The Big Wet

As the rain increased in direct proportion to our lack of desire to drive anywhere, we dragged ourselves into the car and headed south for the day. Roger had travelled a few thousand kilometres so it was the least we could do, although every inch of the way we wished we were in a submarine, or perhaps curled up somewhere with a book.

Being there was fantastic of course, looking across the ocean or where we knew it used to be before the sky fell on us, but we had to repeat the journey at the end of the day, tip toeing up the highway, studiously avoiding trouble, while listening to the endless flood reports on the radio.

Amazingly in the ninety minutes we were on the road, the only time the announcer drew breath between reading flood conditions on rivers various and evacuation notices for towns across the state, was to apologise for not reading the lists of road closures as they comprised some twenty-five pages and it would be, she thought, impossible to do anything meaningful with them.

Then came the hysterical calls from listeners for the Premier to return from her holiday to do something about the floods. Exactly what she could do, no one was prepared to explain, but I did wonder if thought perhaps they'd carry her to the water's edge in a gilded chair so she could simply tell the water to go back.

Perhaps it will, if we wait long enough.