The Dog Days

We’re officially at that time of year, when the heat reaches its peak and so does the languidness in the air. In ancient times, the dog days in the northern hemisphere were between July 24 and August 24. I think that the ancients were right, for during this period an air of laziness seems to grip me. I try to work, to be productive but it is like I am fighting a fog in my brain. The air around me is hot and humid. And heavy. It is all I can do to keep my eyes open without falling into a blissful sleep. Big grey clouds are starting to roll in daily. But it doesn’t rain. It’s too early for that. On August 24 we celebrate the feast of Saint Bartholomew. The local legend goes that on that day the saint is given the keys to the heavens, to inaugurate the next rainy season. Soon thunderstorms will be brewing in the air, making everything from flies to humans pesky and irritable. I look up daily at the grey clouds, hoping that a few drops will fall onto the parched and dusty land. But it’s no use. It’s too early. I have to wait – for old Saint Bart to enter his keys into that heavenly lock.

In the meantime I have to have patience and try to write some coherent sentences. It seems that I cannot concentrate for long. My mind is elsewhere. I daydream of lying on a beach somewhere but instead, I am stuck at the office. I seem to have switched from writing to reading. I have rekindled my love for all things vintage by visiting the blogs of some very talented ladies who constantly revamp old items and make them look gorgeous. So that has set me onto the redecorating/revamping road. I have a thousand projects in my head. A hundred things I need to buy. I seem to be constantly popping in to Ebay and Etsy to try and find that elusive treasure. I daily wish that thrift stores and yard sales were more prolific here instead of practically nonexistent. All of this is going on (mostly in my head) while my dad and husband work on our yard. They’ve built a BBQ pit and are re-cladding the walls. There’s dust and debris everywhere. Our poor plants look very dejected and forlorn and no amount of spraying with water seems to help them. I guess that, like me, they’re waiting for the rain. Come on Saint Bart, we’re counting on you.