And why the mail was wet? It has rained here. Rained and rained and rained. No soccer now for about six weeks, the grounds are sodden and large parts of the country are having serious flooding problems. Cows aren't getting milked, trees have blocked driveways up and down the country, roads are closed, cars washed away, coastal baches washed into the sea... Steve and his co-workers had to drive through a lot of flooded roads to get back to Christchurch from Queenstown. They agreed that if they could see the yellow line (of the road markings) under the water, they'd give it a go, otherwise find a detour! OMG! They made it and he flew back up this afternoon. It's raining again now. It rained all day yesterday and I mean ALL DAY steady, heavy rain. I can stand on my verandah at school and just watch the rain. It's amazing.
Going to bed early, it's not even half past ten. But netball stops for no man, or girl, and Christy's team has a game at 8.15 in the morning. It'll be cold and wet. No soccer though, so we can come home and get warm and dry. Then we'll buy paint and a few more tiles for the bathroom (damn the tiler who missed a wall in his calculations...)
And I'm tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiired. So, have a good day-evening-morning, my fellow friends. I'm going to read a novel, and I tell you it's a really badly written novel (some of Connelly's Harry Bosch novels are okay but this latest one is total crap, and explains everything like it was written for ESOL students or something). And some of it is just plain crap for no apparent reason. Just listen to this line:
But Bosch couldn't bring himself to roll over. Not even for Rachel and the memory of what they once had. Not even for the hope of a future with her that he still carried like a number in a cell phone's heart.