By Tom Flynn

Dear Rob,

How’ve you been mate? I hope you’re doing well; it hasn’t been the same in the studio without you, that being said, not much has changed. We’re all still working away. Not working hard enough if the kicking we got in Town Hall this morning was anything to go by.  That man needs to make up his mind whether we’re the worst intake ever or just mediocre. But you know what he’s like, forever the dramatist.  We’ll see what happens, nothing to do but keep the head down.

Everyone smashed Experian, it was honestly so lovely to sit in the pit and watch everyone present stuff they were proud of. We pitched Virgin today actually. It was entertaining to say the least, you would have loved it, Mads and Jo finally went off the deep end. I’m telling you man, they’ve gone fucking loopey.

Everyone’s doing well, finding their partners and voices and all that noise. It’s quite lovely, actually, I’m just sorry you’re not here with us.

I’ve had this cooking in my head a while, just wasn’t quite sure of the feel of it, still amn’t if I’m honest.

It was terrible that day, when we found out you wouldn’t be coming back. They told us by email, that made it worse for some reason. Day was kind of a write off after that. It wasn’t too easy to get into playful child when it feels like when of your mates has been ripped away. I was angry. I wanted to start a fight about it. I didn’t think it was fair. Dunno why I didn’t, I’m usually quick to fight about everything else. Seems I’m a coward after all, won’t pick a fight when it matters. It’s good I didn’t, it wasn’t my place to. You were right, I’m a big softie really.

It was weird for the next few days, whenever you were mentioned we all got sad, the room felt a little emptier and a little less bright. Well, our little corner did at least. It got better weirdly. As grief tends to, it passed. Before we knew it, we were back to normal. I’d forgotten that you weren’t here, then I’d think of you or see your seat empty and feel this awful guilt for not missing you. Then I’d miss you all over again. Strange that.

I dunno why I’m writing this as if it’s some graveside monologue, you’re not dead. Just not at the SCA right now, I could have picked up the phone, actually said these things to you, grabbed a pint and had a laugh like real people do. Funny what this little cult we got into does to our head isn’t it?  Makes us think the only place to be in the whole world is inside some old church trying to sell people stuff they could probably do without. Madness.

Let’s be real people, let’s have a pint and talk like real people do.

I hope you’re doing well mate,

I miss you, we all do,

Love,

Tom.