David, my son, will not shut up. He’s trying to get me to prepare my will. I may be 78 but I’m still alive and kicking! I’m not saying good bye anytime soon, as much as he wants to put me in the ground. Dave’s a sly character and I just know he wants something. I don’t know if it’s my house he wants, my antique art collection, or my superannuation fund – but whatever he’s after, he aint getting it! I haven’t even told him about the booty I’ve got buried in the backyard, and the samurai sword and jewellery my father brought back from Japan at the end of world war two…

He’s even been talking about funerals in Perth, as if just the mention of death will shorten my lifespan. Little does he know that fear of death is what keeps me alive. He can talk about funerals and eulogies all he wants he isn’t going to get his hands on my possessions. Every time he nags me to get my will sorted out, the closer I become to signing off all my life’s earnings and belongings to his cousin Marty – Dave’s worst nemesis. Marty has always been my favourite nephew. He’s the one who was here for me when I was sick with bowel cancer, he’s the one who drove me to and from the countless doctors appointments, check ups, hospital visits and the like. He’d even buy me hot fast food so I didn’t have to eat that vile stuff they misleadingly call food at the hospital.

Now here’s the most disturbing part. I discovered that Dave has been talking to Perth funeral directors. I know because I found a list of numbers he’d left on the notepad. Does he already have my death planned out? Does he have the date etched into his diary? Is he plotting to do me in? What vulpine spawn have I created?