Back in the early nineties, when I was too shy to speak up for myself, I had a go at producing a magazine that we called The Philosopher’s Stone. Having been to one or two Talking Stick events at the Black Horse in London some years before I had the idea of taking the magazine down to see if I could generate any interest. Steve used to introduce the speakers and generally keep the rabble in check. Arriving one Wednesday night, not knowing Steve and he certainly wouldn’t have known me, I asked him if it would be okay if I was try to sell my magazines at the event. Before I knew what he was doing he took the bundle of magazines from me and proceeded to go around the room selling them at all the tables. About fifteen minutes later, before the first speaker came on, he came back with the one or two remaining copies and a pile of cash.

Years later he came to my 40th birthday party traveling all the way out to Hertfordshire on the train without knowing if there would be anyone who he might know. (As if Steve Wilson could ever find himself out of place at a party.) I seem to remember he spent the evening in the kitchen chatting to friends and family alike as if he’d known them all for years. This in itself is not remarkable but the fact that he bothered to come when we’d met just a few times impressed me immensely. Strangely, for the party animal I imagined him to be, in the early hours he ended up curled up on the sofa while the rest of us were still going strong. Perhaps he’d had a busy day. In the morning there was not a trace of him.

Other than those two occasions I think we only met a few times at moots and events but I always considered him a thoroughly decent chap.