Conversations in the street of any Australian town often involve the weather, which over the past four months has been bereft of rain or “dry” (pronounced “droy.”
Tim: “How’s things, Harold?
Harold: “Droy, mate!”
Tim: “Got 10 points last night – hardly worth measurin’.”
Harold: “How’re dams holdin?”
Tim: “Nothin’ but mud and mosquitos.”
Mrs Harold: “If it doesn’t rain soon, mate, we’re gonna move back to the town.”
The latter is the narrator’s refrain from one of my songs; the laconic farmer, chin up as usual, watching the ABC. He’s being harassed by the banks, making do with pumpkin scones and home brew and tells the wife that if she must pay bills, pay the one with the lawyer’s letter – today.
Australian farmers are well-used to Continue reading “If it doesn’t rain soon, mate”