After dicking around for about half an hour trying to decide if we could carry it down the front steps (read: not bloody likely), Lovely Michelle very smartly noticed that our french doors at the back connect almost seamlessly to the side path, and so Mr Golightly and I wheeled it down the path, and the five of us (Michelle's sister, daughter, Michelle, Mr Golightly and poor sick me) hoisted it into her van, and off she went. Hooray!
So that's good. What's the downside, I hear you asking. Well, Gentle Readers, as we were outside (where we haven't really been for a fortnight, given that we spent last weekend in Perth), a particular smell wafted over towards us. Something had, most inconsiderately, died in our garden, close enough to the house to smell it. Ick. Even if my snot-infested nose, I could smell it.
Anyway, after disposing of the happy purchaser and her happy family, we returned to the back of the house to find this:
**Warning** If you're squeamish, don't look!!
It's a very dead brushtail possum. Under our barbeque. Ick. Mr Golightly got the shovel, and gave the poor thing a decent burial. We have no idea how long it had been there, but summer's acoming, and I'm pretty sure our first summer lunch outside does not require the addition of eau-de-dead-possum.