My father liked a chat.

Born into the deep silences of an Australian bush property, he came to crave and value human conversation.

It afforded him the sharing of a world beyond paddocks and forest and the opportunity to proffer his own opinions, of which he had many.

As he grew older, my father’s Sunday morning pleasure was to drop in on old friends for a cup of tea and a talk.

Eventually, a lot of his mates moved to nursing homes or simply drifted into the endless place that awaits us all.

Then came the melancholy when the old boy sat flicking through the pages of his little book of names and phone numbers, a silence settling upon him.

He’d outlived his mates. There was no one left for a chat.

He wasn’t about to surrender, however.

Every morning as his years grew longer he arose a

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