It had been another stifling day in the West Australian 'wheat belt' - and we were not yet adjusted to the sun's implacable demands on our energies. An early night seemed the solution, but we soon found sleep impossible. The sun may have set, but its memory lingered - with a vengeance.

Brainstorm number one that night was to wet two thirsty bath towels, wring them out, and lie on top of them. This was delicious. We turned ourselves regularly to be well done (or, in this case, well cooled) on each side. A few hours and some light sleep later, we needed to repeat the procedure, but we didn't mind. Anything was worth this welcome relief - no matter how temporary.

Suddenly, we were both abruptly awake again. A miracle was happening. A soft breath of air came floating through the tall, slim French doors of our bedroom, gently caressing our bodies.

"It's a breeze, I think!" I whispered to my husband.

"Shh-h-h. Don't say it out loud. You might frighten it away!"

And so we waited - quietly, nervously, hopefully. We barely breathed. And it was a breeze - slowly but surely getting stronger and cooler. We couldn't have been more quietly triumphant had we won a lottery. If the wet towels had made Life tolerable - then this was unadulterated bliss.

I remember stretching luxuriously like my beloved Tammy cat, my hands sliding over the now cooling sheets. As my brain lazily noted that the sheet felt strange somehow, my nose registered something else - and I exploded with a monster sneeze that brought us both wide awake.

Our wonderful 'oh, so cool' relief had arrived complete with a full-blown dust storm! I sat up in our bed as it rapidly transformed into a grimy, gritty version of a sandpit. Paralysed by stupendous sneezes, I was powerless to help my husband close first our bedroom doors and side window, and then every window in the whole house.

When he turned on our bedroom light, I wished he hadn't. The famous Australian RED dust hung above us in a threatening cumulus formation, and we could barely see each other across the room. For a while, until it all waffled down to rest, we could only sit and use the wet towels as breathing filters, and eye-moppers. The heat became excruciating, trapped within these thick old stone farmhouse walls. Somehow it all seemed twice as bad now we knew it was cool (though filthy) outside.

And so, brainstorm number two evolved. We obviously couldn't start a clean-up of this magnitude with parched throats and soggy, dripping bodies without some cold liquid (preferable alcoholic - for Dutch courage and sustenance). But of course - my newly brewed Rhubarb Champagne was IT! The very thing! In an instant, it was transformed from a 'treat' into a desperate necessity for the well-being of flagging spirits and will-power.

"I know it's a BIT young yet," I said airily, 'but it'll be cold - and that's really ALL that matters."

My 'significant other' momentarily looked doubtful.

"Three days old! That's a BIT young, alright."

But the thought had been planted, and necessity won the day. He disappeared, and then returned in an instant, with wine glasses and a bottle of my 'brew'. The glasses were put on my bedside cupboard on top of the several centimetres of deep grit that shrouded everything, and he sat on the edge of the bed to prise out the cork. It was tight, and a bit of a struggle ensued, until suddenly, shockingly - the cork simple exploded out of the bottle, together with half of the contents!

Little on my side of the room escaped its lethal aim - the glass-topped dressing table with its huge mirror, the bed, the floor, the window - and of course - US! Nothing, it seemed, was immune to its pale pink stickiness. Fortunately, we saw the humour in this impossible situation, and fell about laughing hysterically until we were even more exhausted. I say fortunately, because when we were finally composed enough (with a little help from my brew) to really study the damage, we could have wept - if we'd had the energy (or any moisture left to spare).

Wherever even the tiniest drops of my 'champers' had landed, the dust had been turned into mud spots. Our bodies, our bed - in fact, almost everything in the room appeared under siege from an attack of red-brown killer measles. But the clean-up had to be faced, before we could even dream of sleep!

I shudder to think of our 'copability' without the remainder of my famous (or was that infamous?) Rhubarb Champagne - on the inside of us, in lieu of 'wearing' it. In truth, memory suggests another bottle or so was required before cleanliness and deep sleep claimed victory. But we won't go there. Suffice it to say, they were opened with respect and gentility - and success!

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