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desperanceDick Francis has died.
I didn't know him well, but we met a few times and he did certainly know who I was. I bumped into him in a bookshop one time and inveigled him into buying a copy of one of my early thrillers, which he did more for the name than the novel: "Sign it to Mary," he said, "she was a Brenchley before she married me." Which made her by definition a cousin, though - by definition - not close.
Mary died a few years ago, as did the friend who introduced me to Dick's books, the best of which I can still reread and enjoy. It's a little catalogue of loss; I'm probably more upset than I ought to be, certainly more than I would have expected.
I didn't know him well, but we met a few times and he did certainly know who I was. I bumped into him in a bookshop one time and inveigled him into buying a copy of one of my early thrillers, which he did more for the name than the novel: "Sign it to Mary," he said, "she was a Brenchley before she married me." Which made her by definition a cousin, though - by definition - not close.
Mary died a few years ago, as did the friend who introduced me to Dick's books, the best of which I can still reread and enjoy. It's a little catalogue of loss; I'm probably more upset than I ought to be, certainly more than I would have expected.