The girl was innocent sweet and lovely
When he moved into her life.
Life seemed good to him to have found her.
He hoped their love would last forever.

As life went by he loved her less and less.
As she became a burden
Weighing heavy round his neck.
He wanted to get rid of her.

As she clung to him
And didn't let him go.
And he saw how she really was.
He finally saw all of her ugliness.

She'd hidden it so well he thought.
To ensnare him, to hold him.
He'd been lucky to see it, to leave her.
This was the pattern of things.

As soon as his girl got to know him
He had to leave her.
As he couldn't be found out
To be an empty shell.

Brush possums are the outstanding characters in the Tasmanian bush. The size of a big cat, but with claws that give moggies inferiority complexes, these bright eyed, fearless furballs will go anywhere, yes anywhere, for a feed. They will climb barbwire fences, scramble up steel cables, slide down the chimneys of bush huts, undo zipper closures on backpacks, and squeeze through impossible gaps for anything edible. Mountain cabin logbooks are full of reports on the activities of Black Pete, a mythical Brushy of huge dimensions, infinite cunning and insatiable appetite. All bush walkers have tales of being raided in the early hours by piratical possums. Unguarded packs have been opened, upended and emptied by these marauding marsupials. But you can’t help liking them. They are inquisitive, appealing, cute, but definitely not cuddly. You would like to pick one up and stroke the soft, beautiful, variegated fur, but it would be at your peril. One swipe from those claws will give you a lot more than a nasty rash. They will condescend to accept food, any food, from you, and you may be allowed if you are particularly favoured, a quick, light stroke down the back. But no more than that. Teeth and claws will be brought into play with savage speed and effect. I am talking about wild Brushies of course. Some country kids have had tame ones and these suffer the indignities of being hauled around by the tail, stuffed into prams and baby cots, cuddled at odd angles, all with calm aplomb. As long as they get fed, they will endure quite a lot of innocent abuse. However, occasionally the child needs to be reminded there are limits. A fast nip or even faster swipe of a taloned forepaw is usually enough to drive home the lesson.

Like all bushwalkers, I have had my experiences with the creatures. Not always funny, as loosing a good portion of your tucker miles from the store can be a bit embarrassing. Waking at midnight in a small tent to find king size possum ratting your pack is the stuff of very bad dreams. But, overall, they are my favourite animal.

Many years ago, I took our family to Cradle Mountain National Park for a few days. We had hired one of the cabins and spent the days wandering the paths of that glorious place. The weather had been pleasant and we decided to explore a valley outside the park. We drove out in the early morning and found the place easily. Equipped with daypacks, we strolled through the light scrub, enjoying views, birds and flowers. We even picked a few flowers, something not allowed within the park boundaries. The kids loved it. Late afternoon, we turned back to the road, piled into the car and headed for our holiday cabin.

A couple of miles down the road and we came across two hitchhikers, obviously heading for the park. We crammed them in, no easy process with four adults, two children and two large packs in a Volkswagen Notchback. The pair was from Germany originally, and were working in the Northern Territory. Preferring the cooler climes of Tasmania, they had headed South for their holidays, determined to climb a few mountains. We dropped them off at the camping site, and invited them to our cabin for coffee later that evening. I mentioned in passing that the possums would be coming out of the bush scrounging food at eight o’clock. After a barbecue tea we were sitting on the steps of our cabin having a quiet family chat when our new acquaintances strolled up. They found a good campsite, eaten well and, best of all, found a shower block. Coffee was prepared and served and we chatted easily. The sun had gone down and in the short twilight, the first possum emerged from the bush. We had brought a bag of plums with us from town, knowing the Brushies would be in attendance, and knowing how much the kids would enjoy feeding them. This was only the third night, but the gang had got the message. Food! I casually indicated the lead scout waddling up the path. Seconds later another emerged, then another. The kids dashed inside to get the plums, and my wife went to get her camera. The German gentleman, amidst this burst of activity, consulted his watch. It was exactly eight o’clock.

"You were right" he proclaimed, "They are here at the time you said." I have often wondered what he would have said or done if the possums had been late.

No one told her it's unladylike to run after him, so she continues to do it.

You know the kind of thing, trying to entice him to dance, or play.

At first he played it cool, and ignored her, then later on, if her saw coming towards him, he'd retreat the other way.

Finally one day it became a little too much for him, and in defence he wacked her on the head.

She was heartbroken and started to cry.

He immediately took his dummy out of his mouth and passed it to her.

English accents are fascinating. In Britain, a person with experience can tell where somebody grew up to within a dozen miles if they have not had elocution lessons. In the more recently colonized parts, like the U S, there are regional accents that are discernable to the trained ear. A Red Neck from the Deep South sounds very different from a New England Yankee. Naturally, people who use English as a second tongue have their origins readily identified by their pronunciation and word usage. An exception is Australia. There are minor differences in a few words and phrases, but basically only vocabulary can be used to pigeonhole a person.
Coming to Australia over 50 years ago, I was labeled "Bloody Pom" the moment I uttered two words. Total immersion in Oz culture gradually flatted and broadened my Home County, Kentish urban vowels till I could nearly pass for a native. However, the formative years had imbued a delivery rate and imbedded some peculiar phrases into my speech pattern. You can take the boy out of London, etc. etc.
Time came to take the obligatory trip back. It was fun being exposed to the Cockney glottal stop, the nasal tones of the Midlands, the lilt of the Welsh and the West Country burr again. I drank pints of flat, warm, tasty beer and conversed with the locals, having few problems communicating. Why should I? I was a Bloody Pom. Been told that most of my life.
Then we went on the bus trip on the Continent. 18 days of early rising, funny money, photo opportunities, and more accents. The tour party was the expected mixture of Yanks, Kiwis, and Aussies, with some Filipinos for variety. English was the "lingua franca", delivered with faultless grammar and strong accent by the Belgian tour guide. Somehow the party twigged to my origins, so I continued to be a Brit, Limey, Pommy, among the company.
Then there was the day we visited St. Peters in Rome. An incredible building infested with about five thousand people, talking a hundred languages. I was standing gazing at the superbly crafted masonry of the building when a young, male backpacker approached me. He was presentable with clean clothes, freshly shaven and hair combed.
"Excuse me," he said with the unmistakable Oxford English beloved of BBC announcers, "do you speak English?"
"Oh, a bit" said I, straight-faced.
"Thank goodness," he breathed, "an Orstralian".
It had taken 54 years, and a 10,000-mile trip to finally get properly identified. Maybe St Peters is a place of miracles.