So, I'm sure every one is aware by now that Melbourne is in the grip of an Historic Heatwave. Hottest in 100 years. And dry to break your heart. Dry is actually the Heart of the Matter. I don't want to talk about the daphne. Or the fruit trees.....
It's very, very, very, very hot.
But life goes on. I still had to get children across town so they could see one another. And a remarkably cheerful job of it I did, thanks to the fact that the air-conditioning in my car beat the temperature of my house hands down. It was probably the most comfortable I'd been all day. Pity you have to get out again at the other end. That was ugly.
Meanwhile, the dog was obliged to stay at home. Which he, despite his semi-comatose and apparently indifferent state, appears to have objected to.
Because he did not stay lying safely and comfortably on the kitchen floor, with assorted electrical cooling fixtures operating for his personal comfort. Instead, he saw fit to go and lock himself in my uncooled-and-facing-hard-west-definitely-not-a-good room-to-be in-at four-o'clock-in the-afternoon-with-the-window-shut yoga room, getting ultimately into such a frantic and over-heated state that he.....well, let's not go there. The damage that can be wrought by a medically distressed, 50kg dog in a small white room has to be seen to be believed. He almost took the fucking door off (which would have been okay, actually, and at least solved the problem).
EVERYTHING in that room now has to be washed. Floors, walls, doors, blankets, mats. With bleach. He spared me the ceiling, but only just.
sigh... I do try to keep things clean and nice. Really I do. But it's like I carry a curse on my head.
And that curse is dog-shaped.
I had to hose him down twice before he made any sense at all. And even then he sounded like Hunter S. Thompson nine days into a crank bender. God only knows what he was trying to say, but my reassuring and repeated response of "yes, darling, I know. It must have been just awful", seemed to work well for him.