Rushing to work just in time to be late the other day I noticed a dead possum in front of some units in the city. It may have been entirely unnoticed by me but for the illumination of the morning sun, reminiscent of the value of lighting in your bathroom reno. Just up a bit, is a place called The Abbey, which one may think a much better place to quietly unpack the suitcase of your earthly travels – although if life were supposed to make sense, politicians would instead be a moderately successful accountants, and real estate easily affordable.
In a suburb filled with all the inconvenience of convenience living, this particular possum conveniently died in a most inconvenient place determined by investment properties, strata management, corporate cleaning contractors and local council far from local. Inflamed lobbyists would no doubt argue the emotionally violent impact a live, dead possum has on our youth, and demand a $4 million targeted counselling programme.
I figure Poss was a ‘he’ having learned in childhood that gingham aprons are the distinction of females in small animals; pipes for males. In a suburb where it all could most certainly have been stolen, I could see no telltale apron marks, and since there’s nowhere to smoke a pipe but at home, it was probably untamped on the dining room table. I wondered whether Poss had, May Gibbs style, just decided to have a little lie down – or if, having forgotten his wire rimmed glasses, he’d came a gutser 35 feet up a tree. Splat. Like Wile E. Coyote. Maybe a high-quality downlight installation would have saved poor posthumous Poss.
In a world where everyone and everything has a message, Poss’ most surely is don’t forget your glasses and leave your pipe at home.
