Smell of heated gum leaves, eucalypt carried on morning breeze, alerts you to the scorcher to come.

It's coming in from the west. The west that, if you're of a mind to, you can just keep going for thousands of kilometres from the east coast for days on end, until you lose yourself or reach a western shore.

You feel heat coming through the soles of your feet as footpaths heat up, black roads turn sticky. Everywhere you look it's gone hazy; heat lines wavering on the edge of vision, houses going wavy, people becoming minimalist, looking more like black lines of ash, thin and runny on an artists' canvas.

A cicada close by starts up a call and you follow its imitators rising like a musical scale as it's taken up by thousands more, heading away in any direction. Just as suddenly, they stop, perhaps shocked at their combined cacophony.

Long lazy lizards, languid in their movements, cold armour yet to heat up, jostle slowly for prime positions on rocks and protected concrete. Blue Tongues, Bearded Dragons, Water Dragons, little mobile Skinks, all fill up on the free fuel beaming down...you just know there's a snake somewhere too.

Sitting on your timber deck, you listen to the iron roof move as sunshine makes it crack, click - shifting molecules speaking. Solitary cloud blocks the light, instant cooling starts, the noise in reverse; click, clack.

Across the valley, you hear a lawnmower, early morning noise-maker beating the afternoon sun. Just like cicadas, others take their cue and mowers, blowers and whipper-snippers blast into life, over-pinning nature's racket with one fuelled by two-stroke motors, and the mercury, once risen, doesn't stop.

A clean laundered smell, a whiff of wet washing, comes over the fence as you spy neighbours pegging out the clotheslines, no sooner hung than ready to come in to join the ranks of the unironed in baskets.

A splash, and reflected ripples of light oscillate across the shadows thrown by the roof, the first of many for the day as kids make for the pool; bombs, belly flops, screaming silliness, squeals and peals of laughter echoing in accompaniment to life in all its mundane comfiness.

Afternoon, and the subconsciously expected smell of fire sneaks up on you. A quick, almost fearful glance about you confirms two things; it is smoke, and thankfully it's nowhere near you. A shrug as you once again realise it could be hundreds of kilometres away and it may be days old. The smoke reminds you of the need to get some meat for the barbie, put a slab of beer in the bar fridge, and ice down the wife's Chardonnay. Just a few more overs of the Ashes cricket...

It's mid afternoon and heat is king. The smell you get, akin to opening an oven door, assails the senses, perspiration dries and the morning papers, scattered across the eight-seater outside setting, crackle and rustle as you pick them up; sucked dry and already fading news in more ways than one.

Driving to the shopping centre, you go slowly to increase the time spent in blessed air-conditioning, watching the houses go by. A guy up the street begins to unwind his garden hose, and when you stare at him, he looks away - water restrictions - it isn't that time of day you can use a hose. You slow down as Rum, the street's tom-cat, does his lazy walk across the asphalt; a meander here, a flick of the tail and a meander there. You blow the horn and he just ignores you. It'd be easy to flatten the b****r, but you miss him and continue on.

The bottle-shop at the pub beckons and you toss up where to buy your beer, supermarket or pub? You're already in the car-park of the local before you answer.

You feel yourself diminishing as you walk to the bottle-shop entrance; the sheer heat bears down on you, coming at you in waves.

A quick word and your beer is there, and the Margaret River Chardonnay arrives in chilled splendour. The rum's on special and reminds you of the cat; you dislike both.

A quicker drive home. A dash inside to get the beer and wine in the fridge. The cricket's on the radio and the kids are still splashing. It's time you joined them before you melt.

You swear the water's hissing as you jump in, surfacing, the first of many buffets from the soft pool toys strike you. Roaring in mock pain, you give chase to the impish water sprites, but of course they're way too quick and agile, and calls of, "Thar she blows," and, "Look, look it's a whale!" ring out, along with the sniggers and giggles.

Towelling off is almost a waste of effort as the sun's rays do their best to boil and braise you. A glance upwards at the late afternoon sky reveals the tell-tale signs of impending storms. Anvil-shaped clouds bunch up across the horizon in ominous ranks, some reaching dizzying heights where upper winds blow their tops off like so much froth on a beer. Their elongated trunks enlarge and fatten out, thickening into bulbous blue-black bodies, engorged with electric spite and feral ice.

Now's the time to turn the computer off and disconnect the Plasma TV, as another glance outside shows the storm overarching your vision. Cumulus arms unwind, small sections of cloud tumble away from the main body of the front...Kerr-Rrrack!

A bolt from the monster signals the onslaught and battle begins. Trees whip and twist, huge spots of rain - splot, splot, splot - splash in the pool and plonk on the roof. Thunder Ka-Booms across the sky, echoing back and forth. As quick to go as arrive, it's gone and steamy, steamy heat resumes; with the sun poking holes in the first of the summer storms.