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Sunday, February 05, 2006

Strange, innit...

Pete's death only really hit me today, when I saw the handmade memorial that had been constructed in Hendford, where he was tragically killed, just a few yards from our local, The Butchers Arms. People had tied bouquets of flowers onto a drainpipe; there were floral tributes and cards and poems and messages there from friends and family. "We miss ya, man," said one, "love from, The Bar Flies."

But it was the photographs that finally brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes: Pete in snowboarding gear...Pete scuba-diving...Pete lost in the heat-haze of what looks like a desert, maybe the Australian outback or somewhere, I dunno, but he's smiling out at the camera, lost in the moment, and, finally, most heartbreaking of all: a blurred photograph of an empty table and a chair in a quiet, darkened corner at the back of the pub, strangely double-exposed or smeared by camera-shake or something, that perfectly captures the cruel paradox that he'll never, ever be there again, yet somehow he will also be there forever.

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