This is a story crossing the boundaries of time. Not in a Back to the Future style containing the pumping rhythms of Johnny B. Goode in the unlikely arena of a 1950s gymnasium. Nor in the style of a liquidic (It is so a word!) police officer a la Robert Patrick in the classic Terminator 2. No, this is a story set in two time periods with basically nothing holding them together except for the powerful glue of Hollywood legends. The Suspension of Disbelief.
If it were a movie, it would be that one where Keanu is in the past writing love letters to that chick in the future who buys his house on the river only to discover that they had actually met on several occasions and were spiritually connected in some deep and meaningful way. Except that it would be good and I wouldn't fall asleep.
It all starts many years ago and earlier this week. My brother, my sister and myself were discussing some crap in a Seinfeldian style, as we were want to do on a Tuesday, when suddenly and without warning, the subject turned to global warming.
We were living in Mundaring at the time and we were high up, perched on the top of the Darling Range. Below us, in all it's sprawling misery, was the metropolis known as Midland. We knew of other, larger cities, but they were far, far away. Humbled as it were by distance and lack of experience.
No, Midland was the cesspool of crime and violence in our spheres of influence. It was a place which had good shops that you rushed into and hoped like crazy that you could get home without being mugged, murdered, or worse.
Back to the story. We were discussing global warming and we had decided that it would be best if some higher being were to allow global warming, that they ensure that Midland end up under water. We were safe in our quiet mountain town. and we lived an hour or so from the beach as well. This would be a fine development.
Skip forward to this last week. Note that I'm telling the story chronologically because of the textual medium. If this were actually a movie, we would have interspersed bits of back story with the current one to make it more like an episode of Lost and increase the level of dramatic tension in a steady arc toward the spectacular finale.
So earlier this week, I was having a conversation with a colleague at work. I happened to mention that where I was living in Stratton (now at the bottom of that fearsome hill), it practically never rains. In fact, whenever it looks like it might, causing us to rush around bringing in the kids, the dog, the cat and the washing, the clouds tend to pass harmlessly over us, shower lightly on Jane Brook (the next suburb over) and then go on their merry way.
I hated those smug Jane Brookers. They get Broadband2+, they get rain, they get a brook. What do I get? I get petty street crime and a maze of roundabouts so intense, I heard the Rubiks guy is still lost in them. Oh yes, I hated them and I made sure that I said so.
So now we reach the end of the tale. It is now Sunday afternoon. I guess those Jane Brookers must have some sway with the big guys upstairs because it is raining so hard right now that I fear I may be fishing at that fabled fictional beach of my siblings overactive imaginations soon enough.
I apologise Janey's! I'm sorry! Please, I have not the skills to build an ark. I did not know what I was doing. The lord of deceit, he whispered quietly in my ear and told me I wasn't getting enough rain. He said I shouldn't need to water my lawn. He was wrong do you hear me?! I denounce him!
And now it stops. The clan of Jane Brook have heard my impassioned plea. They have lifted the curtain of wet death that had drawn so close and shown me the sun once more. As I look to the sky I see the mark of their promise.
They will not do this again, it seems the bright bands of color say. Except for Indigo. Indigo is saying that I had better not make them do it again. Or else.