Froggy's World - Alms for Oblivion (Weblog)

The pungent parfum of Eau de Possum
12th October, 2007

She reacted as if she had been slapped in the face with a dead fish, reeling back from the door as her knees folded like concertinas. It wasn't quite the greeting I had been expecting, for as I'd left the house for a work lunch in the city, my parting words had been: "I won't fall in the door at 5pm."
In giving this assurance, I had been making the point that I would not return in an alcohol-sodden state of disrepair and, true to my word, here I was on the doorstep, clear of eye and in a state that approximated sobriety.
   "God!" she yelled from somewhere inside the house. "What have you been eating?"
   "Steak," I said walking through the door.
   "And what else?" she demanded, backing away from me as I leaned in for a kiss. "You smell like a dead rat."
   "Salad," I said. "Oh, and there was that sauce. A Singapore chilli sauce."
   "Garlic," she moaned, "it must have been loaded with garlic."
   "I can't smell a thing," I said, giving myself a sniff.
She fled to the kitchen and left me standing there sniffing the air like a dog at a barbecue. Hmmmm, I thought. That might explain why the cab driver who brought me home drove with his head halfway out the window. This did not disturb me as it went some way towards evening the score given the number of times I'd suffered cab drivers with body odour that made your eyes water.
Then there was that time at the movies. Armed with my favourite theatre fare - a bottle of water and a fistful of Violet Crumble bars - I had just settled in to my seat when someone sat down behind me. Moments later, a dreadful stench began to waft through the theatre. It seemed to be coming from behind me and, turning in my seat, I beheld in the dim light a woman who appeared to have just fallen out of a wheelie bin. Dishevelled did not adequately describe her. It was not her appearance, however, that bothered me but the smell, the odour of old, sweat-drenched sandshoes that were home to feet which had seldom seen soap. It was truly appalling, and I was forced to move seats before I was overcome by the fumes and lapsed into unconsciousness, to be found at the end of the movie with my mouth agape and right fist still clutching its bag of Violet Crumbles.
Then there was that possum I found on the footpath. Like John Cleese's parrot of Monty Python fame, it was no longer of this world. I'm not quite sure why I put it in the boot of the car. I suspect I intended to dispose of it by putting it in somebody else's wheelie bin, this being the same strategy I use for disposing of prawn heads.
On this day, however, my wheelie bin strategy must have involved bad karma for I completely forgot about the deceased possum, the remains of which lay undisturbed for several days until I had cause to open the boot. When I did, a smell of long-dead marsupial hit me between the eyes, sending me reeling across the street to land in the gutter where I spent several minutes trying to reassert control over my stomach muscles.
Back at the house, I was being treated like a thoroughbred with equine 'flu.
   "Garlic's good for you," I said, advancing towards her.
   "Stay away from me," she shrieked, holding a tissue to her nose.
   "It's only garlic," I said. "It prevents you from getting the 'flu."
   "I'll take my chances," she yelled from the backyard. "You'd better check to see if you've stood in something. No garlic ever smelt that bad."
If you are ever in the mood for some peace and quiet, slip down to Kingsley's steakhouse in Brisbane's Eagle Street and order the Singapore chilli sauce. I guarantee that you will have no company but your own for at least 48 hours.

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