The last time I saw Luke, first thing in the morning for a coffee, was one of those occasions where you talk with someone for hours and yet it felt like only a few minutes had passed. We discussed his recent problems, and everything that had led up to that. I was surprised to learn that my friend, who I always held in high regard — in particular as someone who always seemed to have his life focused and organised — had at times been like a ship lost at sea. We talked about mental health, both his own and his interest in helping others in a similar position. He was obviously acutely aware of his own situation, what that meant for his future and for his relationships with others, but he wasn’t morose, nor was he stuck in his own world; he still had the capacity to laugh. Luke could be a deeply funny individual, his sharp mind allowed him to do this with ease, and yet, when the topic of discussion went beyond the opportunity for laughs, he could offer insight and deep understanding about a great many things. He could flit between light-hearted irreverence, and cutting and analytical views on the world. It takes a great mind to do that. I probably listened more than talked that day, but Luke paid me a great compliment when he told me I was “very astute” in my reflections on what he’d been through. Coming from Luke that was high praise indeed. That same great mind convinced me that although he’d been through hell, he now had everything under control. Regretfully, I was wrong. What gives me comfort is that he was full of hope. I’ll remember Luke for his achievements, not only in his career, but in the wide circle of friendships he maintained, his varied interests, his work for society at large. His intellect could be almost fearsome at times, but I also knew him as a deeply compassionate, caring and helpful individual. He had a great amount to give, and I’m full of sorrow to think of the things he was yet to accomplish. Rest in peace Luke, we’ll never forget you.