Dilip's way of seeing the world was unforgettable. One afternoon, a propos of nothing that had been said earlier in the conversation, he remarked that he thought it was absurd that he should have to use words in a certain way just because everyone else did. "Why", he wondered, "should I say 'chair' instead of 'orange'? Maybe what I think when I say 'orange' is what you mean by 'chair'." No amount of discussion could sway him on this point, not even the suggestion that he might be a bit uncomfortable sitting on an orange, or find a chair inedible. I sometimes suspect that Dilip was the world's greatest master of deadpan comedy. One night, on the street outside the Fringe Club - which was as usual chock-a-block with red taxis, one of our party said that she was tired and was going to get into a cab. "Well", remarked Dilip, "you shouldn't have any trouble finding one". There was no flicker of a grin on his face, and he seemed perplexed that people laughed. "What's so funny?", he asked. "Just look - there are lots of taxis right here." Also unforgettable was his deep, utterly monotone voice. Just imagine him singing Elvis Costello's ballad, "She", with that voice - "Sheeeeeeeeeeeee may be the face I can't forge-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-t...". To say nothing of the ever-present Converse high-top trainers, the Rugby Sevens jerseys and the baggy shorts... He'll be missed.