Getting older with friends you have known since your early twenties, is a special kind of treat, which gives one a sense of deep rooted continuity. We never know who will make it past the key milestones in our lives, and the ones who do are special indeed.

I met my friend Richard in London when we were working in the same office as fledgling surveyors. Compared to my gregarious ways, he was very quiet, softly spoken and such an English gentlemen that he belonged in an Evelyn Waugh novel. We would breakfast together after our morning commute, and drink cocktails on a Wednesday after work. He was always easy company and an active listener.

We both got married to our respective partners, and kept in touch as our families grew and our careers developed. We sometimes saw one another at Christmas drinks, and time passed. In our mid forties we both suffered emotional burnouts. We shared stories and looked out for one another during our black periods. We helped our teenage children with university applications, and flat hunting in London. We were solid companions during life’s ups and downs.

When Richard’s father who I knew, was dying he phoned me. He was sitting at his bedside when his father passed. We said prayers together and he wept. I witnessed his tears of grief for the father he adored, and life moved on. For more than a decade we lost touch. I was moving home, changing my life and fighting to save my marriage.

On the day I left England forever, when the life I knew was finally broken into pieces, I was huddled in a corner at Kings Cross St Pancras Station, waiting for the Eurostar to France and my French home. I was in fissure ruin. I found Richard’s number and called him. He picked up, and with no drama just calmly asked me where I was. His voice alone, gave me some kind of quiet strength to take the next step.

From that moment on he saw me from being in an emotional car wreck, to intensive care, to convalescence to a full bill of health. It’s been seven years of deep friendship being tested in real time. I owe him my life.

So yesterday, when he sent me the happy photograph of him holding his first grandchild, with the message that he loved him so much that he cried, I cried too. For the vulnerable sharing of a reserved man, with the kindest heart I know. His grandson is a lucky boy indeed, to have a grandfather like Richard. May they have many years of joy together. I hope I’ll get to witness some of them.