David loved London.  He worked there in the 1980s as an historical researcher with the BBC and lived in a tiny bed-sit in his favourite haunt, Bloomsbury.  He enjoyed working at the British Library, which was then housed in the domed rotunda of the British Museum.  He told me countless times about how researchers had to request books using an antiquated piece of early twentieth-century technology that involved metal cylinders being placed into pneumatic tubes, somewhat like the communication system Orwell describes in Nineteen Eighty-Four.  

David had a passion for all things quirky and obscure.  I remember him tyring to explain Britain’s pre-decimal monetary system to me and its confusing combinations of tuppence, sixpence and shillings.  “It was totally irrational”, he quipped, “but that’s what was so good about it”. 

When Randall and I moved to London in 2007, David began visiting us every summer.  He would leave the first day after the end of school and always return the day before Labour Day.  I know he’ll be very much missed and mourned by the London Review Bookshop, where, during what was no doubt dubbed by their accountant the “summer boost”, he spent thousands of pounds buying their most recherche volumes of modern poetry.

While David had a particular fondness for Bloomsbury, he also enjoyed Borough Market, the Tea Palace in Covent Garden, the condiment hall at Fortnum & Mason, and The Wolseley in Piccadilly, next door to the Ritz Hotel.  He was impressed by the fact that The Wolseley had been Lucian Freud’s favourite restaurant.  In fact, we ate there the day Lucian Freud died; the management had draped his customary table in a black tablecloth in honour of the great painter.  It was also at The Wolseley that David first discovered his favourite cocktail, the Sidecar. For some reason, I only went with him once to the British Museum, but we went together countless times to the National Theatre (as well as various other theatres in the West End), the National Gallery, and the Tate Britain.  Aside from Turner’s legendary land and seascapes, his favourite painting at the Tate was Francis Bacon’s unsettling “Study of a Dog”.  

My very last full day with David, September 2nd, 2012, was spent in London.  We decided to go to Greenwich, which had an exhibition on the River Thames at the National Maritime Museum.  I remember there was a bit of drama because the bus dropped us off a couple of hundred metres past the entrance and we had to walk back to it.  The “ridiculous hike” aside, we both really enjoyed the exhibition, which featured gorgeous tableaus of the city throughout its history, original barges, and sumptuous livery costumes.  After the exhibition, we took the Thames Clipper river boat back to the pier beside the Globe Theatre.  It was a beautiful late summer’s evening and the city was still decorated with bits and pieces from the Olympics, which David, with his natural antipathy towards sports, had detested.  We ate dinner at The Swann overlooking the Thames.  I remember David had ham-hock terrine for a starter, followed by roast pork belly.  He was no doubt keen to finish his meal by feasting on the cheese board, but he resisted as he knew I would “disapprove”.  When we got back to the flat, knowing how lazy David was about anything chore-like, I offered to pack up his luggage.  He was pleased to be able to direct the operation from the comfort of an armchair and, of course, was extremely particular about how I arranged his books and laptop computer.  His clothes and everything else were a mere afterthought and could be stuffed into the suitcases in whatever random way I chose.  The next morning, Randall and I helped him out to a waiting taxi and loaded up his luggage.  We both gave him a big hug and then said goodbye for what turned out to be the very last time.
 

David was such an eccentric and larger-than-life character - a personage straight out of the pages of Balzac's Human Comedy - that I know he left a deep and lasting impression on the imaginations of everyone he met.  I first met David when I was 17 and, despite the 22 year age difference between us, we formed a close friendship and an unshakable bond.  David’s biting and sarcastic humour, his brilliant wit, his amazing mind, and his love of life and all things in excess - both refined and vulgar - have provided me with immeasurable joy that will stay with me for the rest of my life.  He was a dear and much-cherished friend, a kindred spirit, and an intellectual mentor.  I owe so much to him.

I know that, to many of his colleagues and friends at work, David spoke of me as his "daughter": our close and longstanding friendship was a bit hard to sum up in a word or two.  Over the years, as we both grew older, I truly did come to think of David with deep daughterly affection and my husband, Randall, loved him dearly as well.  David’s sudden death has been a terrible blow to us both.  Though we have been deeply saddened at losing him, we have also felt great joy reflecting on his life, which was a happy one, and all the fun and amazing times we spent together.

David was my brother.  I was almost nine when he was born.  As an only child growing up in Wales who spent hours pouring over “Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia" (12 volumes!), the prospect of a real sibling, a flesh and blood baby, was thrilling.  No baby could have been more joyfully greeted, and I became known in the family as his second mother.  

He was a good baby, a joy to us all, and for weeks my girlfriends would drop by after school to see him.  If they washed their hands, were not sniffling or, in my mother’s opinion, “coming down” with something, David was put in a large white towel and each friend was allowed a five minute “hold”.  I would time them with my new birthday watch and rejoice at my newfound popularity and social clout.  He was a baby “babe magnet” even then!  This continued most of his life, and when he was older small groups of girls would often walk by our house and stop to shake gravel out of their shoes, or search for something in their pockets, all the while surreptitiously scanning the windows to see if he was home.  He seemed oblivious to this activity, but as his big sister I would chuckle and was happy for him.  

He was my baby brother and I loved him.  He was not supposed to leave us first.  I never expected to have to face such sorrow.

The last time we talked was in November.  He was so happy about his trip to Britain last summer, and the sojourn in Wales.  I was glad to know he had such wonderful and caring friends as Shaun and Randall.  After reading the reminiscences of his friends, I realized that David had become the man our Mother and I had always known he was: brilliant in many ways, kind and caring to those he loved, with a huge amount of curiosity, a thirst for knowledge, and an “appetite” for life.  

I am so grateful to Shaun and Randall for the support, friendship, and love that they shared with my beloved brother.