Patrick Shah Coronavirus Isolation Day 9. Forgive me for inflicting this on you, but I needed to get it out. Read at your peril…

4 triple-vodka-Cointreaus down, I sit at my laptop. Day 9 of social distancing on the Hill is starting to tell. Not that it’s any different from my usual routine, 2 weeks on 4 days off…swathes of time spent at home/office without going into town, but it’s the PROSPECT. Of there not being an end in sight, of an open ended-ness to this epidemic. And a sneaking suspicion, not helped by social media, that this might have been engineered.

Four triple vodka-Cointreaus down frees the mind. Causes thoughts to flow freely, with abandon. Causes the most perfect barbecued ribs yet. But they bring danger. Frank, in-the-eye streams of words to the dearly beloved (and long-suffering) wife. Simmering, barely over-the-top tippy toeing becomes a torrent of words and thoughts flung out, with abandon.

And I feel alone. Like a boy with no Father. And thoughts turn to my father figures. All now passed. Men who were my beacon at different stages of my life.

Moody, the most uncompromising 23-year-old I ever knew. His spare frame an ever-dancing, ever-hopping call to action. A caustic, challenging Man of men, his clear hazel eyes picking out every weakness that an 18-year old might dare to display. A god amongst us, a drinker, a rally driver, a fixer of machinery, a fighter, a lover of women, and my mentor. My maker of me. You lived life on the edge of life and died from the most mundane of causes.

Steve, my bestmate. Eleven years its been since you systematically drew me in to your demise. Flawed as they come, but more attractive for it. Sneering at the world, kissing the feet of women at the ambassador’s house, screaming obscenities at a roadside buck who had the temerity to come up to your window to beg. A poet, a scholar and a lover of beer. A MAN, a real man, complex in every way, but simple to my eye, your death elegant and spectacular at the same time. “If you are reading this, I have recycled myself”, your note said. Your single suitcase of well-worn and well-recognised clothes a farewell gift.

Patrick, my ever-present, ever demanding friend. Demanding of me if 3 weeks passed without a phone call. Demanding of my highest standard as a friend. Your estimation of me made me a better man. Your insistence that I was your special friend made me special. Gone too soon my friend but gone on your own terms. The day you passed, a shade passed over the rest of us, and reluctantly, we all grew up just a little. My silliness and my hijinks seem a little more contrived after you left. There isn’t anyone left to share them with. You were sometimes annoying with your demands for friendship, but I miss you now, my brother.

Father. Oh, how I despised you recently. I had written you off. You were dead to me long before you were dead to me. In the last year of your life, however, I saw you as you’ve always been. My father. A hopeful and a failure at business. A hopeful and a failure at marriage. But living life on your own terms. Inspiring awe, but also frustration. Equally proficient with your hands and your mind, always a hero to me, your books the making of my mind, your cameras, guns and tools the making of mine. My Father, flawed, but I see now, harshly judged. I am what you were, just not as brave. In every waking day, I yearn for that in you to be in me.

All of you gone, but a piece of you remains, in these words. I hope that when I’m gone, I might step up and fill your shoes.