..on an innocent Sunday evening. The 15th of May. Had had a lovely afternoon out at the British Museum with the woodlands gang and a small gaggle of my own friends. So there I was, heading home, happy and tired, on the bus. Looking forward to getting home, pouring a nice strong gin & tonic and getting on the horn with him. And then: the text. He is dying. Right now.
..and then an hour later. He is still dying. It is too late.
And I’m inconsolable. My one and one surviving spiritual confessors. After the professor there was only him. And even with the professor, there was no one quite like him. Knew me better than anyone. Truly.
Later that night, the death watch at home alone: with Buffy St Marie. Emma Lee. Starwalkers. And Wayne Hunter: Yellow. Yes. Love. The strong beats of love. Is love really stronger than death? Really?
And yes, death has come knocking. Death knocked. And knocked again.
And finally knocked the door down.