I hadn't heard the sad news. Not surprising, really, what with being holed up in a remote Costa Rican rainforest. I did wonder, though. No word from him in a while. Reckoned I’d been ghosted; typical Andy Davis move. Write for him for what feels like forever, and then one day, everything goes dead quiet.
I was lolling in a hammock on Dominicalito beach, Imperial in hand – recovering from the Springbok win, followed by a savage Halloween party at Jungle George’s ramshackle casita – when Andy bounced into my inbox. Toucans trumpeted. Howler monkeys barked. A falling coconut
