In my darkest hours (and there were plenty of those) he always managed to say something that made me laugh and stop feeling sorry for myself.
He never allowed me to indulge.
He would say, "Muriel, stop complaining, it doesn't suit you. Let's go to Ibiza!"
And he meant it.
He loved going to Ibiza: yes, the gorgeous men; yes, tripping the light fantastic; yes, the occasional tab of X; but most of all he went for the music.
Dear David,
I miss you.
Whenever I arrive in London, I automatically dial your number.