Heat Rash

I was in Melbourne for a few days last week, researching a story on the local bar scene. As usual, this involved drinking in 10 or so bars each day, the better to describe them, their cocktails and the general feel of the place. After 36 hours of this my body was shot to bits and the thought of climbing on a plane and coming home to my sofa in Sydney was enough to make me emotional.

The weather predictions for my final day had been ominous, 40 plus degrees and windy, so I was half braced as I stepped out of the airconditioned hotel lobby, but nothing could have prepared me for the conditions outside. I struggle even to put it into words. It was like stepping into a space suit that had been stored in a furnace for several days. There was no escape from it, and the wind was hotter still, with not a molecule of moisture anywhere. It was the most oppresive feeling I can think of, save drowning. 46.5 degrees, so the airport shuttle driver told us on the freeway. I thought I had found the worst possible hangover environment.

As the plane taxied out onto the runway, spots of rain started to land on the windows; they were grey and gritty. Having spent three days in darkened bars, either drunk or hungover, news of the bushfire crisis unfolding hadn't reached us. However taking off, we realised it was an enormous pall of smoke we were flying through, not clouds. It was a biblical sight.

The last few day's news footage has shown us how bad it was down on the ground we flew over; Hellish. It is another reminder that no matter how dificult or uncomfortable your situation might be in the normal run of life, someone else is definately up to their neck in something worse.

"Be thankful and stop moaning" I told myself once again.