Over the last couple of days the strangest thought has plagued me. Two simple ugly words have kept emerging, only for me to lock them out and ridicule them as bizarre. Simon’s dead. Just to write it down feels like treachery. Part of me looks forward to seeing him, to sharing a drink and dispelling this nonsense. He’d say something wry, and witty and that would be that. He was good like that. Was. Sometimes the shittiest word to ever have to use about a friend.
As part of a (temporary, and self-imposed) exile from all politics, I didn’t know his health had deteriorated so much. We weren’t the kind of friends who lived out of each other’s pockets. There are many who were closer to him than me and I wish them all my love. But for almost 15 years he was always there. At crap protests and good…
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The Free 