Drip

Officially it is merely early Autumn, but Winter has decided to muscle in early. Or maybe this is just what happens in southern Tasmania. The latest I have ever been down here is my birthday – 2nd of May – and that was because we waited ten days for a weather window at St Helens in order to cross Bass Strait. At that time the weather was similar to what it has been the past few days. Cold. 

087/366 • …when the Smalls were...smaller, I ised to send them on missions to collect stuff (enabling me to have an uninterrupted cup of tea). Today Z made this little form that I filled out and they both went hunting in between the rainshowers. The littl

Actually, forget about the weather because it is the TEMPERATURE. The temperature at which moisture in the air becomes water. That then drips from the ceiling and on to my head, or my bed, or the bit of floor I elect to stand on after clambering out the end of it. 

However, I am in the starboard hull – the side with the galley, and thus the side with the stove – which has the added attraction of being a heater when the lid is down. The heat then allegedly rises and wafts its way to the highest point – the ceiling – leaving a ghostly slurry of cold from foot to mid thigh as you walk through the kitchen. 

089/366 • …oh my god it is SO HARD TO GET OUT OF BED AND GO WALKING - my self-discipline has completely evaporated. Gahhhhhhhhh. • . #crochetorcombust { 📷 by DB }

[One of my secret ambitions for our new kitten is that she will run up and down the galley floor, mixing the cold air with the warm with the momentum of her tiny furry body.]

Some of the wafty stoveheat does appear to make its way into my bedroom, making it bearable to be in should you want to escape somewhere during waking hours. The problem is during the night, when, as I’ve whined countless times before, the half litre of moisture breathed out by each person mingles with the air, until it gets too cold for the mingling and simply turns to liquid. And drips. 

Yesterday, in a monumental slump made of weather and children, M drove to Bunnings and bought grass mats (to go under the foam mattress and aerate it) and a column oil heater. Brought it back, plugged it in, blew the safety switch twice, screamed thrice, shoved the heater back in the box and drove the 40minutes back to Bunnings and returned it.

Went to BigW, bought a cheaper one, put it in Small Z’s room in the port hull last night and GLORY BE! Her room and the nook were dripless!! Who was that AWESOME person that worked our how to harness electricity? That person will be my historical-inventor boyfriend (keeping, incidentally, good company with my podcast boyfriend Norman Swan, and my internet boyfriend, First Dog On The Moon). 

So now I have heater envy, having unintentionally rinsed my hair by accidentally smearing my head on the ceiling whilst getting out of bed. Le sigh. I am cognisant that I should be harvesting the water for thirsty undeveloped countries, but it’s as if it came from me and now wants to return. I am an (unwilling) recycling watermaker. 

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