Shhh! Scribbler at Work

Life is Mostly Froth and Bubble

(prompt: 'young' 6/7/2018)

"I know it's a bit young yet," I said, rolling my eyes theatrically, "but it'll be cold and that's what truly matters, surely?"

Kanute briefly looked anxious. "Three days old? That's cradle-snatching for sure." But like a seed, the thought had been planted, and our eyes glinted with anticipation. Throats rapidly became drier than the Sahara and won the day.

It had been another stifling day in the West Australian wheat belt, in a heat wave that hadn't seen an evening temperature below 32°C for more than two weeks. Not yet adjusted to the sun's relentless demands on our energies and enthusiasm, even our daily after-lunch siesta had proved inadequate to replace our 'get up and go'. Surely an early night would be the solution? Sounded good, but we soon found sleep impossible. The sun may have set but its memory lingered—with a vengeance. Brainstorm number one that night was to thoroughly wet two thirsty bath towels, wring them out and lie on top of them. That was bliss, even if they did require replenishing frequently.

Abruptly we were both awake again. The softest breath of air floated through the tall, slim French doors of our bedroom, gently caressing our bodies. A miracle called a breeze had begun.

"It's the cool change starting, I think!" I whispered to Kanute.

"Shh. Don't say it out loud. You might frighten it away!"

The slow but steady drop in temperature was unadulterated bliss. I stretched luxuriously, my hands sliding over the cooling sheets, lazily noting the sheet felt strange somehow, as my nose registered something else. My monster sneeze abruptly brought us both fully awake. Our bed was being transformed into a gritty sandpit. A dust storm had begun. As I quickly closed doors and side window Kanute turned on the light. I wished he hadn't. The renowned Australian red dust hung above us in a threatening cumulus formation as the room returned to its previous excruciatingly stifling state. Too cruel altogether, hearing the sounds of that cool (though filthy) wind gaining strength outside.

Brainstorm number two emerged. Impossible to start a clean-up of this magnitude with parched throats and soggy, dripping bodies without a cold liquid intake (preferably alcoholic—for Dutch courage). And close on that light-bulb moment's heels came the solution - my new home-made Rhubarb Champagne.

Kanute rapidly produced wine glasses and a bottle of my youthful brew. The glasses gleamed brightly on my bedside cupboard atop the centimetres of deep grit shrouding everything, as Kanute sat on the edge of the bed to prise out the cork. It was tight, and a struggle ensued—until shockingly, the cork exploded out of the bottle with half the contents in a powerful fountain of bubbles!

Little on my side of the room escaped its lethal aim; the glass-topped dressing table and huge mirror, the bed, the floor, the window... and of course, ourselves. Wherever the tiniest beads of the pale pink stickiness landed, the dust turned into a seeming attack of red-brown killer measles.

We fell about laughing hysterically until exhaustion created enough composure to study the damage. We'd have wept - if we'd had the energy or even a drop of moisture left to spare. Spirits almost faltered, but that temporary courage of my bubbly helped us face the monumental clean-up.

Memory suggests we required another bottle (or two?), before cleanliness and deep sleep claimed victory.