So my friend James Waites – someone who I considered a good friend, but who I had not talked to in a couple of months (but such was our friendship, what with his health in decline and thus not able to see as much theatre/music etc as he could, that this wasn’t anything unusual) – is dead, and has been since the 12th February this year, and I knew nothing of it until today when I went looking to his website again. He lent me books. He said kind words to me that gave encouragement, and he was a font of stories of past and present, and an insight into a different world. A critical mentor of sorts, as well. Over the last year or so I took him to some concerts because he loved classical music – as my plus one. But his health meant that he couldn’t go to as many as he would’ve liked. But I hope they made his final year a bit nicer than it might’ve been otherwise.
I’m not particularly upset, I don’t think, but I find it somewhat surreal, to only have found out this late, after all the memorials and other such events. How weird. How strange.