The Aussie summer and I have been somewhat at odds with one another over the years. My husband has ignored my pleas to get an air-conditioner, his heat-loving Mediterranean constitution is blind to the suffering of us ‘whities’. Call me crazy but I have to admit there is something to suffering through a forty-five degree heat wave, like spinach in a vegetable steamer, waiting for that promised reward at the end. When night falls and the cool winds finally arrive it carries with it the most blissful kind of relief and deep, peaceful slumbers. But then there are those days when the promised southerly doesn’t arrive and the temperature is still in the thirties come three am. I don’t like those days.
One thing about having children is that it has forced me to appreciate summer a teeny, weeny bit more. Lamb hates being shut inside, loves going to the beach and (unfortunately) always gets her way. The thought of the harsh summer sun, sweat dripping from every pore of your body, lathering reluctant children in sunblock, and sand everywhere is only made bearable in contrast to the thought of being shut indoors with a nagging, whining preschooler. However, on the way home you realise that it’s one of those things (not unlike exercise and cleaning) that is rarely ever as horrible you think it will be. And in fact, you may have even enjoyed it. Slightly.