Stop Smoking: And so the floods

And so the floods

After all the mouth of floods and cyclones elsewhere in Australia, last night it was our work here in Melbourne. They called it flash flooding: rain that came down in volumes in just a matter of minutes, and the metropolis was drenched. Our backyard was a swimming pool and many of the streets in valleys and low-lying areas were unpassable.

Our site is soft compared to places where whole houses have been inundated to their rooftops. The sole water that entered our household came through one or two points where the roof had leaked because the plumbers who were alleged to receive set it last year did not completely seal the flashing.

One or two buckets in strategic places has been decent to keep the stream here, but elsewhere in country Victoria where the rivers have split their banks, people`s houses have been inundated. The drenching rains and winds for us do in the heat of cyclone Yasi, which ripped a swathe through parts of north Queensland two years ago. It is still rocking its way inwards but has lost much of its force moving from a category 5 cyclone into a violent storm.

I felt anxious this morning, uneasy in my gut. Too much water now. When will it end?

Last night I went to the historical house where one of my daughters works as operations manager. She was upset that the aim may have been flooded. The house, an old house in the inner city was formerly owned by a dignified family in Melbourne, now all long dead.

The home is spooky at night, my daughter says, hence her motive for my company.

There was a role in the restaurant when we arrived, for which I was grateful. There were other people around in the garden, but we soon took ourselves off to the chief theatre and away from the crowd.

It took some fumbling through office drawers for my girl to determine the one old-fashioned key to fit the rear door and more keys, again old fashioned, for virtually every separate room in the house.

The main leak was almost the ballroom. One of the workers for the catering company who organized the event nearby had put down buckets, haphazardly as it turned out because the base was a river of water. Someone had peeled back the carpets long ago. This way is infamous for leaking, my daughter says, but the Trust has no money or bequeath to fix the roof.

After a twelve-year drought it has not mattered so much till now when the El Nina effect has turned things around, from drought to flood, in what seems like the flash of an eye.

We walked from board to room across the musty carpets, past elaborate furniture displays, all held binding by light wooden barriers to discourage people from touching. In each room we looked to the ceiling for tell tale signs of cracked wallpaper. We listened for the voice of dripping, the splashing of water against hard surfaces.

We plant a little drip onto the desk in the way they claim the `Boudoir`, otherwise all seemed okay. We moved upstairs. No further signs of damage. We used paper towels to mop up the mess, then turned off lights and locked up again. Finally we took up our umbrellas that we had left at the second door and made our way home through the teeming rain.

All the way thither and second I had wondered about the ghosts on the property. I did not let myself think too long on these ghosts while I was in the firm itself. I did not wish to spook myself nor my daughter. She after all works there and there are times, in winter particularly, when she finds herself having to curl up entirely in the dark. Lights out and it is so a creepy place.

My umbrella brushed against the underbelly of one of the Cyprus trees on the side wall and unleashed a flood of water over my head. It rolled down the sides of my umbrella like a waterfall.

This time last year we were still hoping for a little more rain, after the low drops fell following 12 days of drought, but now we desire it to stop.

Last year I resolved to myself that I would never again complain about rain, as if my complaints had been responsible for holding the rain away. Now it seems it matters not.

The number of rain falling in the final twenty-four hours is plenty to convert me the brave is impervious to my insults, or to my comments. The conditions is its own boss. It is thick skinned. It does not regard the feelings of simple human beings.

Even so, maybe we should pay more care to the weather. There are patterns. There are signs. We cut them at our peril.Posted byElisabethat4:57 PM