Here on the benighted north coast of New South Wales, Australia (surely one of the world’s most perfect locales) the weather has been odd lately. Actually, for several years. Last week we had three days straight of 41 to 42 degrees, despite the official forecast of 39 degrees. These days, whenever the sky is clear, I can fairly safely assume it will be at least two degrees hotter than predicted. This morning I travelled a mountain highway where a week-long (and counting) bushfire has blackened thousands of hectares of forest. At one point it was obvious that a true fire-storm had jumped the highway — the safety rails are blackened, and the earth burnt, even where it had been free of grass. And, wierdly, the brown leaves of gum-trees lie horizontally, frozen, as it were, by fire travelling sideways.

Thanks to the “Black Saturday” tragedy in Victoria last summer when nearly 200 souls perished, the authorities have designated a new fire danger category: “Catastrophic”. Previously the scariest days were denoted “Extreme”, but it seems that Extreme isn’t, um, extreme enough for the new reality. What’s next — Cataclysmic? Apocalyptic?

But it’s not all searing heat and smothering smoke here in the Lucky Country. No, we also get rain, and lots of it, but mainly by way of the sky literally falling. Like, half a metre a day. Then there’s another drought. Then another deluge. Furthermore, this blessed rain is highly localised, falling only on the just, while the unjust can only look on in awe.

Gotta go, it might be about to hail on the car.