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Biewer Terrier
May. 1st, 2022 07:16 pmFriday evening had the weirdest atmosphere. Just... off-kilter. If this were a film, Friday night would have been a build up to someone being kidnapped by aliens or whatever. It's autumn here, so the nights are drawing in, but on Friday the sky darkened like a bruise mid-afternoon. Ominous clouds looming over us looking out our full-length office windows.
Friday was the last business day of the month, which is a long shift for me doing month-end reporting when everyone goes home. Come five o'clock, everyone packed up, and by quarter-past it was just me and the night. At five to six, the rain finally started, and at six, I was done, so I put up my umbrella and headed out into the deluge. Black sky with orange street lights reflected on the rain-slicked roads.
Because I never know what time month-end will finish, it's our takeaway night. I drove to our preferred fish and chippery, based in the shopping centre at the north end of the city, windscreen wipers going full tilt. The car park was black and orange-slicked too, ringed with dark Norfolk Island pines, and something had set the corellas off*, a whole flock of them circling overhead from treetop to treetop while making the most dreadful racket, flashes of white against the dark grey clouds.
Inside, the fish and chip shop's numbering system was haywire. I gave my order and was given number 120, but almost immediately after I stepped away, they called for number 133, and a man who had clearly been waiting for a while came to collect his order. After him, they called 96, 115, 119, 125, then me.
Back home in the rain, dinner, then a brief break in the weather. Alistair wanted to go for a walk in the dark. I put his little harness on and he charged down the driveway and onto the footpath. I looked back into our garden and there was a big white cat with bright blue eyes staring back at me from our doormat.
A house further down the street was having some sort of gathering, which involved an hour of setting off maritime distress flares and howling. Not dogs howling. People.
The wind was so heavy during the night that my magnetic shutters were blown open twice, even though the windows were closed.
Saturday morning woke calm and sunny with the lawn full of nectarine leaves. (We don't have a nectarine tree.)
* Non-Australian readers: see this YouTube video for a flock of corellas making a daytime noise in a Norfolk Island pine. Imagine that in the dark and the rain.
Friday was the last business day of the month, which is a long shift for me doing month-end reporting when everyone goes home. Come five o'clock, everyone packed up, and by quarter-past it was just me and the night. At five to six, the rain finally started, and at six, I was done, so I put up my umbrella and headed out into the deluge. Black sky with orange street lights reflected on the rain-slicked roads.
Because I never know what time month-end will finish, it's our takeaway night. I drove to our preferred fish and chippery, based in the shopping centre at the north end of the city, windscreen wipers going full tilt. The car park was black and orange-slicked too, ringed with dark Norfolk Island pines, and something had set the corellas off*, a whole flock of them circling overhead from treetop to treetop while making the most dreadful racket, flashes of white against the dark grey clouds.
Inside, the fish and chip shop's numbering system was haywire. I gave my order and was given number 120, but almost immediately after I stepped away, they called for number 133, and a man who had clearly been waiting for a while came to collect his order. After him, they called 96, 115, 119, 125, then me.
Back home in the rain, dinner, then a brief break in the weather. Alistair wanted to go for a walk in the dark. I put his little harness on and he charged down the driveway and onto the footpath. I looked back into our garden and there was a big white cat with bright blue eyes staring back at me from our doormat.
A house further down the street was having some sort of gathering, which involved an hour of setting off maritime distress flares and howling. Not dogs howling. People.
The wind was so heavy during the night that my magnetic shutters were blown open twice, even though the windows were closed.
Saturday morning woke calm and sunny with the lawn full of nectarine leaves. (We don't have a nectarine tree.)
* Non-Australian readers: see this YouTube video for a flock of corellas making a daytime noise in a Norfolk Island pine. Imagine that in the dark and the rain.
