Tuesday, April 10, 2012
It’s been a while since one of these posts:
Possums. Excuse my involuntary twitch, but possums!
I knew about Johnny Rotten. I mean, it’s hard to ignore the fact that he’s breaking in every night when he’s gotten so damned clumsy about it. I think it’s my right to leave Tupperware containers on my kitchen bench. He thinks it’s his right to play skittles with them. But that’s okay. He’s just annoyed because he can’t get to the bread and bananas.
Sidenote: my mother bought me this hot pink plastic picnic basket. It doesn’t exactly complement my blue kitchen, so while I’m not winning in the style stakes, I’ve still got the edge in the I-Have-Banana stakes.
So on Monday evening, at about 9 pm as I was running between a birthday party and work, I stopped in at home to pick up my dinner and my laptop. Something Wasn’t Right. Not the neighbours having a drunken screaming match in the street -- that’s normal. Not the bat that almost took my head off as I opened my gate -- slightly less normal, but not unprecedented. No, it was something else. There were Noises in my house.
I opened the door. Nothing. Except the dog, who was looking slightly more sheepish than usual, and the cats, who were looking the same as always: contemptuous. Whatever. I have opposable thumbs. They can bite me. (Which they do.)
It all seemed okay. I got my stuff together for work. I caught up on Words with Friends. I ate my last Easter egg. Then I went into the bathroom and turned the light on. And saw this:
Aargh! My clean towels!
But also, awwww...
I have left a banana outside in the hope that while I’m at work they find their way back through the shutters. Otherwise I’ll have no choice but to domesticate them.
Also, since I’ve run out of Sex Pistols to name my possums after, any suggestions for mum and baby?