The lake is more than 180 degrees of blue, today slightly tipped with tiny whitecaps as the wind picks up. It’s very exposed, the southerly winds (from Antarctica) come belting in, and the veranda on that side is unusable most of the year. The house perches with about ten others, on a slight point on the lakeshore, with grass and some small groves of pretty native trees between it and the water.
Storms blow rain through the gaps in the old windows and walls, which leak, and the resultant mould is killing me. However, on a sunny day like today – with the sky a pale blue, the water deep sapphire, the trees swaying in the wind, and the only sounds birds calling – it’s hard to remember why i have to leave. Then my throat tickles, i cough and cough, start to choke, and i remember.
Can’t quite move out yet, nearly time, saving madly, living even more frugally than usual, and counting the days until i can get some boxes and start packing. Losing myself – in the net, detective novels (thank you Stephanie Plum and Elvis Cole), and my blog. And the view. Big glass doors stop the wind, if not all the water.
I can stare out at the lake for hours. Pelicans scud past, hunting in the shallows, or mobbing the tiny fishing boats, less than a man’s height long, that net the lakes. Black swans spend the night, then take off, showing their white-tipped wings, honking from red beaks, the clatter of their wingbeats exactly like a civilised group of applauding spectators at the cricket.
I used to live in London, and now i live in a place where every day, the lorikeets dance in the trees, rainbows with wings, squawking and trilling, proclaiming their ownership of the big trees.
The wind blows, peppering the roof with gumnuts, sounding like hail out of a blue sky. Raucous corellas fly past, soaring and swooping, large white masters of the sky, then become tumbling, swaggering midget clowns on the ground and in the branches.
The noise of their squawking can be so bad that sometimes i shoo them off, when a mob of maybe a hundred descends on the veranda, back yard, and more of them in the front. Most will take off, but there are always some who stay. Bright birds, you can see them thinking that however scary i am, i don’t appear to be armed, and humans often bring them food.
They dig holes in the lawn, leaving little pits six inches deep, happily chewing on roots, and it’s lucky we’re not lawn-proud, as this naturally kills the lawn in patches. Lawn’s a loose term for what’s happening in the yard, anyway – this is coastal wetland, we have seasonal ponds that mean the outdoor clothesline is inaccessible for several months of the year.
The scum couple who bought the place a few doors up have cut down three trees to improve their view. They’ve hacked at the roots of others, and they may die.
The trees were important parts of the lakeside habitat, home to birds and insects, and providing food for both. Now they’re gone.
Scum couple didn’t even worry about the fact that they weren’t on their land. Maybe thirty feet (10m) behind their property line. But now they get a less-obstructed view of the water directly behind their house. Just like on the lifestyle shows. More than 180° water views aren’t enough? Fucktards.
The guy knew he was doing something wrong, he ran inside when my partner went out in to our yard. We’d heard the noise for some time, it sounded like a basketball being bounced on concrete, but it never occurred to us that someone would cut down trees. I’ve put in a report to the council about the vandalism, i feel it’s the least i can do. The most involves kidnapping, the Gleaming Instruments of Death, and peeling people alive.
The trees here are my friends, like the birds, and the big bull possum that whumps down onto the flat metal roof, scaring the unwary. Sounds like a cannonball covered in fur. He occasionally skids right over the front of the roof, onto the front veranda, and nearly landed on my partner one night, while he was out having a smoke. The possum landed with his characteristic thump. They looked at each other. The possum grunted, so did my partner, and the possum went casually down the stairs and off hunting.
Personally, castration is too good for people who cut down park trees. I’m thinking penectomy – more cruel, because it leaves them with the urges, but not the wherewithal. *smiles sweetly*
Sheesh, i did mention that i was the Queen of Darkness, don’t act surprised when i get a bit sadistic.
As i wind this up, the masked plovers are circling, annoyed about some incursion into their territory. They have massive spurs on their wings, and i’ve seen one attack a car when his chicks were threatened. A car.
The plovers have quietened, it’s a happy dog dancing past, most of them are very well-behaved.
Outside, the light’s starting to fade, the tide tugging at the lake, down where it empties into the sea.
In other news, I nearly got killed three times by demented women at the supermarket this morning – well, out in the carpark, not in the supermarket. Two tried to ram my car, one tried while i was on foot.
Yes, it’s school holidays, and the mothers of the neighbourhood are hitting the anti-depressants – and possibly the vodka – before ten a.m.