Behind all things are reasons

My arrival in Melbourne didn’t get off to the smoothest of starts.

(In case you missed last week’s blog posts, I flew down to celebrate settlement day for the eldest’s new apartment.)

The cab driver had a fit when I gave him the address of my hotel. He said it wasn’t a big enough fare after he’d spent three hours waiting in the taxi queue.

Oh-kay. Sorry mate.

He then asked me to lie to the taxi traffic controller and tell him I was going to “Sanden” so he could jump the queue when he returned to the airport.

The traffic controller looked very confused when I told him I was going to “Sanden” – I belatedly understood I was supposed to be saying “Essendon! I’m going to Essendon!”

The taxi driver proceeded to complain the whole way to my destination about the unfairness of the airport system.

The fare was $60.

(I ordered my first-ever Uber for my return to the airport because I don’t need that angst in my life.)

When I got out of the cab I thought the driver had dropped me at the wrong location.

I was supposed to be staying at Oaks Suites, but there was absolutely no signage for it anywhere. I wandered a block north, I wandered a block south, I peered around the carpark. I stared at various entrance ways. I typed it into Google Maps. I called two different Oaks Suites numbers that didn’t answer.

I was getting a bit flustered by that stage and saw the eldest walking towards me. I started babbling about not being able to find Oaks Suites and the eldest suggested we ask the woman at the front desk of a serviced apartment building.

The woman cheerily announced that we were at the Oaks Suites, despite the signage indicating we were somewhere completely different.

I glanced over in relief at the eldest and was startled to (belatedly) see he was cradling what looked like a decapitated possum – with a leg bone dangling from one of its furry stump – in his arms.

The woman at the front desk had obviously seen some things in her time as she was unfazed by someone checking into the hotel with a decapitated possum in their arms.

I brightly asked the eldest – as I handed my credit card to the woman on the front desk – if the decapitated possum was an artwork. The eldest brightly concurred, noting that it was only half finished and still needed its head attached.

Then the two redheads collected their room key (we were only allowed one) and took the decapitated possum upstairs, where the eldest sewed its head and other three leg bones into place and it enjoyed a restful night in bed …

One of the leg bones once belonged to a stray cat that died (of natural causes) and was gifted to the eldest by a friend.

The eldest used the bone to cast three matching ones in metal.

The artwork’s belly is filled with four kilos of stones, so it’s a hefty thing.

And the eldest cradled it in his arms all the way from the city to the hotel on a tram.

He said he felt like the log lady from Twin Peaks during the journey.

I started giggling hysterically at that point and I still laugh every time I imagine it.

I suggested that – in light of rising crime rates in Melbourne – perhaps the eldest should continue carrying it around as it might deter thuggery.

Seriously, though, it’s a fascinating piece now that its head and bone limbs are in place. The craftsmanship in both the sewing and the metal limbs is remarkable.

Apparently it was much admired by the eldest’s classmates and teacher after it went back to uni on the tram the next day for assessment purposes.

Song of the day: Steppenwolf “Born to be wild”