I have so many wonderful memories of Peter, most of them centred around the two of us, sat at his kitchen table, drinking endless cups of instant coffee and having conversations that would begin with a debate on the merits of some philosophical theory and, hours later, somehow meander their way to a discussion of some bizarre meteorological phenomena, with a dozen seamless transitions along the way. I was never sure how we made it from the beginning to the end, but I was always grateful for the journey and in awe of how much my friend was able to know about seemingly infinite topics.

Fate being what it is, I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye to Peter, but I console myself that the last day we spent together was as close to a perfect Peter-day as can be. It was June and I was back in the UK for a few days to renew my passport, and I drove to Frome for an afternoon of catching up, cuddling the cat and obscure, rambling chats. I arrived late. Peter was unsurprised.

Rather than staying in Frome (of which I’d already been given the guided tour on my first visit), he insisted we go elsewhere, so he could show me more of what Somerset had to offer. So off we went to historic Mells, and to a cafe in a nursery. Sitting with Peter in the sunshine and the fresh air, surrounded by plants, dogs running around our chairs was a wonderful reminder of how happy the life he’d build for himself in Somerset had made him. As much as I missed the days when 20 paces could take me from my home to his, I loved seeing him relaxed and fulfilled and finally living a life that he wanted.

He asked me about my new job and followed up with “So what exactly is version control?”, and I explained in the same way I’d explained it to every other friend and family member who’d asked. Peter, unlike everybody else who I’d invariably left perplexed and bored, not only understood, but was interested - or at least sweet enough to feign interest.

He told me all about the history of Mells, and after lunch took me along to St Andrew’s church where he point out his favourite carvings and pieces of art, and excitedly regaled me with stories of Siegfried Sassoon and the Asquith family, all of which left me slightly ashamed of my abysmal knowledge of English history. Later we walked down to the field at the end of the churchyard and spent an age trying to lure a herd of shy, young cows towards us and offering them our hands to lick, with some success.

Eventually I drove us back to Frome, in my Mum’s car that Peter had always, half-jokingly mocked for looking “Like it belongs in Toy Town”, but he admitted that fast cars with big engines still excited him - even if he felt like he was playing Big-Ears to my Noddy. We sat down and drank one last cup of coffee together, while the cat both demanded my attention and admonished me for giving it too enthusiastically. When it was time for me to head home, Peter - ever the true gentleman - walked me the 100 feet or so to the car, hugged me and told me to drive safe, and we assured one another we’d meet again soon.

As much as I wish we had had the chance to see each other again, I can’t think of a happier memory to hold on to.


Peter once told me that he believed that it wasn't until around 25 that a person truly becomes themselves, or, the version of themselves who they’re going to be for the rest of their life. I remember thinking at the time, how lucky I was to have met Peter before that time, having the chance for our friendship to shape me as a person. I miss Peter so much, as I’m sure everyone who knew him does, but as I’m also sure everyone who knew him does, I consider myself truly blessed for having the privilege of calling him my friend.