Eventually saying ‘she’ll be right’ will be wrong | Nick Ryan

I’m writing in the profound hope you haven’t had to wade through page after page of fiery carnage to get to this column, writes Nick Ryan.

I’m writing this with the devil’s hot breath on my neck and a howling cat in a box at my feet.

Apparently this is preparedness.

The kids should be at their school swimming carnival, but caution cancelled that, so they’re mooching around at home, ignoring the packed overnight bags at the end of their beds and complaining there’s nothing to do.

It takes a special talent to be bored on a day when being highly alert is mandated by the state.

I’m just annoyed I’ve had to cancel a boozy lunch in a place with a bushland setting that is normally very appealing but on a day like today feels like going shark diving in a straw cage.

If the forecast is to be believed, by the time these words fall under your eyes everything’s going to be cold and wet.

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It’s hard to imagine such extremes within 48 hours and there’s a horrible irony in the fact such biblical weather is what comes from denying the science.

I’m writing in the profound hope you haven’t had to wade through page after page of fiery carnage to get to this one.

I’m also writing in that strange place where you’re just sitting around waiting for something you really don’t want to happen, sitting around wondering if declaring a day to be ‘‘catastrophic’’ isn’t just tempting fate.

Overnight, bright lights moved slowly across the hills and plains as every header and chaser available rushed to bring in crops that otherwise might be money burned or flushed away by the time this weekend is through.

My other half went past them as she drove into town to panic buy batteries and candles.

The first thing she said to me on an ominous Friday morning was, “Do you think you should remove that packet of firelighters from the barbecue outside?’’

It took me a moment to wake up properly and suggest that if a packet of firelighters were to be ignited by some other source, they would be the least of our problems.

But on a ‘‘catastrophic’’ day, a catastrophiser comes into their own.

When you see doom in the everyday, dangerous days are your time to shine.

She was up early with a list of things I needed to do, most of them probably pointless if things really went bad, but somehow just compiling a list like that soothed her.

She got everything ready for kids and pets, while I just worked out what paintings I’d grab and started to pre-mourn my booze and my books.

But if, as expected, this most dangerous day for years is followed quickly by too many more, I’m going to have to snap out of my laissez-faire laziness and be a bit more like her.

Eventually me saying ‘‘she’ll be right’’ will be wrong, and on that day She will be right.

She will be ready, and that will probably save us all.

And I’ll finally realise what is really too important to lose.

They’re banging on then office door now, demanding I make them lunch.