Possessed
When I said "the heavens have opened", I meant: "Formerly blue skies have rapidly morphed into something bulging, weighty and slatey like the roof of a giant grey marquee in a storm - and the roof has ripped." I meant: "There is hail, there is lightning, there is astonishing wetness." I meant: "I have seen weather like this in the Highveld, but never in England, where the wetness usually comes in fine drizzle over the course of weeks."*
And I meant: "Ooh, great news for the garden."**
I've formulated a theory over the past month and a half - stop me if I've said this before - that the Burbs are like weddings. There is some kind of sinister spirit that possesses those trapped in the situation, leading them to behave in utterly uncharacteristic ways. Thus, weddings will involve drama, possibly tears, last-minute panics, and familial tension; and if you move to the suburbs, well...
You start hearing yourself say things like, "Those petunias are coming up nicely."
"Lovely garden across the road, maybe we can ask them for some cuttings."
"Oh dear, the place next door is for sale. I hope we get decent neighbours."
And:
"If you're free on Monday, we should go to Homebase."
Maybe I am my mother's daughter after all***.
_____
* I've heard that Cape Town, Johannesburg and London have approximately equal annual rainfall. But in London it lands, as described above, in slow, fine drizzle; in Cape Town, in long rainy winters; and in Johannesburg, in dramatic thundery bursts every summer afternoon, when it falls onto parched, sun-hardened earth, and promptly runs right off. More fun, but less useful.
** Apart from the hail, that is.
*** DEAR LORD NO.
3 comments:
With regard to footnote ***, you can't be your mother's daughter until you have killed someone with your lunatic mind. Or possibly ignored them to death
So no worries on that count. But you know I think that living in Pomerania is a surefire way to destroy one's sense of reality, if not one's sanity, what with that soddingly crap weather and, oh, well, this isn't my blogsite so let me not get started.
The older I get the more inevitable that slow morphing into our mothers seems. It frightens me. My sister and I have a strict agreement regarding this phenomenon - any time the other does something annoyingly like our mother, a metaphorical sisterly slap is warranted and required.
Anon: thanks for putting it in perspective, sweetie. (Pomerania! Hee hee hee!)
Cate: the fear is worsened by the knowledge that my mother, and her mother, both suffered the lifelong fear of turning into *their* mothers. And they both have. My sister and I are both very different to Her Scariness, but...
Gersh: now there's a thought. Were I less technophobic, I'd look into providing that service. But I'm not, so I won't.
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