We're old school here at the ranch, in terms of newfangled conveniences like your flushing
tor-lets and your town water. We're tanky-wankers, so when the rain buckets down like it has for the last few weeks, it's happy noise for us.
But come on, torrential downpour! Did you have to arrive during my favourite time of year? The season thats been marked on the calendar for weeks? The happy holiday known as Hard Rubbish, dammit?
It's like the Grouch says:
My scavenging heart has broken while the water has poured down and soaked all the delicious piles of crap by the road. I've only managed to snaffle one thing, but I do like it. I wonder what it welcomed before?
Right now I'm writing while Keith is on baby duty. We are all about swapsies on a lazy weekend day like this, with an hour on, hour off system. During your hour, you're on kid-duty, so you can do whatever you like while managing the smallies. Then we swap. Sometimes we give each other a few minutes extra, just for being good.
In breaks between rain-showers, I've been trying to tame the laundry monster, Keith has been measuring out a raised vegie bed, and Ted and Ivy have been making some excellent mud pies.
The mud is chilly though, so after a good pie-session, I put them to work tramping on a woolly blanket I was soaking in the bath. Once they sat on a warm, soft bath-cushion, there was no getting out again. It rained before I could hang it on the line, so they're sitting on it again tonight. It might be there for weeks, frankly.