The news of Patrick’s death was like a sickening punch to my stomach. While we may have lost touch of late, that’s still what it felt like. 


We hailed from (almost) the same neck of the woods in Belfast, but our paths never crossed there. Instead, fate brought us together in London in the mid-eighties, through a mutual friend, Julia Unwin, who had been a fellow student of mine at Liverpool University. 


While I never really settled into London during that time, in the way that Patrick would, Julia’s warm and welcoming house was often a port of refuge. It was where Julia introduced me to Patrick, with whom I had the good fortune to share many an afternoon, and some evenings that stretched into the early morning hours, over a pint or two. Or three. Or more. 

His quietly magnetic personality, quick wit, and incisively good judgement - not to forget the good old Belfast craic- lit up any gathering he was part of. But beyond that, the heartwarmingly touching effect he had on Julia was evident even in those early days.

The peripatetic lifestyle I adopted resulted in increasingly infrequent reunions as Julia and he went on to marry and build a family. However, it was a pleasure to meet their daughters at a very young age, and witness the obvious adoration both they and Patrick had for each other. 

It is a measure of Patrick’s impact on the people he met and engaged with that, despite such a long time since we had shared the craic, I was left reeling when I learned of his passing. Too late even to attend his funeral or wake.

Nevertheless, and with something of a lump in my throat and a sting behind my eyes, I raise a glass to Patrick Kelly - husband of Julia, father of Annie and Rachel, and the man who produced the Belfast book I had always aspired to write, but never quite managed. Thanks for the pleasure you brought to all.