The namesake lives on

Frank's namesake, Anne Frank, was also an expert in hiding. Frank is channeling her prowess.

We met Frank briefly last week. Now the crying has died down, and Frank is being controlled by some weird airborne artificial hormones, I've finally had enough sleep (sans cotton wool in my ears) to string some sentences together.

Frank is still an anti-social creature. He hides. Then he runs out, and hides again. He can't seem to string things together in his mind. I think he's stoned.

Actually, this is somewhat unfair as he is gradually coming round (read: resigning) himself to the fact that this is his new home and he will, for the foreseeable, be surrounded by 80's teen movies and ten tonnes of Tampax.

Here is Frank semi-hiding. The massive bits of plasterboard are his palace of choice.