Originally posted by zeitghost
He once dropped a lighter down the side of his chair, between his leg and the arm, while I was there. He didn't have the strength to shift himself enough in his chair to pick it up, which was when I realised why there were always about a dozen of them next to his stack of fag packets.
I don't think he ever said more than about three words to me during the half-hour or so I'd spend with him; even catching enough breath to speak was an epic struggle for him.
He died a few months after I first met him. IIRC he was about 80.
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