Our rainy kingdom

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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