Being surrounded by water and being without enough of it is not just an apparent contradiction in terms but an affront to the lifestyle you signed on for when you put your name on the mortgage. So government leaders convene, lower heads, set rules. You have to remember if your house is odd numbered or even. Reporters report urgent stories, urgently. Firefighters issue grave warnings.
Nurserymen fret about the threat to their livelihood.
At the risk of insulting nearly everybody, this drought is the best news to come down the pike in a long time. No longer do we, the garden-impaired, have to apologize. I have long been hobbled by a fantasy about those people, some of whom until now were my friends and neighbors. I imagined that on those secluded iron benches, by those ponds where mosquitoes magically never hover, among the stones engraved with inspirational messages on their gently worn footpaths, they successfully make their peace with whatever part of their lives they've completely screwed up. Either that or they just flee whoever is in the house.