#23 Remembering a friend

Joy and sorrow in Morocco, dear David, and a reminder of the important stuff in life

Hello everyone, I’m well aware I’ve been away from this Substack for far too long. Delighted to be back and I hope you are all well. Will - once again - endeavour to write more often xxx

I have had a strange week - a mix of joy and sorrow - and wanted to tell you about it. 

At the start of the week, I was in Morocco at a yoga retreat which was nothing short of blissful. I had never been to Morocco before and I am a convert. I loved the strong sunshine, the skies, the style (blue doors, pink walls, tiles and marble everywhere), the friendliness of the people, the food (m'smmen, a v. moreish pancake was a fave), how affordable everything was, the hammam (I had a spiritual experience while being scrubbed down in paper panties), the landscape... all of it. 

Our riad in Morocco - any wonder I fell in love?

The retreat itself, in a house high up on a hill by the coast, led by two fabulous yoga teachers from south London, was special. Everyone was lovely and interesting (not a rotter among them) and I can't recall the last time I've laughed so hard so often - proper belly laughs, that kind of cry laughing that I think must be very good for one. It was glorious to have a holiday that far exceeded my expectations. 

I decided to unplug for the three days we were there and didn't put the wifi code into my phone. I told my retreat buddies about my resolution to be wifi-free and one said, "Aren't you worried you might miss something important?" I replied that the likelihood of something important occurring on the three days of the year that I was in the Atlas Mountains disconnected from wifi was miniscule. 

A joyous time…

Well, folks, I expect you can see where this is going. As we were leaving the retreat, I connected to wifi thinking I would have a quick swipe through my emails. Instead I found missed calls, voicemails and messages from my father and sister telling me that my mother had been taken to hospital for emergency surgery. 

Thank goodness, the operation had been successful and she was recovering well but the whole thing was rattling. I've been so lucky that my parents have never really been in ill health and, even though I was able to have a video call with my mum and really see that she was well and herself, this sudden reminder that life can change in an instant was unnerving. 

As she was well, it was agreed I'd stick to my plan of flying back two days later. So that night, as I sat on a sofa in the apartment we had rented in Tamraght, a surf town, for the reminder of our stay, I found myself scrolling Twitter which is where I learnt that David Knowles, the journalist who launched the popular Ukraine podcast for The Telegraph, had passed away suddenly, the day before, at just 32 years old, from a heart attack. 

David was my friend and I want to tell you a little about him. 

We first met at journalism school and he was so pretty - that was my first impression . He had white blond hair, alabaster skin and blue blue eyes. He was also a truly kind and gentle boy. This journalism school did not abound with kind souls - it was a sharp-elbows, sneakiness-rewarding, boast-and-bluster kind of a place. But David was none of those things (and yet, I'd argue, became one of its most successful alumni). He was softly spoken and kind and endowed with such a good sense of humour. Even now, I can hear his giggle and see his eyes popping wide - as though he himself was surprised by the sound of his laughter. 

We both ended up working for the Mail Online right out of our masters. He was a rather more important social media journalist (I was a run-of-the-mill trainee reporter).  I remember he went into meetings with the then-editor-in-chief of the Mail Online, who was known to be an absolute dragon, where he was set the target of getting a billion views for social videos for the site. And he hit that target. (David was somehow able to thrive in harsh environments and retain his goodness - I've seen many people turn monstrous in such places.)

He went on to work for the site in New York, then chucked the tabloid grind to go work for the World Economic Forum in Geneva before returning to London to work at the Telegraph and set up (it was all his idea) the insanely successful and popular Ukraine podcast charting the war. 

We stayed in touch over the years and he never lost his kindness or his sense of humour. He was always falling love. But where other boys would tell you a girl was “hot” and that they had a "crush", he always described the girl as "beautiful" and told me he was "in love". He would rhapsody about the object of his affection on Instagram DM to me, turning them into mythical creatures. The more I think of it, he really did approach these romances like some kind of Arthurian knight who had to win the heart and the hand of his heroine. 

He was also a good friend. He took interest in what I was up to, messaged me after I'd written something he'd read, listened patiently to my rantings and ravings, and suggested solutions. 

When we were both back in London, we met up every now and again (really not as often as we should have, I now think - we almost went to a show at the Southbank together and I bailed for some moronic reason which I now bitterly regret) and the last time I saw him was a few months ago, when he came to see my new home in East Dulwich and we went out for lunch. 

He was really living, I remember thinking at that lunch. He told me about his work trips to Kiev (which was apparently full of Blitz spirit with a raucous underground nightlife scene), that he was in love with someone he worked with and this time it was the real deal, that he was planning to buy somewhere soon, and that he had started a cricket club (I think that was it - there was definitely talk of cricket) and wanted to host more dinner parties. 

I am still trying to wrap my head around the fact that he is no longer here. It is difficult to understand how someone, who appeared so healthy with so much life ahead of them, could pass away so suddenly and seemingly for no reason. 

There has been a great outpouring of love since he passed away. I (shamefully) had no idea how many people listened to his podcast but they were legion. The online condolence book the Telegraph put up had so many entries that it came to over 90,000 words. His passing has been mentioned in parliament and this obituary really does sum him up - his prodigious talents, his kindness and his endearingly eccentric interests. I do vaguely recall him talking to me about Napoleon once. 

Reading through what everyone else has written about him, I've been reminded anew how exceptional he was. His success at work means his death has been reported around the world. But it's the accounts from his friends and family that mean the most to me. He really was a good person. I wish I could go back in time, grab him by the shoulders, and say: "You're a lovely person and you should know that". 

The one consolation is that I really do think that David packed more in - more love, more experience, more meaningful work, more joy - than many people get with many more years. His father said of him that he “love life and he lived it just as well as he could” - and that is how I will remember dear David - a boy who really lived.

***

Now I'm at the end of this weird week - back home in Suffolk and greatly relieved my mother is well on the mend and truly herself - and I'm thinking how important it is to prioritise the right things. 

So often I fixate on utter nonsense - jobs I didn't get, commissions I didn't receive, slights perceived and perhaps imaginary, wallpaper I can't afford... the list goes on and on. But we don't get forever (nor, do I suspect, would we want it). The whole of life can change irrevocably in an instant. So I'm trying to remember what actually counts - tell people they are wonderful, go to the theatre, explore and adventure, try to do good. 

That's it from me for now. Thank you for reading and I really hope you have a wonderful week xxx