From Stuart Meyer in Simon's Town When the call came I have struggled to write this thing. And as Patrick was a hugely talented writer so I am somewhat challenged and ashamed to try and commit his memory to words. Please allow me the following… As the phone rang, as I saw Michael’s name on the phone. Michael and I had spoken at length the day before. With joy the day before. Now, a call! The day after our frivolous dialogue. A call. An atypical call. And so I, as all of you have, received the unexpected, tragic and unwelcome news of Patrick’s untimely passing. Then as now, I know not what to say. I thought briefly of lending humor to death. In humor “did he depart to avoid the vassalage and chaos of Theresa May’s horror of Brexit” ? No, that would not work, his mind was not on that stuff. And as much as I designed in my own mind epithets. Epithets to Patrick and his passing. None really fit. Perhaps Angus as he rolled across America with Pat gained some more insight. Perhaps more than Pat did about himself. What do I know, then? I know I adored Patrick. I called him the better Birbeck…only to irritate Michael. But maybe I was correct. I never saw Pat’s intellect unleashed which I imagined to be formidable. But we did do things occasionally. Once in this Roadster sports car. We sped up to “Emily Moon” on the Garden route, where my young female friend “of the moment” remarked satirically that our combined weight was greater than the roadster. So…. there are many colorful stories. I will give one and only one ………Patrick surrounded by all the Afrikaanse welgesteld en jag se oulikke vroumense (Michael you can translate that…en hulle is baie oulik) aka MILFS of George on the Garden Route, invited Patrick to assist them in the complexity and translation of French cooking instructions. Whilst you understand these ladies are mostly of French Huguenot origin they were through the course of chauvinistic Dutch and English protestant oppression denied their rights to read a French recipe. With great aplomb and romance and much adoration of the assembled ladies and with his big belly stuck out Patrick proceeded to translate. And so he translated more. So things proceeded. Al die vrou mense purring gently. La vie a Afrique. En Francais . He was rogue. A very gentle rogue. Today on my daily walk. Not far from the Church where he was married. Through the old graveyard. appointed above the Cape Azure Sea, Where there is much remembrance. To those who’ve died to early, most were on ships, all young like Pat. Ships called Narcissus, Neruda, Rattlesnake, Ships unknown. All dead. All dead to early. Unlike Patrick some killed by Northern Arabs in Zanzibar others killed by aggressive natives. Some killed through excess of provisioning and others through the delights of the bay. As I wondered through the graveyard so I saw on a stone which said…. We know not what the hour may bring forth RIP Patrick Measure for Measure The weariest and most worldly life ... is a paradise, to what we fear of death