and as if by magic…

Francis in my kitchen.

Being dead is a funny old thing; it’s like being alive but everything is purple, the rent is cheap, the hours are good and you get to meet some people you had always admired but could never meet because, well, they were dead.

Like Francis Bacon. I’d always admired him but he was dead and famous and stuff and so the chances of meeting him and having a good chat were always very slim.

Well, that’s all changed now because I’m dead too and I get to live on the creative square (I’ll explain how the afterlife works soon, but it’s basically like a chess board over here), and Francis happens to be my next door neighbour. Which is cool.

So Francis popped over the other night to see if I had any cheese. It turns out (and I’ve been told this by Edvard) that Francis is potty about cheese. Mad for it he is. And he’d run out and came over to see if I had any.

I had stilton.

There is something you should know about Francis, he’s a bit of a nutter – a bloody good painter but a nutter none the less. Honestly, he was going on and on about cheese and laundry and the price of soup. I wanted to get his opinion on my painting but he wasn’t having any of it and merely mumbled, “dead is a jolly good thing to be if you want to get an excellent price for a piece of work” and went back over to his flat. “And you my dear boy, are dead as dead can be”.

Then he closed the door, and both he and my stilton were gone.

The bloody nutter.

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