Possums on the roof of life

‘We are just four square meals away,’’ said Danny, sipping at a Portuguese tinto (a snip at $11.99, but I shall not say from where. There would be a stampede) ‘‘from anarchy.’’

‘‘Say that without the wine and brackets,’’ I said. ‘‘We are just four square meals away from anarchy.’’

‘‘Explain,’’ I said.

"People have become dependent on supermarkets. If the supply chain snapped and the shelves emptied, most of us would have no idea how to find or grow food. Within days we’d be stewing grass and fighting over roadkill. The ice of civilisation is thinner than we think. One bit of bad luck and through we all fall.’’

‘‘Did I ever tell you,’’ I said, ‘‘my earthquake water story?’’

‘‘Before you start,’’ said Danny, ‘‘perhaps a little more of that tinto.’’

The wine was our reward for a having repaired my woodshed roof. It’s partly corrugated plastic that the years have rendered brittle. Last winter a hailstorm cracked it. Last week a possum fell through it. I heard it happen. I was getting into bed when I heard the possum cackle in that distinctive manner which suggests it has just severed the throat of a newborn infant and is about to lap at the blood. Then came a cracking sound, a softish thud and a gratifying squeal. Next morning I found a possum-sized hole in the roof through which the rain was getting at my firewood.

‘‘After the earthquake of 2011,’’ I said, as I refilled Danny’s glass, ‘‘Lyttelton had no running water. But at the head of this valley we found a spring. It was just enough for the needs of the few of us who live up here. Word got out, however, and on the second day people started coming up the hill with their empty bottles, people we didn’t know.

‘‘Had the drought gone into a third day we’d have had to put up a roadblock manned by the one of us who had a shotgun. Outsiders had to be kept outside. The water belonged to the tribe who lived here. In other words it took just 48 hours to go full-on Lord of the Flies.’’

We both sipped at the tinto. From where we sat we could see the woodshed roof we’d fixed. I would have fixed it myself, of course, but it’s a frail old building and I wasn’t sure how it would bear up under 117 kilos of adipose tissue. Then, in what I can only describe as an atypical act of god, Danny happened to come by. Danny is many things but 117 kilos aren’t among them. Danny is a slim and agile person. He thinks adipose tissue is a brand of handkerchief.

We made a splendid team. Danny skipped about the woodshed roof, ripping out old plastic, replacing it with iron, banging in nails, while down below I toiled away encouraging him. Thus we earned our tinto and the philosophical reflections that came with it. ‘‘Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe,’’ I said. ‘‘Say that without the showing off.’’ ‘‘Everything tires, everything breaks, everything passes. The Incas, Egyptians and Romans fell. The United States is showing right now that it’s just one sick president away from becoming a corrupt authoritarian state. Nothing is forever. We are always too confident. The human condition is smug myopia. We ignore our own ignorance of what tomorrow will bring.’’

‘‘You might even say,’’ said Danny, and here he raised a finger as he crystallised the thought, ‘‘we are just possums on the woodshed roof of life.’’

‘‘It’s fine stuff, that tinto,’’ I said.