The Problem with Stiffy

Is it wrong to treat God's tiny creatures with disdain?
What if those same tiny creatures insist on defecating in the shoes you leave outside the front door, or in your letterbox and on your windscreen? What if they leave a carpet of 'calling cards' so thick on your newly laid lawn that you can't actually see your newly laid lawn?
I, once upon a time, was a friend of the possum. No longer. Those little rats on steroids have met their match. And on a recent Saturday, one of them met their maker, right here on my front verge.
We found Stiffy (as he came to be known, after the rigor mortis had set in) in an eternal slumber outside our house, basking in the sunshine. Evidently, he had come off second best with a passing Michelin tyre the previous evening and some kind soul had popped Stiffy into the greenery. This is not the first time one of our park friends had come a cropper. Only last year we found a pal of Stiffy's propped up in the gutter holding a can of beer. I thank the passing punter who, on their way to the 1.50 at Randwick Racecourse, had taken the time out to squeeze a half-full VB into the possum's paws and set him on a jaunty angle - the amusement factor did not go unnoticed.
But back to most recent events. The Youth were the first to discover old poss and were none too happy to find Stiffy oozing his guts out all over our agapanthus. After checking for signs of life with a carefully placed Dunlop Volley, it was confirmed that our furry friend was, indeed, cactus.
The next job, of course, was how to be rid of this festering ball of fuzz. The Youth came up with all manner of inventive disposal methods including immolation, bagging up and taxidermy. The more mature of us discounted all these juvenile methods of eradication and decided on natural decomposition.
However, I did not necessarily want old poss to be decomposing at MY house. A rather malodorous and undecorous affair, to be disintegrating right there for all the world to see.
My dear brother, who happened to be visiting on the morning, drew the short straw and was elected to play undertaker. We are talking here of a grown man who has a proclivity towards fainting and vomiting at the sight of gore. However, today he seemed unfazed by Trichosurus vulpecula splayed out on the grass.
Donning a pair of disposable latex gloves he plucked the coagulated fluff ball from the undergrowth and hoiked him in a most splendid arc (see picture) over the four-lane road and into the arms of a waiting Algerian oak tree on the other side of the fence.
We bid a fond adieu to our rigid friend as he found his final resting place, back amongst his 'peeps'.
And later, sipping on a herbal tea, we couldn't help but nod in agreement with Charles de Leusse's observation that Death is a good Hotel: you are a guest at any time.

Welcome to Sacksville

How often is one in the company of greatness? Perhaps you are quite impressive yourself, and to be in a like-minded assemblage is an everyday affair. However, even flinging self-deprecation aside, I would class myself as only ‘reasonably good’. So, spending the gloaming hours on a Sydney winter’s eve with the eminent neurologist and author Oliver Sacks rates high on my list of ‘Brushes with Greatness’.

The tale goes a little something like this:
My remit was to collect Oliver from his Bondi Beach hotel and escort said luminary to the home of our mutual good friend Professor James Lance for dinner. An easy enough task for even the ‘reasonably good’. However, I had contracted a mild form of what felt like consumption the previous week and was now sporting a cracking good cough and a general pallid malaise. First thoughts were, obviously, what happens if I single-handedly knock off one of the world’s most famous neuroscientists right here in this Toyota RAV 4 tonight?

As Oliver folded himself into the two-door golden chariot, I weighed the options and decided that a plein air approach was called for. Windows down, sunroof agape, we buffeted through the crisp evening, where the gent was no doubt pondering the need for so much oxygen. Safely delivered and unwittingly now free to breathe some quality fresh air, Oliver settled in for the evening, which was filled with convivial chat about the good old days and plenty about the good new days as well.

Halfway through the evening, as I sat beside Oliver in my tuberculosis haze, I do remember him quietly unbuckling his belt while the other guests were busy debating the merits of airport security. Had I missed some vital element of the conversation? Was there going to be a show? No. As it transpired, the man was merely preparing to recount a detailed and highly amusing tale of airport metal detection that involved his troublesome belt buckle.

This was the point at which two epiphanies occurred to me. The first was that a story, whatever it be, should be told well. It should not be rushed. It should not have to fight for the floor. And it should use a good prop and a sight gag, if possible.

The second revelation was something I couldn’t specifically identify until days later. And then it came to me, bombshell-like. The ‘something’ that each of these congregated old friends had was a joie de vivre, a spirit of the bon vivant. They all knew how to live. I felt like a mere spectator in their company, a tick riding on the dog’s back.

As we departed towards the eve’s end, Professor Lance, now well known as Jim, announced that whenever we happened to be passing by we should drop in for a gin and tonic. “The bar opens at 5,” he declared, referring to his penchant for whipping up a ‘Slippery Jim’ from the drinks cabinet at a moment’s notice.

Introspection is a devilish thing. And as Oliver opined that evening, like so many years before in one of his original monographs, spending too much time in one’s own universe is a dangerous and scary thing. A much better tactic for life is to taste the delights of realms beyond your own.

Some months later I saw Professor Lance from a distance, driving his car on a Friday afternoon. He was a beacon of calm. I, on the other hand, had spent the previous 15 minutes swerving, cursing, beating the steering wheel and yelling at bus drivers in my haste to get across town. From that day on, whenever decorum and serenity are required, I call on a new verb I coined that day. I say to myself, “Just Jim Lance it”.