I do love stained glass and the sun was shining through this window whilst a packed church listened to tributes to a good friend. I couldn't take my own photo which was a shame as the light reflected around was almost more beautiful than the window itself.

The church was packed full of people who had known Donald and, I would say, had all loved him, for one reason or another. Headmaster of an Academy (the Scottish variety, not the newly minted English version) he rebelled against the pen-pushing and box-ticking that Heads are supposed to occupy their time with, so there were plenty of stories of him losing vital papers in the village stream whilst hurrying to a football training, or crawling on hands and knees under the secretaries window to get out of school without being caught - so he could get to a football training. It was said that he would rather take a bollocking himself than let a student take it, and that the children who couldn't hope to achieve much academically he would get to smile by letting them drop chalk into his ever-present coffee cup from time to time.

I remember that the first time I went to a book fair he sat down beside me and talked to me like an old friend. I heard another book dealer say exactly the same thing. We had both been far more welcomed by Donald into the book trade than by the head honcho, King Larry - but then as I say that I remember something else that was repeated several times about Donald this afternoon - he never said a bad word about anyone.

Probably the main reason I enjoyed being at that particular book fair was the time I spent with Donald. It struck me very early on in my connection with the trade that there are still a few potential curiosities amongst its occasionally grumpy, often dusty denizens. I was quite entranced by actually being talked to by one of them. It helped that he loved poetry and went to Oxford, which city I imagine saw the beginnings of his book-collecting. His collection, when I finally got to see it, was - is - enviable. He had many of the books I would have loved to have for myself, always first editions, often in beautiful condition and far beyond my financial reach, all crammed unceremoniously into a small, smoky, ash-filled room in a council house. I only hope he is happily rooting through the Akashic records now, and that they are suitably well-bound.

For my part I'm frustrated by not being able to express the essence of a man that I didn't know for very long, or even meet up with very often, but who somehow made a vast impression on me. He probably influenced me more than many people I've known much longer and much better. What I am mournfully aware of is the loss of a big personality who made everyone he came in contact with feel important to him, even a bit interesting for a while. Thank you Donald.