I was watching The Thick of It the other night, the political satire that’s a kind of Yes, Minister with swearing, and one character was going to spend Christmas in Australia. “Australia?” scoffed Malcolm Tucker, the foul-mouthed spin doctor, “where everyone’s dressed in khaki and squints?” Forget backpackers at Bondi, it’s Malcolm’s view that best sums up the British vision of summer Down Under.
After one of our wettest Novembers on record the new season started promisingly well. And the first real sign of the new month came as I pedalled home from trivia night at the Gateway and saw that the house on Emerald Street was all aglow. (Somehow I managed to get Santa and his sleigh in the “off” cycle of his lurid flashing.)
The hot and humid weather had caused the grass to grow like crazy and so the cutting crew was out on Thursday morning.
But this morning was cool, windy and pretty miserable looking. I thought I might get out before the weather came in, at least as far as the railway line. Jambo, who’s normally busting at the gate, hung back. What’s that about animals and the weather? We’d barely made it to the Chatham Road bridge before the skies darkened and a series of southerly squalls that wouldn’t look out of place in an English December came blustering through.
We stood there for a bit, Jambo with an I-told-you-so look on his face, before we tramped home through a thin drizzle.