This time last year, my grandfather’s teensy tiny family had to make the decision that he could no longer live alone.
However hard it was for us emotionally, physically, spiritually (and it was, it really, really was), when I read stories like this, I think thank goodness we did it. Really.
We had something of a heatwave in Adelaide last March during the Festival and Fringe. It gave an extra edge to things, I think. I would walk into my show (insert shameless link to this year’s upcoming show here) at around 6 pm and there was barely a soul around. By ten o’clock the streets were full and it was standing room only around the North Terrace Northern Lights. We can relax at night, but it’s with an intensity that reflects the daytime fear and fatigue that pervades a heat-ravaged community after a certain time. We get fatigued, because we can’t sleep or eat or even drink enough and it’s distressing watching our gardens and parklands grow even drier than they were. There’s the ever-present threat of fires and by day six or seven we look at each other with the unasked question ‘what if this is how things are from this time on?’.
The cool change is still a fair way away, even from this distance, I’m a bit freaked out.
(which does indeed beg the question, why did I agree to move to a country where the summer temperatures regularly reach fifty degrees, but we can talk about that sometime in the northern summer)