I had a possum living in my ceiling once. I had a tradie who was fixing some guttering, which he fucked up leaving great gaps under the new guttering, which allowed a possum into my ceiling. I had to trap and catch the possum, which is not nearly as easy as it sounds, then I had to organised a new tradie really quickly to repair the botched job that the previous tradie did before another possum took up residence, which I managed to do. My head spun.
I have a wood panel ceiling and the damn possum lived up there for a time, while all the before mentioned took place, and it pissed up there and some of it seeped through and left stains like the roof had leaked. And I have high ceilings, so it is hard to get up there to attempt to clean it. And I am really terrible with heights. And I really thought I’d have to get painters in to fix it, and one thing and another, I hadn’t done that. And I have always hated it. Quietly, I hoped that no one noticed, but of course they probably did.
That all happened before I met Sam. And Sam and I have been together for 11 years.
Tonight, lying back on the couch looking up at the ceiling thinking to myself, I really wish that wasn’t there. And I casually mentioned to Sam that I hated it. And apparently, I told him what it was from for the first time. Never told him before.
In moments, Sam had the ladder on the coffee table and was on top of the ladder stretching up on his tiptoes, and he really couldn’t reach, until I got dizzy and told him not to be silly.
Then Sam got the extension handle from the hedge trimmer, and he tied a wet cloth to the end of it, and he’d wiped the piss stains away in literally minutes. Gone. Just like that.
After how many years?
I could have done that, I thought, years ago. It’s like I have a perfect new ceiling. What am I fucken like?
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