Dave of the Dead.

I knew a zombie once. Let’s call him Dave, even though his actual name was something else.

He wasn’t a real zombie, obviously. He didn’t do the jerky gestures or anything, but I swear he had no soul. Can you imagine a person with no character? Nothing. He was easily the blandest person I ever knew. Dave defined bland.

His girlfriend was a (platonic) friend of mine. She was pretty, lively, highly intelligent and characterful. She had a master’s degree in European History or some such, and I was always intrigued by the question ‘what the hell is she doing with Dave?’ I wasn’t the only one. Everybody who knew her asked the same question.

So one day I managed to put it to her: ‘What the hell are you doing with Dave?’ They weren’t the words I used of course – I was a bit more diplomatic than that – but it amounted to the same thing.

‘He’s safe,’ she said.

Point taken. None of my business. Each to his (or her) own.

They’re parents now. To the same child...