And then came the darkening

It's 6.25pm on Friday night and instead of going out to the Australian Open with My One True Love - he's taken the Amateur Actress instead - I'm (slightly ashamed to admit this but it's true) sitting at my sewing machine, finishing up an Ellyfump for my upcoming February market stall.

Now, this is not as lame and sad as it might sound. It's actually quite good. I've got the house to myself, the air-conditioning is protecting me from the 45 degree weather outside, and I think I probably have ...oooh, at least five long, lovely, quiet hours of happy sewing to myself, before the other two return home.

I've settled into a nice rhythm. Beside me there is a glass of clove cordial with ice gently creaking and cracking and clinking. I've finished making the flappy ears - this is an African ellyfump, so the ears are gigantic - and I'm just starting to sew the two body pieces together.

When all of a sudden the machine stops, the air-conditioning stops, the tv goes off, and the lights go out.

Now I'm sitting in complete darkness.

It's obvious what's happened, of course. On the tv news they were talking about the immense power demands through this heatwave, and clearly, Northcote has guzzled more than its fair share of electricity. Greedy, greedy Northcote.

I can't sew, clearly. And I can't open the blinds or the back door to let some natural light in, because then of course the lovely cool air will escape and the sun will blast in and I'll fry to a crisp in the heat. So what to do?

I push back my chair, take up the glass and drink down my long cool river of cordial. I go to the fridge. I extract the Duvel beer I've been saving for a special occasion, and I pour it into the cordial glass. It froths satisfyingly.

I scoop up a book I've been meaning to read but somehow never got around to, and I wander up the hallway and out through the front door. It's ever so slightly cooler here, because the front of the house is protected from the sun.

People are milling about, suddenly freed from their semi-comatose states in front of the tv. They're calling to each other about the blackout, and everyone agrees the timing couldn't be worse. The man down the street has taken on the role of neighbourhood Oracle, advising people as they pull up in their cars arriving home from work; The power's out! Not a volt! Nothing works! He sounds really excited about it.

I settle into the deckchair out the front. I make myself comfortable on the cushion Podder usually sits on - it's covered in cat fur, like a small furry hide, and I watch the world go by for a bit. The New Parents down the road are taking the baby out for a walk, it's too hot to keep him indoors in this weather. They're thinking about going to the local cinema, but of course it's blacked out too - so, just a walk then.

I sit back and read my book, for over two hours, but the book's engrossing and I don't even notice the time passing. I sweat quietly, without worrying, and just enjoy the free time.

Eventually the power comes back on and I retreat back indoors, and so does everybody else, and the unusual sound of neighbourly conversation eventually stills, and I can hear the hum of airconditioners powering up, and the faint sounds of a radio floating down the street, and doors slamming as people close up their houses again against the summer sun.

I assume my previous position in front of the sewing machine, and so it goes.

Rafael Nadal's lucky undies

Whew …. This is our third day over 40 degrees and I am completely sapped of energy.

I can hardly summon the strength to type. My fingers are heavily plonking up and down on the keyboard rather than flying along nimbly as they usually do. In fact, I just typed “numbly” there instead of nimbly – I think that says it all.

And if I’m so whacked by the heat (and I usually *love* the heat), how are those players at the Australian Open coping? I heard someone say it can get to 60 degrees on centre court if it’s around 40 degrees in the air.

60 degrees!! Dearie me, it would be too much to bear just sitting in one place, let alone fighting out an athletic game of strength, skill and stamina. Jeez.

My One True Love and I actually went to the tennis last night, courtesy of some corporate largesse, and we watched the match between Rafael Nadal and Gilles Simon.

I’m not usually a big tennis fan … in fact, I spent the first half an hour in the Garnier tent having a little mini-facial which was deLIGHTfully refreshing given the heat, and then of course I got the freebie bag as I exited which had all manner of freebie full-sized products in it (though if anyone would like the spray-on tan-in-a-can and after-sun tan extender, please do let me know).

I digress. But I recommend it, if you're going.

So I’m not usually a big tennis fan but watching Nadal and Simon play was fantastic. We had quite good seats, quite close to the court, quite near the front (thank you Big Business) and so we were in the *perfect* position to watch Nadal repeatedly extract the wedgie from his butt cheeks about every ten seconds.

How many times can one guy pull his undies out of his crack?? It was awful! Like a car crash right in your vision – you can’t look away because it’s RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU every five minutes.

In fact, there was something quite ritualistic about it, so maybe he’s so used to doing it that he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it any more. Maybe they’re his lucky undies and that’s why they give him the wedgie, because he’s been wearing them for ten thousand years? And now they're all loose and baggy? But he can’t wear another pair because they’re his lucky undies and without them he’ll lose the game?

But I mean really – can somebody please tell that guy how horrendous it looks, and while you’re there, could you please mention to him that some supportive trunks would eliminate the need for such a public display of undie-picking? Doesn’t Pat Rafter endorse some kind of Bonds Very Comfy Undies or other such product? If it’s good enough for Pat, it’s good enough for Rafael.

Anyway, the lucky undies clearly worked, because he beat Simon hands down - or should that be pants down?

6-4, 7-5, 7-5.