a cautionary tale

There’s something about water restrictions that really seems to piss people off. It might have something to do with feeling like your neighbours are spying on you, ready to turn you into the water-cops at the drop of a hat. I don’t know.

I understand it in a way. I feel strangely guilty when I’m watering the plants, even though I only use water from the bucket in the shower. I still imagine curtains twitching, unseen eyes boring holes in the back of my head and treacherous fingers dialling the dob-in-a-water-waster hotline.

Some people do take it too far, though.

A couple of years ago, when I used to live in Brunswick my neighbour (female, small-ish, blonde, early 30s) happened to suggest in passing, very politely, to a guy that perhaps he shouldn’t be watering the concrete driveway in the middle of summer.

As you do.

He didn’t take it too well, let me tell you. He yelled, screamed and generally carried on in a four-letter, R-rated way and then proceeded to follow her home, scaring the pants off her.

He cooled off a bit and went home when I showed up, but it was a pretty scary experience for her.

Now, I read some guy in Sydney has murdered an old man over an argument about water restrictions.

Let that be a lesson: be careful what you say to strangers and only water the garden in the dead of night. Oh, and wear a mask or Groucho Marx goggles, if you have them.

Running
A fairly ordinary couple of lunchtime tan laps today. It was warmer than I probably would have preferred (25 or thereabouts) and I got pretty sweaty.