Last week, I was strolling through Fitzroy and saw a lamp post wrapped in a lovingly knitted jumper. Some thoughtful hipster must have got it in their head that the concrete pole was either (a) cold or (b) in need of artistic decoration and decided to get the retro knitting-needles clicking.
“Stella would freaking love this shit,” I thought before snapping a photo on my iPhone, applying the appropriate filter and selecting to send picture via SMS. It wasn’t until I started typing out the accompanying sarcastic commentary that I remembered you were dead.
It’s been a year since we lost you. A year since you departed this world swiftly and without warning.
Rudely, you buggered off just two weeks before my wedding.
After insisting that I hire the rolls-royce of disabled-access buses because you wanted to travel in style, it ended up being used exclusively by ungrateful able-bodied types. You left me with an empty spot on table number five, right between our gorgeous mate Clare and the best looking single man on the guest list (I always have your back, girl). Worst of all, you left a giant Stella-shaped hole on the dance floor.