HOLDING ON TO MY BEST FRIEND

Struggling with grief, Julia Rogers, 53, discovered solace in an unexpected place

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The other morning, just like every day, I poured steaming porridge into a bowl, then pulled open a kitchen drawer and reached inside, rummaging through the tangle of cutlery until I found what I was looking for.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, porridge bowl in front of me, I held my spoon, gently tracing the inscription on its handle.

‘Good morning, Steve,’ I said aloud. ‘I’ve got an important meeting today so if you could help out and make sure it goes well, that would be great, thanks.’

It may sound strange but having a quick chat while using my special spoon has become a part of my daily ritual. And, of course, I’m not really speaking to a spoon, but to the memory of my dearest friend Steve, who was, in many ways, the other half of me.

Best friends for over 30 years, we met, aged 18, on our second day at Canterbury university in September 1990.

We clicked immediately, sharing the same daft sense of humour and a devotion to Madonna, and became an inseparable duo.

‘We're like a pair of Tiggers,’ I told Steve one night at a party, as we bounced around on the dance floor and I later bought him a cuddly Tigger toy for Christmas.

In our 20s, after finishing university and moving to London, we shared key moments, like toasting the new millennium together, weekends in Paris, and theatre outings to musicals including Mamma Mia!.

We were also one another's emotional support, side by side through career successes and setbacks, and nursing one another's broken hearts after failed relationships. If I had a boyfriend who was confusing me, I'd go straight to Steve for instant ‘man translation’ as we called it. Steve was even there, arms wrapped around me, as I panicked after receiving worrying smear test results. Just having him beside me, I felt safe and reassured, and was thankfully fine in the end, following another check-up.

‘I told you everything would be OK,’ Steve smiled.