Today marks the fifth anniversary of my best friend Chris passing away. He was 43.
I thought that I should try and remember him to people who may (and may not) have known him. So, here are some thoughts about him and losing someone you love that I have written down from time to time. Some of them are taken from what I said at his funeral, but I hope that you don’t find them too depressing.
Although, as Chris would say, “If you want depressing, you had better look at your love life, dear!” Chris always enjoyed seeing his name in print, so I thought that this would be a good way to remember him.
Tuesday 23rd February 2010
It is seven o clock in the morning on Tuesday 23rd February 2010, and life will never be the same again. I start calling people we knew. News of your death breaks less than three hours after you leave us. I have the surreal task of asking a news channel if they could kindly remove the story from their website. The phone does not stop for two days.
March 2010
I speak at your funeral to 300 people about how much I loved you. Strangely, it is one of the easiest things I have ever done. Your coffin is so small I do not see it at first. Later, a soprano sings very loudly. I think that if that doesn’t wake you up, then nothing will. It’s the kind of thing we used to laugh about, odd though it sounds.
Remembrance
“Chris taught me the importance of the spoken word and his words to me some 15 years ago: “Sarah, your future lies in the precise use of language – what are you trying to say?” remain with me.
Christopher was very fond of telling the people we met that he knew me from before I was born. My mother taught him in primary school and remembers well a small and earnest boy with big brown eyes and a deep voice.
I became re-acquainted with Christopher when I started out my fledgling career in the law, as a bursary student in his then firm. He believed in me and offered me a job when my confidence was low. He trusted me enough to be his paralegal. Those who worked for him (and there were plenty of us) will recall exactly what working with Chris was like – the lamps, the many papers, the stationery, the china cups and saucers, the constant need for jam doughnuts, but above all a sense of busyness and, if you were me, the constant practice to perfect a cup of tea that he would never finish!

I have no doubt that we tried each other’s patience at times. Here was the person who trusted me to drive him to meetings, sometimes with disastrous results, the man who stayed calm when I reversed into his new car and the Advocate who remained unflustered in court when it became apparent that I had put privileged correspondence into a bundle which found its way before the Court of Appeal. Oops.
Working with Christopher was also to witness someone who could inspire others and it was a privilege to see him happy and fulfilled when he was both a partner in a law firm and a Senator in the States of Jersey – an astounding achievement for a man who was then only 32 years of age. He was an excellent orator and leader and excelled in his dual roles until he took the difficult decision to retire from the States before the end of his term of office.
It was a sad day both for Christopher and the electorate when he stood down and I know that he aspired to being the Chief Minister or indeed a Crown Officer at some point. I recall, on the day that another Senator was elected to the post after Chris had stood down, that I sent him a note saying:
“It’s not about being the first, it’s about being the best” and we would revisit this phrase when personal challenges met us both in the future.
Like all of us, Christopher knew times of trouble and darkness. Despite these, and his faith in human nature sometimes being challenged by them, he remained a loyal friend who specialised in firm advice coupled with humour when the chips were down, or in our case, had been bought from the chip shop and demolished. “Don’t put yourself down, Sarah”, he would say. “That’s my job!”.
So, what do I miss about Christopher? I miss his humour and ability to make me laugh at myself. I also have fond memories of our walks with his beloved dog, Ferdi, in which Chris would test me on my law revision and encourage me in studying for my law degree. I remember too our many visits to the theatre and his fantastic dancing with me at friends weddings.
Chris was a collector, and a self confessed hoarder, of many things. These collections included his impressive array of fountain pens and ever growing library of books, books and more books. I was astounded and impressed by his depth of knowledge regarding subjects as diverse as Jersey customary law, the European Union, historical leaders and Catholicism to name but a few. He also had a rare ability to simultaneously translate written French into English whilst reading it upside down.
His greatest asset of all was of course his generosity. Christopher was willing to help so many people in different walks of life, this perhaps to the detriment of his own well being.
The lawyers out there will recall that when you start out in the law, you are referred to a text by one Glanville Williams called “Learning the Law”. Glanville Williams is often described as a “guide, philosopher and friend”. I can think of no better phrase to sum up Chris, if there ever could be one, than this.”
May 2010
On your birthday, your ashes are scattered in a place you requested, that I did not even know you liked, even though it’s a beautiful location. My courage fails me and I am in London, for some reason looking in disbelief at your Facebook page. I write on it “I miss you” but then delete it. What is the form when your late friend’s profile comes up on Facebook – and it suggests you reconnect with them? I remove my own profile not long after.
Every day has become its own anniversary.
Every Tuesday, because that is the day you left us all.
Every Thursday, because that is the evening you wrote your final card to me – you loved cards.
Every Friday, because that is when I realised all was not well.
The 23rd of every month, because every month I realise, again, that you are not coming back. And how much I miss you, still.
Reflection
It was a privilege to know Christopher and his friendship was a gift. He was a wonderful and complex man who left us too soon in life.
The most important lesson he taught me was that to love someone is to accept the whole person – to celebrate their strengths and to accept their faults – and ultimately just to love them for who they are. Thank you for reading.