With all my wildlife photography of late you may think I’m living in the wilds of Australia when in actual fact my brother’s place is like an oasis paradise surrounded on all sides by houses, busy roads, a school, shops and a church-turned-law practice. And yet, it is amazing how peaceful it is, so peaceful that a tired possum can sleep to his heart’s content in a quiet nook.

“Want to see another possum?” Bill asked me this afternoon while I was making pastry for a steak pie.

“A live possum?” I asked. (Only a live possum was worth leaving my pastry-making endeavours for).

“Of course, alive,” Bill laughed.

Bill led me down to the shed at the bottom of his garden. One half of the shed is home to Lita’s chickens whilst the other side is a repository for useful, or potentially useful, garden items; and the top shelf makes a very nice cot for a sleepy possum who perhaps finds the clucking of chooks soporific.

“Don’t get too close Sally, you know they have sharp claws, ” Bill reminded me.

“You aren’t going to scratch me, are you?” I spoke to the possum.

Somewhat surprised to be addressed by a woman with an English accent, and still a bit dazed (because it was daytime and not yet time for him to get up), he surveyed me with his big dark eyes before giving his reply, which he managed without the need to make a single sound. He yawned, lay down, curled up and proceeded to go back to sleep. He may or may not have really fallen asleep so quickly – he might have been playing possum.