I am too devastated to say very much at this point, or possibly ever. I had known her since about 1971 and had been pretty close friends all of that time - and more than friends for a while, just before I transitioned - which was a fairly bad idea in retrospect. Abigail and I did not always treat each other well, but we managed to get past that. Not all of the people in her life managed that - she hurt some of her male lovers quite badly and others broke her.
The world is not kind to intelligent, talented women without a clear sense of direction - she wrote some brilliant journalism about ceramics and textiles, and a lot of very funny fan-writing in zines, but she never found out what she wanted to do. She never acquired any internet skills and never got involved in the on-line culture that ought to have been her natural home. Similarly, she never found a project that engaged her enough to dedicate herself to it - constituency politics a little, perhaps, but New Labour broke her heart a little and the ousting of Oona King by George Galloway a little more, much as she hated the war.
You should all have known her at her best, jabbing away with a perpetual cigarette, cracking wise as if she was at the Algonquin, slightly tipsy and slightly out of control and combining her part-Italian heritage with a very English dryness.
But it was not a story that was going to end well, I guess, and it could have been worse than it was. Thin consolation, though.
She was 57 and I really hoped to know her for another thirty years.