The first production Steve and I put on together was a Christmas show at Normanton Parish Church a long, long time ago. Steve had coached the music students in some lovely early music. And I had directed the kids in a medieval miracle play (indeed, it was a miracle it came off at all). At the end of a relatively successful evening, Steve appeared before me and rocking back and forth on his heels with a wicked glint in his eye spoke in a sonorous voice: "Perhaps, it wouldn't be inappropriate for us now to indulge in a little liquid refreshment."

I replied "Would this involve going to an establishment purveying alcoholic beverage?"

"Indeed it would", came the response with a knowing smile.

So was born the institution of the post-production pint.

Steve sends his apologies by the way. He couldn't be here, as he's in the rafters rigging the P A system for a bloke called Peter. He's told me the pearly gates fail health and safety standards outright.

Like all of us, I'm finding the loss of Steve difficult, so difficult, because so sudden and so unexpected. Surely, he would soon be building the stage, rigging the lights, singing in the choir again, clipping the Year 13 Performing Arts videos at the eleventh hour...

When I drove into West Bridgford yesterday, almost involuntarily my first thought was "I wonder if Steve's around." Would we meet up? Have tea in Copper? A pint at the Test Match? Chat and laugh about the world...his Open University thesis...the latest play I'm involved with...the latest horrors of the government. Would Steve say, with a wry grin, that "nice Mr Osbourne", that "nice Mr Farage". When he said "that nice man", you always knew they were not nice...and were about to receive a character assassination. Who would he skewer with an innocent smile?

But, then I remembered he wouldn't be there. From now on who would I have a post-production pint with, smiling with satirical eyes across the table? Where has Steve gone? And our loss of you, Steve, is a terrible omission in our lives. And why?...because you gave us so much life...so much laughter...taught us so much...made us achieve so much through your quiet, gentle, considerate nature.

And what was Steve's nature? A man who was not able to be unkind, always tolerant even when the little blighters played him up rotten.Indeed, he was a teacher...a singer...a musicologist...a sound technician...of the highest calibre. Yes...but, so much more. He was also a friendly guru in the disguise of a normal man...a shaman in a suit. But, he also had the vison of a child...a child's laughter...a child's eyes...a child's heart.

Also he delighted in the tiny details of life. Seeing the swans sleeping on the River Wharfe at night like big white boulders... "Oh how wonderful", he would say. Walking around Parceval Hall gardens delighting in the flowers and landscape and the view of Simon's Seat. A fabulous Sunday lunch at The Red Lion in Burnsall with Steve remarking "This is the best Sunday lunch I've ever had." And, once, when walking through Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire, he caught sight of Ripon Cathedral in the distance...bathed in a shaft of sunlight. "Oh, how amazing" he said...and we looked at the cathedral...then back into Steve's wonder-lit eyes, a child's eyes.

Always living in the here and now.

He also had a love of learning. Life was a place where lots of things had yet to be learned...a new score to go through...a new essay for the Open University on the role of music in film...a new play with a new sound plan, finding the perfectly appropriate sound track to suit the dramatic moment.

And, where is Steve now? For me, he lives on...his soul lives on and on in our lives made the richer by his life. And, Steve, as I go on in my own life, until I eventually join you, I will cherish the memory of you...and your inimitable, beautiful nature. And I will see you in the swans on the river...and in the sunlight of the towers of the cathedral...and in the smiles of kids' faces...and in the constant acts of kindness and love you gave the world.