It had been months upon months of dry. A late spring lagged into a late summer, fumbling into a scorching autumn. Suburban lawns turned to hay, overheated cars held up enervated traffic and birds fell out of the sky in Hopetoun and Mungilup. Tourists sat on benches in dehydrated stupors while petrol stations ran out of bagged ice. On the hottest days, air-conditioning threw the city's electricity usage over the possible maximum limits. Pedestrians' journeys were considered in terms of shade opportunities rather than distance. Beach sand became lethal.

One Monday in late March, they finally predicted rain to the disbelieving, panting population. It was a cloudless thirty degrees all morning until, suddenly, the heavens opened in late afternoon, crashing down in rain and then huge balls of hail. People spilled out into their doorways and rushed to their office windows, looking out at water and ice covering the streets. Dogs cowered in their kennels, believing the end had come. It became night and winter at five in the evening, a violent crescendo of thunder percussion and flickering globes. Office buildings were evacuated, their waa waa alarms ringing all over the city. Workers remained at their desks, choosing to sink with the ship rather than drown on the street. It was a chaos of wind, water and leaves, a battle of umbrellas and skirts and puddles. Traffic once again ground to a halt but Nature had balanced herself again with a swipe of her hand: the rains were here, the air was petrichorous, the heatwave, broken.