The real thing

When I lived at Elwood, I would catch the bus home from St Kilda.

The bus stop was outside a Thai takeaway. In a casement window, in the wall next to the takeaway's door, there was a tiny gallery.

Sometimes, there would just be scribbled bits of paper in it, or voodoo dolls, or Polaroids.

Or, for a couple of weeks, a stuffed cat, resplendent in opera mask and plumed head-dress.