Fuelling the fire

Thanks for your kind enquiries—my initial Ocrevus infusions are done, and nothing to report, no adverse reactions. As for any benefits, I won’t know until March.

But something new—our neighbour’s bees have been descending en masse onto our birdbath, the shallow one. It must be the only accessible water source within range. They mostly cluster around the water’s edge, but some intrepid ones skim the surface, and some dip right in. We scoop them out if we notice them in time.

There’s not a drop of water in the environment, not a skerrick. If the far south coast hasn’t gone up in flames yet this season, it’s luck more than anything. The Mechanic and I have made four trips to Sydney in the last three months and each time we’ve had to plan routes to dodge bushfires. Last week the Princes Highway was open and we drove through the fire-ravaged Shoalhaven—acres and acres of black trunks, crisp canopies, undergrowth reduced to ash. Twisted guard rails, blistered road signs. It felt apocalyptic. An hour after we passed through, another blaze came barrelling in from the west and they had to close the highway again.

Australia’s on fire and our Prime Minister is arrogantly resolute—we don’t need a climate policy (or more resources for fire-fighters). After all, any action to prevent climate change will postpone the salvation of Pentecostal Christians everywhere—the biblical End of Days, the Rapture, when true believers will get raised up to heaven to sit at God’s table, leaving the rest of us to deal with the Armageddon below.

Morrison’s rubbing his hands, with glee, over these fires.

Mass fish kills in the Murray-Darling Basin, the repealing of the Medevac legislation, the pitiful, poverty-level Newstart allowance. Further afield, citizens’ desperate protests in Hong Kong, Iran, Britain, Lebanon, Chile, India. Beside all this, my own situation brings to mind the title of the next book on my stack: All My Puny Sorrows (Miriam Toews).

Merry Christmas, everyone.