A million and one stories. Where to start? Dhaka, late 80s-early 90s: parties in the Woolpack (Dom's flat). Fiercely competitive and farcical darts matches between the dreadful Curved Arrows (my team) v the top-of-the-league Jackson Five (Dom's team). Dom running with me on a half marathon in sweltering Dhaka heat. My joy at finding he'd left his hash master's mitre in the back of my car and the potential entertainment value of a series of anonymous ransom notes with, of course, the connivance of Maurice Lea. Dom's horror at finding his sacred mitre had been handled by a 'bumpy gentleman'. The comedy of me at 5'3" trying to get Dom on a plane to Bangkok for treatment after he snapped his achiles tendon. Dom stepping in as the DJ when the band failed to turn up at the New Year's Eve ball in the Sonargaon Hotel and making it the best NYE in memory. Bumping into him in the departure lounge at Cincinnati airport and discovering we were seated together on the flight to London. I was so looking forward to him visiting me in the UK that I performed an excellent song and dance routine from my front door across the road to his car as he turned up, only to discover that he was running late and I had entertained a complete stranger in a similar car. I guess I'll never know how I managed to acquire his Chittagong hash memorabilia, which has accompanied me around the world. But I do know that I have so many great memories and photos and all of them involve laughter and mischief (and cans of beer, strangely). A great man, in so many ways.
With love, and deepest condolences to Dory, Pauline Clarke