My friend Nick - in memoriam

Like many of you no longer in the first flush of youth I have lost many friends over the years, and I will never cease to remember them, and mourn for them, as long as I live. That I choose one of them for a named post is due to the fact that last year as a result of his and his wife's kind hospitality I spent just over seven months living with them every day, sharing the ups and downs - and many plates of food and glasses of wine - and became even closer friends than before.

Nick was a war baby, born in northern England in 1943 in, effectively, a single parent home, though his father was an intermittent presence early in his life. His mother, to whom he was devoted, brought him up amid post-war hardship in Leeds, where he eventually almost by default went to art school; he found his calling there. After graduation he made his way to London, eventually becoming part of the graphic artist/designer scene and ultimately creating his own company and carving a name for himself in what was then a field in an embryonic state. He was highly successful, creating some enduring logo and product designs (I've included two of my favourites) of which he was justifiably very proud. An unfortunate accident and the late 80s-early 90s recession ended his active professional career too early and introduced him to a life of infirmity and pain.

When we first met at the wedding of mutual friends in Italy in September 1996 the only hint to this was his walking stick, which almost looked like an accessory to this big, jovial man with the twinkly eyes; he enjoyed life to the full even if he couldn't walk as fast as everyone else. We discovered we lived quite near to one another in London and met up not long after we got back, quickly bonding (wine is only a temporary facilitator, you little cynics!) and becoming friends. Over the years we shared many happy, positive moments, but also sad or difficult ones, always with a glass of something and the terrific goodwill that only true friendship brings. My decampment from London and the less regular contact only made our few get-togethers more highly prized and enjoyed.

Nick's health problems got no better with age - do they ever - and he was forced to undergo an operation on, I believe, his spine. The pain, however, remained ever-present and mobility worsened, with him eventually having to use a wheelchair and/or a walking frame, making going out a test of endurance and limiting visits to his beloved pubs as his apartment block had no lift. Still he did not give up, gritting his teeth and venturing forth on a much reduced basis.

When my world caved in on me in early 2015 Nick and Jen (his wife) immediately offered me a bed in their home in Maida Vale as and when I needed it, if I wanted it, when I wanted it; in mid-January 2016 I moved into the spare room of their two bedroom flat and stayed with them as a guest (for free, yes, in London, where unscrupulous landlords charge hundreds of pounds per month for miserable rooms in horrid buildings in less than salubrious areas) until shortly before Nick's death. They were kind, understanding and generous hosts throughout.

Nick loved his home, and his neighbourhood, with a passion, proud of how far the little boy from Leeds had come. He loved the buildings, the pubs, the people, and he had many friends in the area from all walks of life. Maida Vale featured in his conversations and his photographs, its hostelries in his entertainment wish list, it was his home.

I called Nick a professional Yorkshireman because he loved to occasionally pretend he was a dim, somewhat hapless, northerner. Those who knew him even slightly were not fooled for he was never dim, but had an unconventional, inquisitive mind, a massive sense of humour and many interests. And if Yorkshire folk are meant to be tight with words and money Nick was neither, as he was both a good story (and joke) teller and massively generous.

In case you get the feeling I'm describing some latter day saint, or viewing my friend through rose-tinted spectacles, let me disabuse you of the notion. Nick had his faults, as do we all, and could be short-tempered and rude (he once called one of his customers a cunt to his face, for example), especially to his nearest and dearest. He was sometimes grumpy, drank too much, sometimes ate and smoked more than was good for him; in short, he was human.

To me he will always be the intelligent, interested conversationalist wanting to know about new things, ready to take the piss out of me (and of himself), an off the wall humorous remark never far away. The big Yorkshireman with the world-class brain, the word-class smile, the world-class heart, may have left this earth but not our minds, where his memory is alive and kicking. To say that I miss him is an understatement.

As, indeed, I miss all my friends who are no longer alive; their absence is a burning hole in my soul and I think of them regularly. And no, friendship does not die because the other person is no longer alive, at least not for me.