tonic sol-fa

Last year, at the less than spry age of 34, he broke two bones in his back while leading his Everton team to an FA Cup win.

Sol laughed out of his whiskers, with a big, loose-rolling sound, and sat on the porch without waiting to be asked.

Sol got up, slowly; took a backward step into the yard; filled his lungs, opened his mouth, made his eyes round.

It was such a magnificent sum that Sol did not feel like taking the familiarity with it of mentioning it aloud.

“It looks better than any house around here now, since you fixed it up and painted it,” said Sol.

“Well, mistakes is humant,” sighed Sol, taking advantage of that universal absolution.