Beautiful fat rain is pinging and plopping off every surface in Lung Mei Tsuen, drops kissing the windows and bursting over the front awning.
It’s damn fresh, and I love it.
Our little village is a verdurous paradise of greenery, not the muted and beloved browned hues of Australia but vigorous chatreuse, algal and forest greens beneath which flourish hothouse butterflies, 15-foot Chinese cobras, lazy little turtles, a range of translucent lizards, and birds and bugs of fantastical and exotic assortment.
It’s like living at the zoo, but better because you don’t have to pay $75 to get in, nor smell elephant piss on warm mornings (I grew up 5km from the Melbourne Zoo, and that was the smell that greeted me each summer morning when I opened the back door. The harbinger of summer, I call it. THE HARBINGER OF SUMMER. Possibly it’s just been a while since I’ve used “harbinger” in a post, but nevertheless you can trust me that that stuff stinks. About as much as being kept awake every night by the fucking “Jazz at the Zoo” twilight series. A clarinet is rarely delightful and particularly not after a long tiring day of decreased oxygen consumption due to trying to ward off the stench of pachyderm uric acid by clasping a garden peg over one’s nostrils).
“I’m so happy, I just did a massive piss on some steaming concrete and now it’s wafting over West Brunswick…”
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