One Friday night, I believe in July of 1997, two of my dearest friends, Bex and Jon and myself decided that the next morning, bright and early, we would drive to the coast and spend the day at the beach. While there have been many great weekends before and since, only a handful are really, truly memorable and that weekend is one of them because it was a weekend of spontaneity and impulsiveness. But the good kind of impulsiveness. The kind that was never going to get us into trouble. The kind that we could embrace with carefree, youthful exuberance, because the weather was AMAZING, and we had new jobs and a bit of money in the bank and for once a set of wheels that could get us out of the city. It was a few years before text messages really took off and smartphones arrived, so we could get away from it all on our own terms in a way that isn’t possible anymore. Plans could be made at the drop of a hat. And so that was what we did. It was simple and it was lovely and it was perfect. It was perfect for so many reasons and here are a few: • Silliness (so much silliness) • Laughter (the type that makes your face and stomach hurt) • Sun (the kind that burns when you don’t properly apply sun tan lotion) • Making up new words to describe the heat (Scorchio!) • Volkswagen Beetles (that need the AA to come out and fix when they break down on the motorway) • Accidentally-on-purpose walking through the nudist section of the beach, and pretending to be shocked to the core by the sights (especially the multiple games of volleyball) • Dancing in the sand dunes, wearing Sony Walkmans • Paddling, pouncing on and dunking each other under the water (mosty Jon and I doing this to Bex, because girls hate boys doing that and we knew that!) • Sand between our toes during the long walk back to the car park • The spontaneous decision not to go back to London but to go to Bath, near where Jon and I grew up, and to which Bex had never visited • The three of us, lying on the grass - head-to-head - by the Royal Crescent in Bath and staring up at the stars, telling each other stories • Finally heading back to my Mum’s house and waking her up at midnight (although she was secretly delighted, of course) • The three of us sleeping together on a fold-out sofa bed in the living room, Bex sandwiched between us, and warning us sternly not to get any funny ideas and to keep our distance while we slept • The next day, driving to Marlborough and surprising Jon’s Mum and Dad, resulting in an impromptu feast, enjoyed in the garden • The inevitable drive back into the city, all a bit tired, quieter now, listening to the top-40 countdown on Radio One • Profound and beautiful conversations, some serious, most not, that live on in the memory for a long, long time after they’ve ended. Now, it’s a well-known fact that us “special” boys would TOTALLY lose our way and get lost if it weren’t for some smart and resourceful girl telling us not to “lag-behind” as she patiently leads us out of the underground. I seem to remember that Bex hated the expression fag-hag. I think she knew that she was far, far too beautiful and glamorous to be anyone’s “hag”. Anyway, that weekend, because she was the only girl in our little group, she was automatically assumed leader. So while I drove the car and Jon provided the comedy, Bex made sure that we had a bountiful picnic, that we dried ourselves off properly when we came out of the sea and that we didn’t swear too loudly when there were families and small children within hearing distance. What I’m trying to say is that while she certainly knew how to let her hair down and have fun, Bex bought an elegance and grace to a set of proceedings that undoubtedly would have devolved into course-rambunctiousness and chaos had she not been there. Elegant and gracious: I think those will always be the words that I’ll associate with Rebecca. She was elegant and she was gracious. I know I was a better person for being around her. I think I can say that Jon, and now his partner, James, both feel the same way. That weekend just would not have been as perfect as it was without Bex there. So for that reason it will always, for me, remain among that small handful of truly memorable weekends.