I love Sydney rain. The rain drops are fatter than a Cheshire cat and more prolific than trunk shots in a Tarantino movie. You get soaked in five seconds flat, and umbrellas are as useful as a toupee in high wind. It’s as if the earth opens up and meets the sky, almost primal.
To be inside my little flat is like being bear-hugged by a gruff uncle at a family wedding (hair protruding from his ears and nose like Miracle Grow).
But this is where wax lyrical ends and my morning disposition begins, which is akin to that of Betty White’s toward Lindsay Lohan (some might call it resentful). I awoke in the cosiest bed imaginable – pillows piled high like marshmallows, sleep blanketing me like the son of Michael Jackson, the snooze button a strange and mystical symbol of hope.
But reality soon yanked me out of bed, like a kid from the womb, bitched slapped upside the head to improve circulation. It’s just not natural, to be awake before 11am. I’d rather stab my eyeball with a solider specifically fashioned for the re-enactment of the Civil War on a model of Petersburg, Virginia (built to scale).
This morning, the rain poured like JC was prepping the Ark. There’s rain, and then there’s rain. And this was motherfucken rain (to be said like Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction). The gruff uncle had turned and was now groping the wrong auntie. All hell was breaking loose.
I sat on the bus, my eyes gritty and my trousers stuck to my legs like the tongue of a country singer. A woman stood before me (her crotch up in my grill) and an old coot sat next to me (taking up the majority of our love seat with his wide corduroy ass).
I hate people who read the paper on the bus. Since when was this appropriate reading material for confined spaces? It’s bloody wider than Shannon Doherty’s forehead and requires that you thrust your arm into my face every few seconds. He made me want to ram his balding head into the steamy glass, to see what shape it’d make.
Our love affair was complete when he got up, kicked my umbrella down the length of bus and alighted, an “oh, was that your umbrella?” drifting over his shoulder.
I found myself muttering after him, like Rain Man about to board a Qantas flight.
Definitely my umbrella, ass monkey. Definitely. Definitely.
Maybe this is indeed how a baby feels upon being yanked from the womb, if only they had the wherewithal to speak. Maybe they’d turn to the doctor and slap him upside the head with wet placenta and say, how you like them apples Doc?