The wet claims the afternoon and the terracotta rooftops and the jacarandas as they wait for the signal to bloom. It dampens the shrill birdsong but not the soft mutterings of the pied currawong who has sought shelter in the tree outside my window. He rummages under glossy black wings—one, then the other—and gurgles something about the gas bill and the stack of unread newspapers. I scribble myself a quick reminder while he finds whatever it is he is looking for. The rain has eased and its constant thrum has been replaced by the rush of gutter rapids—run-off racing harbourside—and…