A month ago, this particular Fletcher was commissioned to write and illustrate a 16-page book. Unfortunately, he fell behind on the draft part of the process – let’s be honest, he forgot all about it, there was more important stuff happening in his life – and last Thursday, was abruptly reminded that the book was due Monday morning. He started work on the final draft there and then but, being a Fletch, the imminent deadline did not prevent him going to a birthday party Saturday afternoon, nor from attending his weekend course on Hunter Mountain. To his credit, he came home early Sunday afternoon from the mountain, sat down at his desk, and spent the next eight hours writing the remainder of the book, a process that took longer than should have done because of his perfectionist bent. With the illustrations still unfinished, he set his alarm for 6am Monday morning, put in 90 minutes work before breakfast, another 30 minutes afterwards and, rather like editing the last page of a fanzine on the bus to the printers, was seen putting the final flourishes to the last illustration in the car. Fortunately, he made his deadline in the nick of time. The book looks good.
But which Fletch are we talking about? Tony, for whom the above scenario is so familiar it’s not even funny? Or his 10-year old son Campbell, a chip off the old block?