The birds are singing.
The bees are buzzing.
The possums are fornicating like there is no tomorrow.
The blowflies (the traditional heralds of the Australian Spring) are flying drunkenly around. Lulling me to sleep with the rhythmic pounding of their heads against the window panes.
The plants are growing.
The weeds are multiplying.
Pasty bodies, complete with muffin tops lovingly cultivated over the Winter, abound in the surrounding hills.
I'm KOed in bed. A vomit bucket my only companion. Taking pictures of my feet.
(Hello feet. Hello candy striped pajamas.
Hello dust and messy bedroom obscured by bad focus.)
My bp is yet to decide if it's up or it's down. For a while there I thought it was heading South chasing those blessed Antarctic winds, but now it seems its heading North at a great rate of knots. Oh wait. No. South it is. No North? No South? North? South?
Given that Melbourne is famous for it's 'four seasons in one day', I'm hoping for a bumper snow season to hit about 5pm, to replace the current wilt-worthy 29C.
I did think it may be time to break out a DeLorean and go back to last weeks more pleasant climes. I did also find out that other people (men) do not think it's funny when I asked a reader who lives near the DeLorean factory if the flux capacitor came as standard or was an optional extra (Note she found it funny. Men! And that includes you Mr Grumpy, I can also hear your eye roll from here). Women clearly have a much better sense of humour.
I may or may not be going a little delirious from the heat/boredom/hypotension/nausea/.......
(Love my little Japanese fan.
I'm pretty sure I'm know as the weird woman with the fan in my local area).
Not that I look like a nutter at all.
It's just that (as was pointed out by she who is the Queen of all things lady parts related, purveyor of topics requiring the liberal application of mental bleach, unicorn love, glitter and single handedly responsible for the resurgence in popularity of ukuleles, Elly Lou, over at BugginWord) I am in desperate need of a 'mental margarita'.
Off now to search for my mental pitcher, because one mental margarita may not be enough to get through today.
The Hot, Damn Hot, Michelle.
Frontier Psychiatrist, The Avalanches.