Poor old Steve Martin

Poor old Steve Martin; he was a friend of mine. Common name leading to misunderstanding, I bet he had that all his adult life. Died at 50 at a birthday party, died in the arms of his wife before she could resuscitate him. Died before he had a chance to sort out the things he was meant to finish, meant to say, meant to start; steam coming off tea cups, half-eaten biscuits and crosswords with the ink still wet.

Funny thing, the word 'friend'. I knew Steve and liked him, he was honest and friendly and entusiastic about those things that mattered to him. But I didn't know his family or background; my opinions formed solely on the meetings I had with him and the things he helped me with. Was he my friend? He was someone I regarded, someone I am sorry to have to mourn. Someone too young and too nice to have that happen.

I do think about mortality, but there's no point in dwelling and scaring myself. If fate exists, which it doesn't, then we're all just milling round the meat counter waiting for our ticket number to pop up on the screen. If fate exists, it's Winner Stays On. Rock paper scissors being played in a dark room over the phone, with no participant knowing the rules. In essence - rubbish.

True, we may make our own luck, but really we just make our own opportunities and the more there are, the more chances for good luck. We may as well just make ourselves happy while we're here, do right by those we love, like and regard.

So here's to you, Steve Martin. Dead at 50, missed and well regarded. A legacy in itself.