Arthur’s Meteorology

The night before the washing arrayed around the electric oil heater for the last of the drying. There had been some sun through the afternoon, but the clothes were still damp when they were taken from the line. Nights at the desk beside the heater the hands are run over the bars something like the petting of a dog—more briskly in this case to avoid the sting. When his supper is delivered one of the ways Arthur confirms the level of cold is by blowing out his vapour behind his side gates. For the display Arthur turns side-on, a large child-like O formed for the production, chin uptilted and proper Huff sounded. In the dark from a metre distance the evidence is not always easy to discern. 7pm weeknights the planes round overhead for the approach to Tullamarine, large four engine jets illuminated particularly noteworthy. The droplet when it forms on the end of Arthur’s nose is left alone most nights; occasionally there will be a shake of the head, not ever wiping or brushing away. Through the day Arthur never turns on his heater; if there is any sun he will come out back to catch the warmth, raising a leg on one of his piles in the old fashioned way, elbow resting on knee. If the grass is still wet and he is wearing his slippers Arthur won’t come to the side fence for a chat; the tree cover makes it too cold in any case. Cold evenings feet need to be warmed before bed; cold feet will never be warmed under the covers. Through the day indoors foot stamping alleviates the chill; otherwise for confinement inside the house a treadle rigged up to run the television and computer would be just the thing. As the Africans have remarked at the café for cooling, Arthur suggests it’s all in the extremities at ground level. Cloud cover lessens the cold overnight, while a clear sky portends bitter passage. Wind too prevents the harshest cold, though of course it turns up the chill a notch no matter what the mercury records if one is caught outdoors. Early mornings Arthur gauges the cold by the vial of jojoba beside his bed. Particularly cold nights, nights only one or two above zero, the jojoba in Arthur’s bedside vial turns a grey cloudy colour; as the temperature rises in the morning the lightening marks the return to liquid. When Arthur’s bread and buns are delivered he usually has not turned on his heater and comes to the gates without jacket, scarf or cap. Knowing his body is sagging particularly in winter Arthur strives to stand himself upright for correction; after the battle of the day by evening at the gates his figure reminds of the drawings of the aged in Dickens. Dead winter there was no point rising much before 10; much better keep in the burrow and dream on. Unthinkingly once tongue quicker than brain a correction was passed to something Arthur said about the best means of keeping warm at night. Far the best though Arthur is holding tight onto a pretty babe!.... Yeah well, there was that, Arthur conceded. On his laptop it was mostly the porn Arthur surfed when the TV programming ran dry. When the net was down Arthur was sad, he admitted some weeks past before the winter had set in properly.