The time we navigated the Birmingham basin after we’d collected Joe’s bare shell of a boat, that’s up there.
As the narrow, but 60 foot long boat failed to make the corner.
A lot of that trip is up there.
Sam going missing, Jack as a pup, bravely swimming to the leaving boat.
The sofa lodged at the top of the stairs, that was up there.
For weeks we couldn’t shift it, until Joe, being Joe, just moved it easily on his way through to my old bedroom on Stables Street.
Time spent in London, that’s up there.
Setting off for the West End from the flat above All Bar One in Crouch End and then, spending the whole of the early morning in Budgens 24hr opposite, that’s up there.
Being a friend of his wife’s from the first time they met as we drank tea on Chris Mitchell’s floor, that’s up there too.
Knowing we were close and secretly loving his “The Monkey that Couldn’t trump story.”
That’s up there.
Not to mention the time he pulled me out of a freezing Trent one Christmas, as a piece of my life flashed before.
Just a few things about Joe I can share that are up there.