This blog has been difficult to write, and many might find it difficult to read. It is about the death of my oldest and closest friend. Not to write something about Neil would have been unthinkable; after all, we had known each other for over sixty years and during the last fifteen of these, since we both retired, this friendship had become closer. Here, I write about our friendship, about his last days and about the feeling of emptiness that I now have.

Less than a month ago I was sitting with Neil in his attic bedroom at home as we both ate the baguettes (his favourite with cured Italian ham) and then the lemon possets that I had brought for us to have as a picnic lunch. He was unusually quiet and withdrawn, with a face etched with the unremitting pain in his left knee. Between bites we talked, but while little was said verbally, much was communicated by his demeanour. In front of me was a very anxious and worried man, a version of Neil I had never seen before. The next day he would be going to hospital for the treatment of his cancer – a lymphoma – that was causing the pain and threatened his future. After a couple of hours, with a feeling of great sadness I left, giving him what turned out to be a final hug and goodbye kiss.

He did get to the hospital but his first chemotherapy session was delayed as the doctors tried to fortify a weakened man against what was to come. After a few days his treatment did start and the worst of outcomes soon followed. After one, or possibly two, chemotherapy sessions he developed an infection of the blood – septicaemia – most likely a side effect of the very drugs that he was being given to reduce his symptoms and to improve his outlook. The antibiotics given to combat the infection had no effect and were soon stopped. Then, with the infection taking hold, he lost consciousness, only to die a few days later on 5 September 2026 aged 83 – it all seemed so unjust.

For me, as if his death was not enough, there was an element that made for an added sadness. During his ten days in hospital, at a time when speaking and sharing felt  so very important, I did not manage to be with him. Talking was out of the question because during chemotherapy sessions and when he became particularly ill, he turned off his mobile phone. Visiting when he became ill was impossible as by then I was in France – I so wanted to have one last talk.

All I was left with were memories. Neil and I met in 1963 when we were at university and in our last year as undergraduates we shared rooms together. We were as different as ‘chalk and cheese’ (after all, Neil read English* and I, Medicine) – but even so we became close friends and this friendship never faltered. It changed its nature as each of us grew older and had families but we were never far apart as he was the best man at my wedding, as I was at his, he spoke at several of my more important – ten-yearly – birthday parties, and was there to help me launch two of my books (see illustration).

And after we retired, we grew even closer, lunching together every two months or so and of particular importance – meeting at our ‘Men’s Thinking Club’. Since December 2010, a handful of elderly male retirees have met every two or three months to mull over various topics chosen in turn by ‘members’, who at the start of each meeting give a ten-minute introduction to their subject. He was there for our 87 meetings and will have lead the discussion on at least 15 occasions. His special ‘genius’ made him very much a crucial member.

When I thought about launching the club it was to Neil I turned first both for advice and to ask if he would be a member. He loved the idea and it was through his presentations and his comments that he further endeared himself to me (and to all of us). It is difficult to know what defines friendship but what more could I have asked for than years of sharing thoughts with someone who was amusing, erudite, original, wise and intelligent, and at a personal level always attentive, generous and honest. Moreover, he was someone who had the capacity to listen and share, and crucially if personal issues arose, to deal with them discreetly. And with all this, we shared the same views on religion and politics, and for over sixty years we shared a history.

Loosing Neil and his friendship was terribly sad – at the moment at his funeral when I touched his wicker coffin I wept uncontrollably – and leaves a huge space, indeed a horrible emptiness. So often I want to phone him or meet with him but realise that it is a senseless hope. And when I stand at the bus stop near our house, waiting for the 490 to take me to the gym, and a 190 comes by – this is the bus I would take to go to visit Neil – it is just another reminder of what I miss. Being old can be so very punishing!

The illustration shows a photo of Neil and I standing together at the launch in 2020 of ‘As I See It’, the book containing my second collection of blogs. Neil was introducing the book to the attendees.

For helping me write this blog I would like to thank Neil, Helen, Rohan and Vivien.

* A love of English continued throughout his working life and ultimately he became Professor of Shakespeare Studies.