One of my oldest and dearest friends died last week. It wasn’t sudden or unexpected, he’d contracted a turbo-cancer, but he also developed Parkinson’s when he was in his fifties.

I last saw him face to face on the day of my father’s funeral last year, I walked to his house in the boiling sunshine, still wearing my black suit and tie and we sat for an hour and comforted each other as best we could.

I loved him for the man that he was, without affectation, devoted to his family and loyal to his friends.

I had a small cry when I heard the news, but luckily, I was on holiday.

I spent the rest of the week wandering hills and ancient woods, reading and drinking in the early evenings before cooking dinner, the dogs omnipresent as always, quick to demand cuddles and even quicker to sleep in my lap.

I have nothing but good memories of my friend, some of them genuinely hilarious and on one occasion in Las Vegas, scarcely believable as fact.

I’ll miss him but I’m glad that he was able to go out while he was still brave, dignified and stoic.

Sleep well mate.

See you on the other side.