Send it down, Hughie!

My sons have no grandfathers. This is a shame for many reasons, but a significant one occurred to me today.

Old Orstralian men say cute things that nobody else in the world says. They say things like, "A man is not a camel," when confronted with drinking partners who are a bit slow on the shouts. They say things like "What's a man to do?" when told they can't use their nine iron in an approach to the green because the comp rules that day demand they can only use four clubs. "Stone the flaming crows!" is something else they may say if flabbergasted about events. Sometimes, if particularly moved by the mendacity of another, they may even say, "Don't come the raw prawn with me!"

And by not knowing any old Orstralian men my sons have also never heard the phrase, "Send it down, Hughie!"

(For once I'm not referring to Hugh Jackman here. I very well could before the end of the article, as it would not be out of character for me to do so with only the slightest of prompting, but for now, be sure that this is a totally different Hughie..)

The phrase means, "Please God, let it rain." Orstralians have been saying this, or its variant "Send her down, Hughie" for over a century according to my brief yet enlightening research today.

I also had no grandfathers as I grew up, so I didn't learn of the expression until I was in my teens and it was introduced to me during the seventies via the language of surfers. Surfing lore had adopted Hughie, God of all Things Wet, as the provider of good waves. My particular mob of surfing mates had even designated a certain statue of an old soldier, situated alongside the highway to the Gold Coast, as their Hughie, and would salute him as we drove past each weekend in order to ensure decent swells.

But Hughie, first and foremost, is there to send the rain down and, with all due respect, he's been slacking off of late. Here in South East Queensland our dams are very low and without some decent falls some time soon we'll all be in quite a bit of strife. Level Five water restrictions are already in place and these include things like no use of hoses for any reason whatsoever, watering of gardens via buckets on only designated days, four minute showers, anti-evaporation covers on swimming pools and things of that nature. No more summer afternoons cavorting under the sprinkler for this generation of kiddies. Sprinklers were banned back at Level Three.

(As for four minute showers, at first I thought who the hell has time for four minute showers anyway? Then I remembered those carefree childless winter mornings of splendid sumptuousness staying under the steaming soothing spray, gradually increasing the heat, more and more, as the minutes ticked by in a sensual experiencing bordering on the erotic.)

Why this has all come to mind today is because it rained. A bit. To give you some idea of how rare this is, allow me to share with you a typical week's forecast courtesy of our Bureau of Meteorology:

"Monday Mostly fine

Tuesday Mostly fine.

Wednesday Mostly fine

Thursday Fine

Friday Fine

Saturday Mostly fine"

I wish I'd made that up.

But today they promised ‘showers'. Not only did they promise showers, they delivered showers! This is a rare and lovely thing. We are often teased with the phrases ‘likelihood of a shower' or ‘potential showers' and ‘chance of a shower'. It's all bollocks of course. The showers start over in the west behind the ranges, then they have a meeting and decide to dissipate before they reach the coast. They clearly have formed a cartel and have no interest in meeting the market, but instead use their monopoly powers to create an unreasonable demand that will only ensure them high prices. Like petroleum companies and the manufacturers of vegemite, they know they have us by everything short and/or curly and can do what the bloody hell they like.

Weather forecasters, bless their long-range cotton socks, were best described by one of my fictional heroes over fifteen years ago on telly. FBI Special Agent Dale Cooper from Twin Peaks said, via his dictaphone to his assistant Diane, "To be paid that much to be wrong sixty percent of the time: it sure beats working."

To the rain. I can't tell you, unless you are from a similarly arid part of the world, the sheer delight in dancing amongst the rain drops. Today, when the late morning clouds became purposeful, I simply had to throw off the blankie and become one with the elements. After a bit of becoming damp I then remembered I own a camera and decided to capture the moment for everness. Who knows when it will happen next.

There are tales in these parts about farm dogs raised to maturity on the land that have never seen rain, and when they do, they behave as though aliens have invaded and go ape-poo. Stories of three year olds, crying to their mothers because they're scared of this bizarre wetness from the skies that heretofore in their tiny lives have been simply blue and blue and endlessly blue.

It rained today. It may rain again tomorrow. There is a ‘chance of a shower' afterall. Send it down, Hughie! Please.