Froggy's World - Alms for Oblivion (Weblog)

Communal cleansing by the riverside
3rd October, 2006

The tap gurgled like an overburdened stomach and then was quiet. I stood there wearing not much, hair standing on end, unshaven, eyes still sleep-smeared and stared stupidly at the sink with my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. Something was missing. What could it be? I looked at the empty glass I was holding and then at the tap.
Water. Water was missing. I needed water! Brain slowly spooling up to operating speed, I reached out again and turned the tap on and off. It hissed once and resumed its silence. I shuffled in to the bathroom and repeated the exercise. More hissing and gurgling, but no water.
The seconds ticked by as I stared at the tap and then at my reflection in the mirror. The sight that stared back was sufficiently disturbing to startle me into full consciousness. Water! There was no water! It had finally happened. Brisbane had run out of water as we slept. Why hadn't we been warned? Did they think that if they said nothing then we wouldn't notice when we got up that our morning shower was minus one vital element?
Suddenly I was very thirsty. Shuffling back into the kitchen, I swung open the fridge door and surveyed the liquid contents - two-and-a-half bottles of wine, four stubbies of beer, an empty water bottle and half a carton of milk. Bugger!
I pulled on a tracksuit and poked my head out into the corridor and screamed. A woman was heading towards me along the hallway in her dressing gown and it wasn't a pretty sight.
   "Got any water?" she demanded.
   "Nope," I replied, peering around the door. "But if you're partial to chardonnay, beer or a glass of milk, I'm your man."
Like all my other attempts at fostering a warm bond with my fellow residents, this was spectacularly unsuccessful and the woman moved on. I woke my wife, and we shuffled along to the poolside area where a small clutch of residents had gathered to stare at each other.
   "No water?" we asked.
   "No water," they said.
   "I see," I said and we left them with their hands in their pockets, pondering a waterless morning.
We returned to our apartment and I went to make a cup of tea, halting in mid-shuffle when I realised that to make a cuppa, you needed water. Not only was I tea-less but also shower-less, shave-less, toilet-less and, unless I cleaned my teeth in milk, beer or wine, unable to use my toothbrush.
Had the Big Day really come? Had the muddy floor of the Wivenhoe dam been finally exposed and the last few litres sucked from its once massive catchment? We consoled ourselves with the thought that we didn't live far from the river. Given a worse-case scenario, we could head down to the riverbank with our towels and soap and perform our ablutions. It would be like a scene from a Discovery Channel doco on India, the Brisbane River becoming Australia's Ganges as the citizens on one side squatted by the edge and carried out their morning bathing rituals, waving to those doing the same thing on the other side.
What a great social leveller that would be, I thought, but as we weren't quite ready for the riverbank yet, we rang our friend who lived in a nearby townhouse.
   "Have you got any water?" I asked. "This is serious. There's no water in the taps here. Have we finally run out?"
   "You might have," she replied smugly, "but we've got plenty of water here."
   "Can we come over and use your bathroom? I need to have a shave and a shower," I pleaded.
   "Katrien is fine, but you'll make a mess," she replied sweetly. "You know what you're like. By the time you have finished the bathroom will look like a rice paddy, there'll be water from the shower all over the toilet seat and you'll leave your towel on the floor."
   "Never!" I cried. "And I even promise not to drench the toilet roll."
   "Promise?" she pressed.
   "I promise, I said. "And when the taps do finally run dry, we'll save a spot for you on the riverbank at Toowong. Fifth rock on the left along from the ferry terminal."

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