The heavens here are about to split in two. They have been grumbling and moody all day, releasing occasional tears, and threatening an all-out tantrum. The past hour, the rumbles have intensified, and every few minutes a great bolt cuts through the horizon.
The Bureau of Meteorology is awash with weather warnings for the southeast and Granite Belt. My mother, as is typical, has already fretted enough to ring me and anxiously tell me not to use the phone.
My brother’s dogs—the darlings I am puppy-sitting at the moment—aren’t quite sure what to make of this torpid atmosphere. Simba, the big, oafish puppy, seems to think it’s a game between him and God—he’s happily running around and barking at the lightning. Promise, the newly adopted ex-show dog, on the other hand, seems certain she has committed the most terrible wrong, and her punishment is about to be dealt one hundred times over. She has curled—as tightly as possible—into the very corner of the bed they share, paws quite literally covering her eyes.
I’m so much more a Simba-type when it comes to storms. The pure energy in the air, and the incredible freshness of the world afterwards somehow calms me. And falling asleep with rain pounding on the roof is quite easily one of my all-time favourite things ever.
A new favourite thing is Pomplamoose. Who I am simply going to explain by saying…listen: