Two recent observations

#1 The Trout Catching House
Last night, we had dinner with some neighbourhood acquaintances and it was remarked by one of them that the basement in their country house keeps flooding. Indeed, during a recent 'pump-out' of said basement the sound of flapping fish flailing about on the basement floor could be heard, left behind after all the water had been drained. The house was built beside a stream which boasts a healthy supply of trout. They have petitioned the local council to cease supplying the creek which fronts their property with trout eggs, but as it's a popular trout fishing area, they fear they will have no luck.

#2 The Kettle that Stopped Whistling
I have observed, in recent days, that our stove top kettle seems to have made a decision to whistle half-heartedly, or not whistle at all. The steam generated whistle would on previous occasion, announce itself quite boisterously, almost like a hunter might whistle his hound. However, now it displays more lethargy, nay contempt, for carrying on its duties and emitting instead, barely an audible sigh.

Hot August Nights

It's so hot even my dreams are sweating. Even my sweat is sweating. Even my eyeballs are sweating. It's so hot I actually drank my own sweat for fear of dehydration the other day. And it sweated as I drank it. And it's humid too. The kind of humidity that clings to you. It would be like wearing, inside out, the fur of a large, rancid smelling, unreasonably cantankerous, dusty, old cat. And it's all a bit grimy as well. Bit too grimy actually. The kind of grime that makes ones nostrils flare. The sort of grime that one stops to gawk at, but then quickly looks away, thinking 'did I really just see that?' So, all this has led me to be sitting on the sofa at 5am with the window open catching what little breeze there is, writing this whilst modestly dressed in a man sarong. Or if you prefer, a bath towel. Oh, did I mention the mosquitos? I am sure that some of them have fought in any number of guerilla campaigns in neighbouring countries, such is their ferocity. And big too. A suspicious sort of she-male-olympic-gymnastics-large-man-hands-on-a-bearded-lady-kind of big. And nasty and truculent too. A little bit too gangsta! If you do manage to hit one and have the luck to render it dead, it leaves a sort of stain that one should never examine too closely with a microscope. Back home, a slapped mozzie will leave a lovely shade of crimson or rose. Not here. Nuh! These blighters leave a black, coagulated muck, a foul tar consistency - A grime...that sweats. So, how does one combat all this? Well aside from enjoying the pleasantries of observing the city opening at dawn, I find that iced tea works. Iced tea and a man sarong. Both make the day easier to bear.