Winter 1992 in the Karoo, a vast, arid semi-desert of South Africa. A solitary black convertible chews up the stark ribbon of road stretching towards the sunset. Two platonic friends returning from an arts festival: he's 49, twice divorced and cynical; his two sworn loves nowadays are language and the printed word. She's 30, a disenchanted advertising executive who longs for the ultimate, truly creative expression before the biological clock stops ticking. He stops the car cassette tape after the last violin strains of "I'm your man" fade out, and says in measured tones: "I think I'm YOUR man. If you're really serious about having a baby, I'd be honored to be the father."
Twenty two years later, our son James is a fine young man with a curious passion for landscape photography, Zen Buddhism and the music of Leonard Cohen. His father Ken, died suddenly in 2005, but until then, we three spent the most idyllic twelve years together.
Thank you, Leonard, for altering my life for the better, for being an integral part of our family and for helping to make my dream come true.