Mr Bud Hears You

I'm his Nephew, and I've just left one of three flats owned by the man, this one in Bristol. The visit was just what I needed. Not only was it an excellent place to break a fever, on designer sheets no less, but it was just plain good to see the guy. Enthusiastic in that good-natured boyish manner that women find so appealing and that I've never seen replicated in anyone other than my Dad and myself.
And the literature, well, the guy's a machine. He reads what he likes, and generally speaking he likes what his good looking Nephew likes, he's just farther along the same literary road, having read more deeply, more elaborately into his tastes than that Nephew has had a chance to. But he's trying.
It's a pleasure watching him move. Hearing him converse in several languages with the kind folk of the restaurant industry, watching him drive a stick shift, interact with Brits, talk about the rising of the tide in the river of the lookout over a beer, whatever. Whatever he does, he does it with gusto and that's all the rest of us can hope for. Especially us Morrisons who have a notorious tendency towards idleness. His is a thirst not for knowledge, that would be too trite, but for doing things, living well and as much as possible, laughing, moving, going. Well done Paul. You've invented yourself, so will I. One day. Or maybe I am right now as you say, though I can't see it.
Thank you for having me. Say hello to Alex, Tris and that ridiculous creature Coco for me.