The girls and I are completely chocolate-chip cookie-baked out. We're all Planet-Earthed out. We've painted, we've Play-Doed, we've Legoed, we've forted, we've mosaiced, we've danced, we've puzzled, we've Disney DVDed. And still the rain falls.
The washing basket is over-flowing. The earthworms are committing Hare-Kiri from out of the water-logged soil. The ants have moved inside. The water pours down the wall in the lounge. A film of mould is growing around the tumble drier as the condensation it emits has nowhere to evaporate to. And still the rain falls.
The bath towels stay damp. The gas heater radiates its heat into an all-absorbing chill. We stay in our slippers throughout the day. We regard what's going on outside the confines of our protective walls with dubious skepticism. The sun makes a tease-appearance, casting a glimmer of gold upon the garden. Rain drops clinging to grass blades and leaves reflect brief sparks of light across the lawn. Then the clouds engulf the sun. And the rain falls.
I love my home. The roof over our heads. The protection from the elements. The well-watered garden. The recently planted herb-patch which I've been too chicken to check if it's been washed away or not. The unused turnstile washing line behind the house. The ample opportunity to scoop the girls up and chuck them into my bed where we can make up stories under the duvet while we keep each other warm and munch on rice-cakes. And still the rain falls.
The weather bureau promises a warmer weekend. I'll take that prediction with a pinch of salt, thanks. After all, this is Cape Town where the weather also listens to the meteorologists, and then does whatever the hell it feels like, and usually whatever is opposite to the most recent prediction. Just to spite the news team, I think.
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