Possum is pleased that I'm not going to Paris. He is cooking up a scheme to earn money for his bicycle rickshaw because he knows it will have to be a custom-made contraption now that Anthropologie is sold out of his dream model from Christmas.
He is developing a product idea:
Possum's Norwegian Fish Sausages
No Guts. All Glory.
(Or maybe a few guts.)
Doesn't that sound yummy?
His idea doesn't appeal to me and I say so. He points out that I'm not passionate about fish (although I do like other kinds of sausages). He's very passionate about fish. He says he will try to sell his concept to a company; he's not wild about going into the fish-sausage business himself. All he wants is a lot of money and his photo on the front of the package.
I said, "If you are on the package, people might think it's cat food. Or they might think pussycats are one of the ingredients. And with that name, people might get the idea that there is rodent in the recipe.*"
He said, "You will not be in charge of marketing. I'm gorgeous, according to you, so my face should sell millions of sausages. Cats may not give a damn about looks but you humans are ridiculously susceptible to handsome faces. I don't mind using mine to sell fish sausages. People will flock to them like zombies. And if they don't, I'll reposition them as gourmet cat food... which might be even more lucrative, now that I think about it."
Gorgeous and opinionated.
I told him he's on his own; I have no time for fish sausages. I need to decipher a patch of John Singer Sargent's messy handwriting as part of today's assignment. I can do this — I once worked for a team of architects, and they all had the worst handwriting imaginable. Possum has been too distracted to help me lately. He might pitch in on this, though; he admires Sargent and still hopes to be painted by him someday. But he was useless yesterday; the topic was Medusa, and she is nothing like a fish sausage.
* I have suggested to him several times that having a RECIPE might prove helpful to his new venture.