Some things, though not particularly important, remain curiously inexplicable. Like how Carolyn remains my favourite Franklin? By some strange happen-stance, I have retained a soft spot for her. Is it because she sings with child-like candour of her frailty, swinging as she does from sharp to flat? Is it because she was destined to be overshadowed … and underrated? Is it because her life was cut too short? Or does it, perchance, feed into my own paternalistic penchant to temper the ‘overzealous child’? Maybe it’s all those things and that she was fabulous. She’s someone I never met but perhaps always knew. If I had met her, I would — like an annoying father perhaps — have told her to stop yelling into the mic. And, I would have told her that God loves her and that so do I. But there you go.