I always worry when I'm launching a new book that something will go wrong, but when something does go wrong, I do not buy into preposterous esoteric theories that I have wished it upon myself. If I could wish things upon myself, don't you think I'd be sipping margaritas on a yacht in the Bahamas, waiting for my next good banging from Hugh Jackman, instead of sitting in a self-contained unit of a motel because my house has been rendered untenable after a flood? Yes, you read that right. I am typing this on my husband's laptop, which was salvaged, instead of my computer, which was drowned. However, the insurance cleaner has set the hard drive aside and advised me to see an IT expert who might be able to rescue some of the material. In any event, I saved the USB with my novel-in-progress, and the stock for my upcoming launch on 16 May 2014 was up on a table, so it's safe, too. If this is my pre-destined, pre-launch disaster, then I'll get through this. I'm not sure if I will get through being in a cramped dwelling with my two children, whilst my husband is at our house with our pets, and listening to the uncomforting roar of the industrial fans set to dry the house, and the dehumidifer set up to suck all the moisture out of the air.
Let me tell you what happened on the morning of Anzac Day, 2014. It was about 5.30am, and I was lying on a matress in my son's room. My oldest son's room, and the lounge room, were just last week given a zooosh with sanding and polishing of the floorboards. My littlest one slept on a mattressin the lounge room, as his bed was covered in books. The oldest slept with his dad. I heard the heavy rain and thought I wouldn't get to the Dawn Service after all. The rain increased in volume, and the lightning and thunder sounded like they were outside my window. Then I heard my oldest call out, 'Mum, there's a flood!' I scrambled up from the mattress, and went to the lounge room to see water coming in through the front door, and down the hallway, and into the lounge room when my youngest slept on in blissful oblivion. My husband shouted for us to wake the little boy, who stirred blinking like a disturbed koala. The water rose in its depth, and like a mini-tsunami, coursed through the kitchen and into the laundry and dining rooms (I'm not going to provide architectural plans of my house, but that's how it happened). My children stood on the sofa, the oldest crying and saying he was scared. My husband roared out, 'Where's Fergus?' Fergus is our mini foxie pup, and thank God he was safe in the laundry, on top of a piece of the multitude of junk I keep in the house. Or up to that point, kept in the house. That junk is no more. I scooped up the pup, and shoved him into my son's arms, and upon finding the phone dead, grabbed my mobile and rang the SES. Know what I really fucking hate? Recorded voices asking for the suburb. I live in Muswellbrook, and most of you probably know the 's' is silent. I got some blarney that the town was not recognised, and could I please key in my post code. So I did. Got more blarney about the suburbs being Merriwa, Denman, and Muzzwellbrook. Yeah, Muswellbrook with a 'Z'. Great. Anyway, I eventually got a dispatch operator and I was babbling that my house was in the process of flooding, and he was asking were we safe, and I felt like crying out, 'Not if the water keeps rising and we drown!' But he said he would get the local guys onto it. I just hate being put through to an operator who is well away from your local area and has no idea what you're talking about. So for a few minutes I just stood there terrified, wondering when it was going to stop. And it seemed that almost as soon as the heavy storm started, it did stop. I have since found out there was about three inches in half an hour. That is seriously freaky stuff, but at that moment I was standing there in six inches of cold water, staring at the shallow lagoon that had once been my floor, with this 'WTF?' loop going in my head. And my almost-10yo looked at me and said, 'Mum, you're gonna need a bigger boat.' I laughed. I laughed and laughed. Then I laughed some more. I had tears in my eyes from laughing. I was laughing to the point where you're one guffaw from a shot of Thorazine from a nice person in a white coat. I clasped my beautiful son and held him close, and said, 'Michael, I love you!'
So, the putrid water drained, and with some towels and quick action, I think I saved my new floorboards. But we were left with some devilish mixture of mud and silt and debris some three inches deep through most of the house. My husband got on to the insurance company, and we have been given this accommodation from where I type this post. Today, a representative attended and photographs have been taken, and the cleaning commenced. Thank God for professionals. Not quite finished, but it's just looking so much better. Today, I dragged out some stuff for the man to assess tomorrow. Beautiful leather boots are ruined. A hand-made leather overnight bag I won on 'Sale of the Century' in 2001 is probably beyond repair (I won it in the Fame Game. The answer was Ron Clark, and the prize was behind Jean Kittson's head). My 'MAD' magazines - fucked. One of the cleaners told me he is also a collector, and to check under 'collectables' in the policy.
I am handling it okay, I guess. I know losing my shit will assist nobody. Yesterday morning, I got up after a night of really no sleep, and drove to my house to check on my dogs. Then I drove back, with McDonalds breakfasts for everybody. I sat on the lounge here, and started to cry. Last night, I picked up my kids from a friend's house. I drove home and listened to their requests for KFC. I told them it would be pizza. 'Yesterday you said KFC!' was the resentful, reproachful wail from my youngest. 'Yesterday the fucking house flooded!' was my angry response, followed by apologies and a reminder that things just aren't quite normal at the moment. I hate junk food. I'm sick of it. But I haven't got time to cook anything in this place at the moment.
So, I'm in a motel room with my kids. One's asleep. The other's watching 'Spiderman'. I have no interest in seeing Tobey Maguire shooting snot from his wrists, so I'm tapping away here.
It might seem shallow, but the 'important' things like my book launch stock and USB are safe. For that I'm glad. I'm even more glad that we're all safe. We've had our local mayor over, at my request, to look at the damage and to complain to him about the storm water drain in our street, which I don't think is equipped to cope even with the urine from a fairy, let alone the deluge on Anzac Day. And we going to get some new things, like a lounge suite (I'm only sad because the one ruined was one I inherited from my late aunt, and I loved her very much, but she'd probably say, 'Get rid of bit, Bing, and pour a champers!'). I am kind of wishing if it had to happen, it didn't happen just before I'm about to launch a book, and organise publicity and other such things that accompany these momentous occasions.
Had to laugh. I sat down on the grass today to check my phone. Hubby said I'd get a wet bum. I just stared. I think a wet bum is insignificant to a saturated house. I said in a cawing voice, 'Well, the old grapes will flare up, won't they!' Perhaps I am starting to lose my shiz after all.
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