Shit brick fences, sad meals and a fond farewell to our beloved Francis

PL muses widely and indulgently as he waits for the real cricket to start again.

Francis’s last days are ignominious to say the least. An old man, stripped down to his sagging Y-fronts, motionless and listless in the backyard; when it rained earlier this week, he sought no shelter. Homeless, he has abandoned himself to the elements. He’s acquired a mouldy, dank smell that gets quite ripe on a warmer day. It can’t be long before they carry him away – like the bloke in the George Jones song. (Just quietly, one of the great pieces of country songcraft and often voted so. It was written by Bobby Braddock and Curly Putman, but elevated by Ol’ Possum - and yes, they played it at his funeral.))

Francis

Francis has been my favourite bit of furniture for too long now.

It was relatively expensive, and I remember feeling like a real grown-up going into the Paddington designer store to buy it. The kids were little, Sue and I were young, the couch was big and generous and the years – nay decades – slipped away with an ease.

Recently, while searching among life’s miscellaneous accretions for the Dennis Lillee letter, I came across an article I wrote celebrating Francis’s purchase. (I do not keep clippings as a rule, but Mum had kept a few.)