
Note: the only thing he’s got right so far was predicting an extremely hot spell that actually hit us while he was still talking about it.
Anyway, apparently the hot, dry weather would continue with no foreseeable change, then, to rub salt into an extremely dry wound, the weatherman cheerfully announced imminent warnings of storms, hail and wind damage for other towns much luckier than ours.
That’s when inspiration struck!
Turning to Long Suffering Wife I announced, “I may not be able to change the weather, but if the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain!” While she shook her head, I immediately planned a trip next weekend to any place likely to get rain; any rain, no matter how measly.
I might even hire a bus and fill it with other rain-starved folk and make a damp holiday of it! We’d run laughing through the streets as the rain sprinkled down, feel mud squish between our toes, jump in puddles then, afterwards, return to Parched-ville and resume watching our lawns die.
If there’s room, we could bring back people who want to holiday in a place that rain avoids like a broke man avoiding a debt collector. What could possibly go wrong?!
Well, obviously, the only fly in my ointment is, I hope the weather holds.