In March this year Paul was sitting on our terrace with a gin and tonic. He stayed for ten days and we are so glad he did.
A month ago he was at a friend's barbecue in England. If he was ill, nobody noticed. If he knew he was ill, he didn't tell anyone.
Three weeks ago he drove his Citroen to France and spent a fortnight with friends there.
After leaving them he drove to Spain, where he was house-sitting for other friends.
Two days after they had gone, their gardener had to call an ambulance for him. That was last week.
On Sunday he died. On Monday a friend phoned to tell us.
He was cremated yesterday.
This is Paul - he was only 62.
I spent yesterday going through my albums for photos of him and remembering some good times.
Here he is at a party for my birthday in 1995 with my husband and the Bundy twins.
One year he couldn't get to Le Mans, so he set up marquees and tents in his garden and held a 24 hour Le Mans party with a huge TV screen showing the race and a Scalextric set for frustrated drivers.
This is him dancing in the snow before walking home.
Not many people could get away with googly-eyed glasses and that tie, but this was what Paul wore to the party that heralded the dawn of the new millennium.
It wasn't all parties, but that was mainly when I took photographs.
In this last one, he and Don are probably discussing politics!
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The world is already a duller place.
