The Heat is On!

It's hot.

There’s not much to do in Bogan-ville-ea midst a heatwave. And this week it’s bloody hot.

On several occasion when O.S. (international that is, not Tasmania or God forbid, Norfolk Island), I’ve gotten the impression that people associate Australia with beaches and reefs and stuff. Yes, they’re nice and wouldn’t we all like to ask “where the bloody hell are ya?” whilst marooned somewhere in the Whitsundays, but in reality, as seen in Bogan-ville-ea and most of the country, Australia is a dirty great hot dustbowl.

As a young bush Bogan, growing up in the middle of outback-nowhere, the heat didn’t worry me that much. I got a season pass to the local pool (which wasn’t indoors or highly chlorinated, thus building a strong childhood immune system), ran under the sprinklers when the council water restriction rules said we could (like, between 6:30 and 7pm on ‘our’ night once a week), ate chunks of watermelon up a gum tree and that was that.

I can’t really remember ever whining about the heat. Oh, except that one time when the fam went camping at Lake Keepit and I got pelican lice, bumburn and chafing from using the airbed as a form of watercraft, didn’t wash my hair for a week and it matted and we had to cut a big chunk out. Totally unusual though. Mostly I love summer (but not camping anymore funnily enough). You know, ‘I love a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains…’ etc. But instead of loving ‘her far horizons’ like the poem says, we seem to have given our hearts over to a national reliance on air-conditioning. The family EH Holden of my youth, our smallish uninsulated house and the schools certainly didn’t have air-con and I seem to have survived.

Nowadays, totally acclimatised to this modern marvel, and with the compounding factor of being on leave from work, I’m finding indoor pursuits are dominating my time during this heatwave. In the last few days I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with Spray & Wipe and vacuuming. I’ve given the fluffy little dog a haircut (and no he didn’t particularly enjoy it). I’ve washed EVERYTHING we own, put new doona covers on the beds, read three books, fourteen magazines, watched the cricket, watched BtT pressure clean the concrete and viewed several Law & Order multi-episode marathons. I’ve even sold off my unnecessary shoes and boots on ebay. It’s quite entertaining watching people bid in 25 cent increments for boots I coveted and paid a hundred dollars for. All in the air-conditioned comfort of my own home.

The Hippodome is air-conditioned.

 I drive there in my air-conditioned car when I’m bored with my air-conditioned house or need supplies. Today BtT and I went to the Hippodome to get the security tag off the new doona set (no, I didn’t shoplift it… who hides a security tag inside a doona cover packet??? Not even the sales assistant knew!) Naturally, half of Bogan-ville-ea were also there:

“Tayyyyy-lahhhhh!!! Stop hitting your sister or we won’t go to Nanny’s for a swim!”

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!”

SO not fun.

Am desperately trying to avoid the supermarket scene as a political protest at their sneaky tactics that trick me into buying groceries. But BtT was hungry, so we braved the food court. With barely a fuit or vegie in sight, we enjoyed some quality time near a family-day care group outing. Not even seasoned hot chippies with gravy (eaten with a plastic fork) and an extra-hot skim chai latte could convince me that we should stay any longer at the Hippodome. And if any more pimply fifteen year-old coffee servers roll their eyes when I pass them my eco-cup, then I’m going to shove the damn thing up their arse.

 

So, I’m thinking of taking a risk tomorrow.

I'm contemplating running under the sprinkler (I mean the super-modern automated irrigation system from the rainwater tank of course). I need to dye my hair and BtT’s banned that activity from the house now that it’s so clean, so I reckon I’m gonna wear my swimmers and rinse my hair out on the lawn… nope… ummm….onto the tan bark near the clothes line. Yep, get back to my bush Bogan roots (whilst covering the grey of my mid-thirties suburban roots). Think the Dalmatian and I will share some watermelon (there’s NO way she’ll run under the sprinkler… she’s a modern dog with standards!) and then I’ll try to start an ice-cube fight with the neighbour’s kids. When BtT comes home from work he’ll mow the lawn shirt-less and then we’ll slice open a mango, crack some coldies, swat mozzies and watch the kangaroos graze on the local school oval. And then go inside in the air-con to watch the tennis (or another generic American crime show) on the plasma.

Ahhh yes, I love a sunburnt country.

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The Heat is On, Glen Frey, 1984.