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Summer in Australia (standard:humor, 462 words)
Author: RozinanteAdded: Jan 08 2001Views/Reads: 2843/4Story 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. 


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