| The weather has been abominably hot and humid,
and I really think that last Saturday was our worst day this summer. We were
forking hay onto the olives in just enough breeze to cover us with hay dust
which itches and stings, but not enough to cool in anyway. The sweat was pouring
out of us, and the flies were in paradise. The water was in the ute so I don't
think I replaced enough liquid – something I harp on at Annie about all
through the summer – and because we know Snoekarse is up there somewhere I had
long trousers on. By mid afternoon I got so hot that I was having great rolling
surges of nausea and wanting to flake. We finally finished the gwaza and, as
usual, when in extremis, I started to howl!! Poor Simon.
We got into the ute to
go and collect all the string from the undone hay bales, and Simon pulled up
next to one little pile, opened the door and leaned out to pick it up. Now this
is not your average ute; you need a step ladder to get into it. He began to
slip, hung onto the steering wheel to pull himself up again and steadied himself
by placing his brake foot on the roof light. I emerged from my tissue to see
what all the grunting was about, and there he was. Upside down out of his door,
with the brake foot now prodding hopelessly at the accelerator as the ute
rocketed backwards and hard right! He was giggling hysterically and telling me
to put the hand brake on which I eventually managed to do – it all seemed to
take forever – and he hauled himself back into the upright position, drove
Sherman back to the undisturbed pile of string, got out and picked it up. This
whole incident made me feel much better! We went home and had a long, cool
showers and cold beers on the lawn. I went to bed at 9.30 that night. |
