It’s rained on and off since October. Three months. On TV, I watched Queen Elizabeth struggle to control her notes in the wild wind as she declared Sydney Opera House open. The air was manic but the sky was blue and dry. Here, that day heralded a seemingly endless wet patch. No matter how much I clean, our house smells dank. Mould spreads across the bathroom ceiling, magnified – after we shower – in hanging drips of water. Our canvas sandshoes, left by the back door, grow black spots, and clothes draped on the drying rack are wet for days.

The children sleep under gauzy white nets hung from ceiling hooks, to protect them from mosquitoes that thrive in our mushy garden. Fidgety swarms of midgies hover above my pot plants. The air lies like a clammy veil on my skin.

Outside, rain pools on the earth; the nearby creek bloats and heaves itself onto the surrounding ground.

Late morning, as we’re cleaning the breakfast dishes, Mark says we need to cancel our barbecue, which we’ve had every Australia Day weekend for the past five years. ‘I guess we should ring people. Or maybe it’s obvious.’

‘The water will go down, won’t it? The roads will clear.’ I wipe my tea towel this way and that across a smoky-grey glass plate. ‘Can you see what the kids are up to? I get worried when they’re quiet.’

‘This will get worse before it gets better. Geoff says –’

‘Geoff got himself into a knot over Cyclone Wanda, too. But nothing happened.’

He frowns. ‘What do you mean nothing? That cyclone’s the reason the city’s underwater.’

‘It’s not underwater.’ I move on to wiping the laminex benchtop, admiring the sparkle where the light strikes gold flecks.

‘It will be by tonight.’

While I’m on the phone, apologising to our friends for cancelling the barbecue and talking about their kids, the weather, I scan a magazine article: ‘Creative Ways with Pineapple’. I draw overlapping circles on the glossy paper. All the while, Mark comes in and out of the kitchen, opening drawers and pulling out scissors, string, rubber bands and pointing at his watch.

‘Okay, enough,’ he says, as I put the phone down. ‘I need a hand. Anything we want to save has to come upstairs right now.’

‘You need string for that?’ Forever the boy scout.

‘C’mon, we don’t have much time.’

‘One more call.’

After Lou and I agree we’ll meet as soon as the rain lets up, I work with Mark to move our belongings from one floor to another. We haul boxes of old books and uni assignments, Mark’s home-brewing supplies, and clothes in mothballs that Sarah has outgrown and the twins don’t yet need. Mark lugs the lawnmower up the muddy side path to the shelter of the back porch.

We listen to the news and watch large puddles joining up on the lawn. Our garden starts to resemble the Japanese rice paddies you see in documentaries, but in colour.