“ I love the story of Stella and Margie. It’s a poignant reminder of the power of women’s friendship. ”
Their high-pitched squealy calls come first. Approaching from the north, behind the fig tree, black cockatoos fly slowly and settle into the silver wattle. They’re a sign rain is coming, and I want that to be true. Someone told me that each bird represents a day of rain. So, sitting on those thin branches is a week’s worth. Maybe a hundred millimetres. I hope so, yet it’s hard to imagine wet ground, rivulets, cows having their backs washed.
I drag the hose across the parched lawn, thinking that this is a waste of my time. Standing, waiting, counting to fifty, sometimes a hundred. Even so, there’s something satisfying about a wet garden on a hot day. The shade trees and roses manage best; it’s the shrubs that struggle. I’ve spoken to Ross about putting in an irrigation system – underground pipes, sprinklers and a button to press so I can walk away. He says that’s a complicated thing to do in an old garden like this. That means it’s too hard for him to work out, he’s got enough on his mind, and I suppose that’s fair enough.Continue Reading