Posts tagged ‘weather’
When Jed and I left the house this morning it wasn’t raining.
At times I could barely see the trees at the verge of the road, although that may have been because my glasses were streaming. I was soaked through. Although sectors of me were humidly warm, my extremities were swollen and numb. My hair was plastered to my skull, apart from the occasional strand whipping me across the face. I was experiencing rising anxiety about how permeable my mobile phone was.
Halfway to Hakahaka Bay, Sheriff and The Bunqueen pulled up beside me. Sheriff wound down the window. Their car was warm; they looked dry and toasty and strikingly sane.
“You going to Picton?” I mumbled through blue lips.
“Hell, yeah; it’s Sunday! We’re going to get the papers and read them over coffee.”
Then they were gone in a puff of damp exhaust fumes.
I was just reflecting upon whether my cotton pants could feasibly retain any more water, allied with how much my life completely sucked, when I got a text from Husband: ‘Fancy a pickup?’
At that moment, I viscerally understood the meaning of true love.
Although it was another ten minutes before my life stopped sucking.
We woke up to blazing sunshine yesterday, so decided to venture out to Riverhead with the mountain bikes.
“It’s going to rain, though,” predicted Andrew gloomily.
I ignored him, because:
a) Husband is a pessimist who often asserts things with no basis in reality or the NZ Met service; and
b) we’ve been together nearly 12 years (look, it would be virtually IMPOSSIBLE to pay attention to EVERYTHING that comes out of the man’s mouth) (although barf always gets my attention)
While I organised coffee to go, snacks, finances and dog balls, Andrew loaded the bikes on the back of the car.
As we trundled down the drive, tiny pricks of rain settled almost imperceptibly on the windscreen. Along Mountain Road it started drizzling in earnest, intensifying to rain with a definite spatter effect up Candia Road. By the time we reached Swanson, it looked like a blizzard outside.
We pulled up outside The Station Café and made a dash for it across the carpark; me with a couple of old magazines clamped to my head, Andrew using the dog to shield himself from the driving rain. Sitting miserably moist and lightly steaming over a couple of coffees, we agreed there was no point biking.
Driving home, the rain eased up, the sun sullenly emerged from behind the bank of clouds and, by the time we pulled into our drive, the elements were entirely agreeable. So we could have gone biking after all.
Evidently, the cosmos had other plans for Husband and me.
These plans being investigating the leaking differential on the Hilux, and lying on the sofa reading respectively.
Depressing that destiny’s plans for us are so pedestrian.
Today I wore shorts.
Far from being a grand gesture to welcome summer with open arms and double helpings of cellulite, I was thinking more along the lines of saving a pair of trousers getting drenched and slathered in mud. But hey, at least it was warm enough to wear shorts. In fact, doing jumping jacks while sprinting up the road, it was almost TOO warm.
So I set out to terrify woodland creatures and inflict psychological damage on my dog. Jed was so traumatised by the spectacle that he occasionally mistook my leg for a stick. Evidently a particularly large, squashy stick that emitted nuclear quantities of fluorescent energy.
For the last two days, dog-walking duty has fallen on me, since Husband sprained his ankle. Nothing exciting like commando-rolling through a plate glass window, or trying to execute a complex move in a sexually charged tango with a fat French double agent. No, I’m afraid it was all rather mundane. He was out walking. I like to think he’s talking it down. E.g. maybe he was attacked by a crazed squirrel, or fell down a pit lined with wooden stakes?
One way or another, that’s his Olympic dream in tatters.
He couldn’t have timed it better. Not only has the weather been savage, but the height of his recuperation coincided with rubbish relocation. Even I didn’t have the heart to send an injured man off down the drive with the rubbish, when every second step elicited a raw scream of pain compressed into an anguished grunt.
Husband is still lurching around the house and his trousers keep falling down around his knees. I’m not sure how this is related to spraining his ankle, but it must be. Unless you believe in coincidence. Which I don’t.
Since our bask atop Mt Eden last weekend, Auckland has enjoyed a week of near perfect weather. Yesterday was so warm, I was moved to strip down to a camisole top while lunching on the deck with the family in Mt Wellington.
This morning, we awoke to another perfect blue sky, sunshine winking in the bedroom window. We decided to go to Karekare Beach.
“Let’s take the MR2,” suggested Husband.
Last summer, Husband and I drove everywhere in his sports car, posing in sunglasses with the roof panels off. It is a two-seater, apparently designed for anorexic models and athletic teenage car-jockeys. In other words, not much spare room for anything more than a spare bikini and a credit card.
So I travelled to Karekare with 36kg of canine sitting on top of me. Jed occasionally managed to kick Husband in the face with his hind leg, before he discovered the optimal position sitting on the floor on my feet, with his front paws on my lap. Sadly, it was far from the optimal position for my bladder.
Unhindered by cloud, the glittering sun cast deep shadows beneath the trees. Our drive was accompanied by the sticky sound of melting tarmac and the acrid stench of lightly broiled bitumen. Just before Karekare, we turned onto Lone Kauri Road, where the warm, buttery smell of gorse wafted us down to the beach. Ah, the scents of spring.
I’ll tell you how hot it was: I went for a swim in the sea.
Perhaps that only tells you how insane I was.
Husband would have come in too, but he has a rare condition which makes him react violently to salt water and he could die. What’s it called again? Oh yes: Being a Total Wuss.
Husband took a video, but you can’t make out anything for all the goosebumps. So here’s a clip of another swimmer:-
Mum: Will you ever stop scratching your arse against that heater?
Me: N-n-no. This house is f-f-freezing. It’s bordering on ch-child abuse.
Mum: Will you ever go and put some more feckin jumpers on ya.
Me: I’m w-w-wearing them all. D-don’t have any m-more.
Mum: I could lend you a vest.
Me: <look of slowly dawning horror>
Me: I would rather die of hypothermia.
Mum: For fecks’ sake! Will you ever toughen up! And stop wrecking my head! When I was a girl, we were so cold we were practically crippled with chilblains. We didn’t have ‘radiators’, just baked potatoes. We used to walk four miles to school, barefoot through the snow-
Me: Well, you’re lucky you’re hardy. I, on the other hand, was born into a life of privilege-