24th November 2018.
Fur sausage
This month, far from a silly sausage, Somerset’s Jack Leach conquered his Crones and helped spin England to twin Test wins in Sri Lanka. Here snags of all sorts stuck out. Rather than confuse, I don’t mean like rubber snakes not scaring possums shitless as they’re supposed to. Instead, I declare, the nation’s stressed judiciary’s oppressive workload’s being dubbed “a sausage factory”. Carly Schrever, scribe of an Australia-first study on law and order heard it so.
Bang on top of which comes the weekend’s Victoria election. Downfalls imminent as the next Melbourne squall, Liberals and Labour are both bigging-it-up on crime. So a case load, then, growing stuffed as a Loukaniko. And that’s turning a blind eye to deleterious possums.
Which I might add our local barn owl hasn’t been. But the shrieking slaughterer can’t be everywhere causing possumly habdabs. This left the missus and I party to pondering a sausage enterprise amongst mates while mixing with Oakleigh’s gossipers. It was the time of day when that Melburnian Greek enclave, a sweet tooth heaven of bougatsa and galaktoboureko, positively thrums.
At our noshery table little Petrina, Hellenic from neck to toe, specs magnifying her eyes round as pitta breads, clearly had a eureka moment after having flipped topic from semolina custard and scented syrup to her diabetic husky and, crucially, Anush stopping by with a bee in her bonnet. A large one.
She slapped the table top, instead. Cappuccino slopped. My fat warm bougatsa wobbled where it sat. “I did not bring my Nazeli to Australia to chop sausage!” Anush lamented, her accent Russian, her first language, although home was originally Yerevan in Armenia where the Hrazdan River pales in comparison to the Yarra. By ‘sausage’ she wasn’t meaning ‘sojuk’. Daughter Nazeli had landed a job behind a Coles deli counter. Clearly her mum hoped for higher aspirations. Prodding to discover what, my missus invited Anush to join us. How could she dare refuse?
“You can help us cheer Petrina up,” said the missus. “She’s feeling a bit down. Cute bothersome possums in her backyard are munching fig and pomegranate leaves. The grapevine, too. And worrying nesting birds. And Blade, one of her huskies, is ill.” From my knowledge Blade earned his moniker thanks to Wolfman. Marv Wolfman. The Marvel chap who created the infamous vampire slayer played by Wesley Snipes the tax dodger. It had nowt to do the poorly pooch having sharp intelligence.
“He is. He is.” Petrina piped. “It’s so sad. I’m having to inject insulin into Blade’s bald patch the vet shaved. My other dog’s Acura – she’s named after, you know, the luxury American car. That one’s never normally still. Always buzzing around. Must have ADD. Now she’s moping. Feeling it for Blade.”
The missus and I tutted sympathetically.
“Huskies stink,” said Anush. “Like Samoyed. My friend has Samoyed. She put stinky hair in bird box. Make possum go away.”
“Because possums hate the smell?” I asked.
“Tochno.” (‘Exactly’, my Russian smidge translated.)
Cute bothersome ringtail pair
“Wasn’t there a Moorabbin lady selling dog hair in nets for that reason?” mused the missus. She rubbed her schnozzle thoughtfully. “I’m sure, she ran a dog grooming business. It was in the paper two or three years ago.”
“Well, Petrina,” I said. “Surely, even a mite worse for wear, Blade and Acura can now make themselves useful. Help repay those hefty vet bills.”
Which brings me to Petrina’s moment. “Ooooh! Yes! Blade’s always moulting. So’s Acura. They leave fur everywhere. Loads. And it combs off in mega lumps.” Her growing excitement was a joy to behold. “But what shall I put it all in?”
A surreptitious stroke of the missus’ knee and I had the answer. “Ladies tights,” I said.
Petrina grabbed at the idea. “Mum’s got plenty of old tights!” She giggled. “They’ll stuff in to giant snags. Imagine them hanging in the trees! What’ll the neighbours think? Ha! I’ll make a start tomorrow.”
“Good. Wonderful.” My straight-face was blessed hard to keep. “Bung the missus one if you can. Might make Hobnails the brushtail bugger off our tin roof. And allow the visiting barn owl’s claws to stick to mice.”
“Fur sausages have gotta be better than my bum snakes,” said Petrina, convincing herself. “The possums think the snakes are toys.”
“Same as a boomerang?” I offered. “Bet a pair of ringtail juniors could balance one on its edge and seesaw.” A fairly stupid notion, I admit. Then another thought occurred and again I put the idea out there. “Petrina, listen. I’ve a idea. Why not go into business with Nazeli? Could be lucrative. And instead of cutting sausages she’d be making them. Huge, soft and… smelly. A great Christmas prezzie. What do you say, Anush?”
Anush stared at me, puzzled. “Ya nye paneemayoo (I don’t understand).”
I explained. Very simply. Her jaw dropping, I quickly added I was joking.
“Slava bogu (Thank God),” she said, the relief self-evident, the Coles deli counter become a magnificence to behold. Although, in truth, her dream of Nazeli demure in a designer dress shop stayed preferable. About to leave us Anush had a piece of advice: “If you want best Christmas you must shop at Aldi.”
“Really? Do you shop there?” I asked.
“Kanyeshna (of course)”
After the election results should I say “stuff and nonsense”? Perhaps it’ll be a crime not to. If that’s courting an extra snag, let me be the judge. Best I elect to keep shtum. First, while the missus smoothes her tights and gently tells Petrina an Acura’s actually Japanese, I’ll finish my bougatsa.
Illustrations & text © 2018 Zum Beamer/ Charles Wood.
Zum Beamer 