Garden of Delights

New Singaporean Madam opposite returned home during the front garden weeding and pruning today. Hello. Hello…. Are you the same lady?... The poodle had not been noticed immediately. White Merc as before, but these were plentiful now on our side of town, Porsche and even Ferraris. After SG all water off a duck’s back, no open-mouthed staring. Same Chin lady, blonde now, might have lost some weight. Last weekend she was back home; election yet to be called, she reported. It will be soon, Dr Tan and his newly formed opposition party could not be allowed to gather a head of steam. Ready agreement forthcoming. Rusted on PAP without a shadow of doubt, but no need go into that. Lemons and kaffir lime leaves left for her yesterday, neighbourliness to the max. extended like in the days of yore. (What was one to do with the scores upon scores of dazzling fruit?) Oh! I wondered who left….Thank you. Tardy gratitude. A gardener with a giant hole in his jeans, crowned with a beanie and getting his bare hands dirty, in Sing’ could only be black Bangla or Indian. White here made everything doubtful. What was going on understandably beat the Sing’ Madam with a condo in Oxley Road where the current, unedifying family dispute over the estate of the late politico Titan had caused problems for the reigning/soon to retire PM. There was another property in Tampines and now this in Spottie, build by the Bosnian refugee, Milan. No need overdo the thanks here, lady of this rank was perfectly accustomed to graciousness. Zero interest taken in the poodle trotted over added warning bells—reservation on a chap like that. Bunnings was next order of the day for possum basket. Two years ago Bunnings had them, cute rattan affair that was hung from the tree, piece of apple inside to coax the big rat out, encourage evacuation from inside the roof the plan. Mothballs had been bought the week before. Arth had suggested either mothballs in a sock tied on a string and flung into the nesting place; or alternatively a dish of ammonia. Former was the better bet. Late night when the fella was out foraging, up and into the roof, place the socks appropriately, and beat a hasty retreat. Possies had an acute sense of smell, Arthur reported. Prior to that operation the basket should be in place high on the walnut against the back of the house, one of Bab’s plantings from forty years before. Balls, socks, string all in readiness. Now Bunnings for the last piece of the jigsaw—the basket. Did they still have them? Four floor staff in Garden were dubious, recommending Cindy each in turn. If anyone knew about the article, it would be Cindy, team leader in the section it seemed. Useless looking otherwise. Other rattan handiwork, pots, lighting, all manner of things one after another mounted to the rafters. Much work was going into decorative gardens. Not, however, the neat, cute possie housing anywhere visible. Where was Cind? Another aisle. Another. 21-22-23 & -4…. Thirst gotten up. The early explorers had it easy by comparison. There was a café out back, thatched little umbrellas over the seating in someone’s idea of the Tropics. Mini playground not in use week days. Ah ha! Finally. Here came the woman you needed. This was Cindy pushing a couple of trolleys like a bag lady, rugged up very much in the guise of Shackleton…. Yes, true. Two years ago they indeed did stock. Yes. No more, but. Sorry. Sorry….They would get them in eventually…. Oh. Gosh. A fix. Hmm. What to do? The kids had their hearts set…. (Sudden inspiration that was, heart-melting. All unrehearsed. You never could tell what might come out in the quick.) Did the trick. Poor kids feeling bad, couldn’t banish Possie without providing alternative digs…. You local?... Well, kinda Cind. More or less. Come in tomorrow then and I give you mine…. What?! Really?! Cind! You mean it? What about your own possie then? Left unhoused, vagrant…. Twasn’t a problem; Cindy’s own rattan basket was uninhabited, only bought—or acquired—cos they looked so nice in the yard. There were none of the adorable creatures at Cind’s place. Well, then. Arranged. Done deal. Kind indeed. Superlative. Only it’ll be wet,  Cindy warned, not wishing to spring any nasty surprises. One last thing; one last encounter same day. Immediately preceding Cindy. Sometimes you could get lucky like that consecutively. A veteran of Bunnings reporting here. How many thousands of dollars had been contributed to the giant Corp over the years of snail-pace building? Bunnings Warehouse! Where Prices Are Just the Beginning. BBQs weekends, family fun days, café under the thatch. Many of the regulars were greeted by name. Three years of building under architectural supervision nightly (dear old Bini). Four visits per diem some days. Searching out the items, sizes, lengths, colours. The Refund Desk…. The last attendant before Cindy was located presented an interesting gal…. Striking certainly. Noteworthy. But that couldn’t, ought not be shown. Light pink lippy. Rings both ears. Make-up over the deeply etched lines. Long grey ponytail. How long had Gary/Grace remained in the closet the last fifty/fifty-five years here? It was a wonder and one half. Out now in the liberal land of OZ, at least the Melbourne branch of the island continent. Gary had leant so many years against a pillar in the pub with his beer up on the narrow ledge on high, before Grace had finally emerged. My oh my! Delightful. The freedom. Poor lady unable to meet the eye. A critical scrutiny assumed. Oh dea! Nothing of the sort. Not ‘tall. Truly…. Ah! Thank you Mame. I’ll run down Cind, don’t you fret. Much obliged. Thank you. Cheers.