October on the verandah

If I don't break a sweat, it ain't as good as it gets. - Beth Hart, As Good As It Gets

The veranda. Wide and low.

Soft darkness in contrast to the glaring October light.

Green gauze over the window apertures to keep out the flies. Whitewashed walls, paint flaking if you rub against it.

Inside, cool oxblood floors, polished to a high shine by the Boy and his polisher. Whirring and whining every morning at 7o'clock.

The electric fan on top of the gramophone, limply distributing the air. The heat pulling the life out of you.

Dad fiddling with the radio to get a station through the static. Eventually giving up and settling for torpid silence.

Ochre plastic leather covered chairs sticking to the backs of your legs where your skirt rides up. A sucking sound when you shift in your seat. You want to fling your legs apart and hook them over the sides of the chair, but that's impolite so you keep them together and squirm in your chair.

You really want to lie down on the cool floor like the dogs, who pant and salivate in the heat.

Kleintje the fox terrier lies on her side, panting, chest heaving, in an effort to cool down.

Tea in a metal teapot. The green knitted tea cosy made by one of the aunts pointlessly covering the teapot. All delivered by the Boy on a tray with four cups, sugar basin, hot water, teaspoons.

'Bloody Boy forgot the milk again. Can you tell him to bring it?'

'Ephraaaaim, milk!'

The conversation drags on about crops, rain, mielies, Boys and their wives, incest, polygamy, the goat herder and his penchant for fucking the goats. Having to call the vet for the goats and why can't he just be normal and keep it in his trousers.

'Jeepers, did you see that Juliet's husband beat her again. These people. Drink and fight. You can't do anything with them. It's not surprising they can't govern themselves.'

A sigh, and then the subject changes.

'Mmm. Do you want another cup of tea?'