The day before I’m due to fly to Hawaii for the Molokai race, I get a call from my brother, whose plane is about two hours from takeoff.
Oh shit, I think, what’s happened.
“We forgot Muzz!” he wails.
What? “Where IS he?”
“He’s on the kitchen counter.”
God damn it. So early next morning, between packing, I go around to Tom’s house, sneak in so as not to wake the house minder, and pick him up.
Muzz, or more precisely about a third of the mortal remains of our old mate Murray Close, is encased in a plastic brick, which is tucked into an elegant thick paper carry bag, a bit like the ones you get when you buy expensive clothing.
He’d left a request that his ashes be…