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|Summer in Australia (standard:humor, 462 words)|
|Author: Rozinante||Added: Jan 08 2001||Views/Reads: 2843/4||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|The not quite reality of summer in Australia.|
The ceiling fan turns slowly with a low buzz and an incessant, monotonous click ... click ... click. It moves with such sluggish reluctance that we sweating mortals below sense no movement in the air, yet still we look up and worship this false revolving god and hope still for the saviour to come from above. The scene is a common one - all over the city there are people in similar states of heat-induced disrepair, yet still to each the weather seems a personal affront. From the box in the corner, the cultured drone of an ABC commentator tells me more than I ever needed to know about the vagaries of the WACA wicket. A lone fly on patrol is the only creature in the room untouched by the prevailing lethargy as he swoops and dives like an enraged little Spitfire, before alighting in sudden silence upon the aforementioned fan. Pleased with his newfound residence, at each spin he peers down with a jaunty wave and a smirk as if mocking me from his lofty perch. I make no reply - I know when Iím beaten. Outside the sun beats and hammers upon the windows, clamouring to enter, but I refuse his entreaties with the inflexible obstinacy of a minor bureaucrat. Once again I see that all the fires of hell are masquerading as a pure blue sky, but I am not sucked in by this disarming illusion. The pool looks inviting, but I donít fancy the twenty-metre dash over the fiery coals between the back door and the waterís edge. This has always been my problem - the grass may well be greener on the other side, but Iím too scared or lazy, or both, to make the trip. I pray that the ceiling fan has the memory of a goldfish, and that each turn is a magical mystery tour. Meanwhile, the cat flops into the room before collapsing on the carpet in a steaming pile of melting fur and whiskers. I pause for a millisecond to consider the suffering of others before returning to wallow in the cooling depths of self-pity. With the stifling conditions not conducive to action of any kind, I lie back and think of all the hours of my yesterdays and of a suitably humorous yet strangely compelling metaphor for the ceiling fan that is my life. There I go now. I liken my existence to this memorable item of cooling paraphernalia for two reasons. The first is that my life seems to turn monotonously, hour by hour, describing the same well-travelled circle time and again like the pitiful vanes above me. The second is the hope, perhaps the vain hope, that despite my seemingly ineffectual efforts, something good might come of it after all. Tweet
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