By today one of two things will have happened, either Cyclone Ului has hit town, and this column won’t have appeared because there won’t be a paper today, and you’ll be frantically waving at the news choppers from the remains of your lounge room. Or, Ului will have passed us by and you’ll be reading this (and hopefully having a little chuckle) while your family wonders what to do with the four thousand tins of tomato soup you panic purchased last Thursday.
It’s Wednesday evening as I sit here tapping away, and outside it looks quite pleasant, but an impending nightmare is spinning towards us from out of the Coral Sea like an out of control ceiling fan. Just like the same time last year when Cyclone Hamish appeared and the North disappeared under a deluge of Biblical proportions. We smacked our lips in anticipation as the drought busting rains approached, but Hamish cruelly swung out to sea, and while the rest of the state floundered, we ended up copping a lousy four millimetres of liquid gold.
Still, you may be surprised to learn that Hamish caused several casualties as it approached Gladstone. Nearly all of them were sustained in supermarket aisles as shoppers lunged at the rapidly emptying shelves, vying for bottles of water, tinned food, batteries, cigarettes and flat screen tele’s. Several were almost killed when caught trying to raid other shoppers’ trolleys. I saw little old ladies tossing small children over their shoulders as they charged towards the checkouts with their booty. And I came close to being critically injured whilst crash tackling my way through a bottle shop.
But this year things are different. We’ve had so much rain that to my astonishment, people are actually complaining about it, and for once we genuinely don’t need anymore downpours, which is why I’m absolutely certain Ului is going to hit us. This is the way nature works, and explains why she is called a Mother.
Anyway, just in case things go horribly wrong and someone salvages my laptop with this column in it, then please tell Long Suffering Wife that it actually was me who taped over our wedding video, and not Auntie May, and perhaps they should get over the name calling and start talking to each other again. But if you happen to be reading this in the paper today, then get my address from the editor because I can do you a great deal on several thousand tins of tomato soup.