It’s been wet here. Really wet. We knew it was going to be when the squadron of heron (our personal harbinger of deluge) touched down in the macrocarpa trees, but even then we didn’t suspect the magnitude of this omen. At the height of it, our full-to-overflowing, plastic duck pond floated around the chicken coop and our suburb was issued with the “don’t use your dishwasher/shower/washing machine/flush your loo” decree. No, no photos of the Homestead underwater exist; we were too busy tending the menagerie, drying the washing and hunkering down in front of the woodburner.
Which made, when the sun finally did show its face, sorting the latest firewood delivery topmost on the to-do list.
In the paddock, Misses Geraldine and Leia have been trying to put a brave face on it but there’s no disguising the fact that they loath precipitation. Breakfast in bed has been the order of late – and hangdog has been the demeanour. Things did brighten a little when the bleat of a baby was heard. Could it be, Geraldine was seen to ponder, that the stork has arrived whilst she was drearily dozing? Despite the rain, she checked all the usual places these happy events occur; she even got Leia to stand up to ascertain she wasn’t hiding anything but it turned out to be a false alarm brought about by the Ezekiel Tigerlily’s weekend visitor.
That little Maisy then arrived for a paddock playdate caused a great deal of goatie chuntering and disapproval, but did much to get the girls moving again.
There’s nothing like a little indignant outrage to get the blood flowing again.