R is for Recycled Water
Up here on the mountain we exist on rainwater tanks for our water.
That means our drinking water has to run across the Colourbond roof which is covered with gecko poo, flying fox urine (think Hendra virus), bird shit, asbestos, lead paint and fudge knows whatever else decides to excrete its bodily fluids inside our guttering. Not to mention whatever insidious creature chooses to reside in the water tanks.
There’s an advertisement in the local rag that states, “We clean water tanks! Dead rats at the bottom of your tank? Toads? Possums? Whatever! We can get rid of it for you!”
It’s mainly the ‘Whatever’, I worry about.
What the hell can be worse than a rotting possum decaying in the bottom of the reservoir you use to collect the water you clean your fudging teeth with?
Literally five seconds after we arrived on the mountain, it wasn’t a cup of tea my mother offered me, but a filtered water jug.
“Make sure you use this,” she whispered in hushed tones, pressing it into my hands with a sense of urgency. “The water must be filtered . Always filter your water or bad things will happen.”
Where the fudge are we? I thought. A third world fudging country?
I must say, the filtered water tastes lovely. It’s clean and pure rainwater. I used to love the glass of water I left beside my bed back in Townsville (which I’d grope around for at 2 in the morning suffering from the dry horrors) because it was ionised, but the filtered water tastes like that all the time. I’m drinking water like never before.
The only trouble is, if it doesn’t rain on the mountain, the water runs out.
We don’t have a problem at our place because we have three water tanks (possibly housing dead, rancid marsupials), but other people seem to be running out lately and I keep running into water trucks driving down the mountain as I’m driving to work.
These humungous trucks, on their way back down from delivering town water to needy locals, drive in first gear all the way down the hill and if you get stuck behind one… well… say goodbye to your brake pads.
That means our drinking water has to run across the Colourbond roof which is covered with gecko poo, flying fox urine (think Hendra virus), bird shit, asbestos, lead paint and fudge knows whatever else decides to excrete its bodily fluids inside our guttering. Not to mention whatever insidious creature chooses to reside in the water tanks.
There’s an advertisement in the local rag that states, “We clean water tanks! Dead rats at the bottom of your tank? Toads? Possums? Whatever! We can get rid of it for you!”
It’s mainly the ‘Whatever’, I worry about.
What the hell can be worse than a rotting possum decaying in the bottom of the reservoir you use to collect the water you clean your fudging teeth with?
Literally five seconds after we arrived on the mountain, it wasn’t a cup of tea my mother offered me, but a filtered water jug.
“Make sure you use this,” she whispered in hushed tones, pressing it into my hands with a sense of urgency. “The water must be filtered . Always filter your water or bad things will happen.”
Where the fudge are we? I thought. A third world fudging country?
I must say, the filtered water tastes lovely. It’s clean and pure rainwater. I used to love the glass of water I left beside my bed back in Townsville (which I’d grope around for at 2 in the morning suffering from the dry horrors) because it was ionised, but the filtered water tastes like that all the time. I’m drinking water like never before.
The only trouble is, if it doesn’t rain on the mountain, the water runs out.
We don’t have a problem at our place because we have three water tanks (possibly housing dead, rancid marsupials), but other people seem to be running out lately and I keep running into water trucks driving down the mountain as I’m driving to work.
These humungous trucks, on their way back down from delivering town water to needy locals, drive in first gear all the way down the hill and if you get stuck behind one… well… say goodbye to your brake pads.
That’s not good on an 18% gradient. Especially if you’re enjoying your life at the present time and don’t fancy the idea of dying an excruciating death via a fiery crash over a craggy mountain peak.
Sometimes the truck driver puts on their indicator to let you know you’re safe to overtake. That’s fun; speeding past a big truck on a steep slope in third gear trying not to get up to too high a speed because of the 90 degree turn on a cliff face coming up and all.
Plus, I’m always suspicious the truck driver is playing a stupid trick on me because he’s bored with carting water up and down the hill and just wants to liven up his day by initiating a blazing accident he can tell his wife about after work.
Anyway, I like to look at the bright side of things and I suppose it’s all good exercise for my blood pressure. A bit of stress at seven o’clock in the morning careening down a treacherously inclined death trap has to be good for the reflexes.
Do you have a dangerous commute to work or is it boring?
Sometimes the truck driver puts on their indicator to let you know you’re safe to overtake. That’s fun; speeding past a big truck on a steep slope in third gear trying not to get up to too high a speed because of the 90 degree turn on a cliff face coming up and all.
Plus, I’m always suspicious the truck driver is playing a stupid trick on me because he’s bored with carting water up and down the hill and just wants to liven up his day by initiating a blazing accident he can tell his wife about after work.
Anyway, I like to look at the bright side of things and I suppose it’s all good exercise for my blood pressure. A bit of stress at seven o’clock in the morning careening down a treacherously inclined death trap has to be good for the reflexes.
Do you have a dangerous commute to work or is it boring?
