Now, with a few weeks perspective, it is a little easier, if no less painful, to recall the innumerable positives of Col. Col was my first and greatest friend in journalism, a profession I stumbled into some 14 years ago as a gangling, green 22 year old. In the course of those 14 years, he became the affectionate elder brother I never had, teaching me how to learn the lessons of the big, bad world without becoming hard.

I'm not sure what I gave him in return, although he did seem to draw enormous mirth from my then-frequent instances of foot in mouth disease, and we did have an enormous cross-over in our senses of humour, musical tastes and love of life. He also came to draw great vicarious pleasure from my rather chequered love life, regarding it as a form of soap opera.

When we met, Col was "daylighting" as the chief sub-editor for David Koch's small Australian Financial Press publishing house. (It was definitely "daylighting", as Col's "official" job at the time was a night-time one – as Page One sub for the Financial Review.) Showing his customary workaholism, Col would slave away all day at Kochy's two-magazine "church" in Pyrmont, then go straight on to the Fin at about 5PM for his "real" job, and work through to the wee hours of the next morning.

I had conned my way into a job as Kochy's researcher/producer, with delusions I would become a great broadcaster. Col eventually convinced me that print journalism was a far more sensible objective. I ultimately started working with Col on one of Kochy's trade mags, New Accountant, and without fail, Col would always talk up my yarns, even Mogadon-inducing ones about beancounting. "Maaaate," he would say, “love that yarn about accounting standard AASB10,156!”

It was a pattern that continued for years to come. Col became a constant guardian angel, always putting in the good word when I needed it, and being instrumental in my hiring in at least two of my jobs. Col and Dael also took me into their home, feeding me - AND always putting on extra food to cope with my gargantuan appetite. Unfortunately, Col's education of me on fine wines was wasted – to this day, I can't tell a Penfolds from a Petaluma – but he never patronised me about it. Regardless, I would enjoy the effects of his “education”, and we would then merrily stay up well into the night doing impersonations and listening to music.

I have spoken to Dael many times before and since Col's dreadfully untimely death, and one subject that keeps coming up is his wonderful 50th birthday party in East Sydney. The gesture of giving generously to your friends on a birthday – in this case, virtual gallons of Grange Hermitage – without expectation of anything other than company in return, is something I will take with me for the rest of my life from that night: along with the wonderfully raucous singing we all partook in!

Col gave me so many lessons in life. He was always loving, tolerant and playful – never carping. He taught me how to cop a tease, and not bite back.

Most of all, he was warm. I once confided in him that I thought I had too many rough edges. "Tabster, there's nothing wrong with rough edges. They'll come off when they're meant to come off."

I think it's that sense of compassion and forgiveness which I will find hardest to replace.