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Dear Mother Nature.
Those people singing "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" don't mean it. Honest. At least here they don't.
This is the Southern Hemisphere. Christmas means 40C and sweating over Christmas Lunch and scanning the sky for smoke, and the joy of icy cold drinks, and playing cricket in the back yard, and Dad's zinc-creamed nose, and the cicadas so loud you can't hear the bloody Messiah playing again.
It doesn't mean snow.
I know you're only aiming for the mountains to our east. That's still too close.
Stop it.
Send it north. I have friends in the UK and USA who would love it. Really.
No love,
Rey.
This is the Southern Hemisphere. Christmas means 40C and sweating over Christmas Lunch and scanning the sky for smoke, and the joy of icy cold drinks, and playing cricket in the back yard, and Dad's zinc-creamed nose, and the cicadas so loud you can't hear the bloody Messiah playing again.
It doesn't mean snow.
I know you're only aiming for the mountains to our east. That's still too close.
Stop it.
Send it north. I have friends in the UK and USA who would love it. Really.
No love,
Rey.
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