I was sad to hear last week of the death of former Abergavenny Chronicle editor Jeff Morris - a true gentleman to whom I owe - for better or worse - my career in journalism.

Way back in the mists of time Jeff gave me my first job, offering me a six week trial in the newsroom which lasted for almost 13 years and would prove to be some of the happiest of my working life.

Cramped in the tiny office in Cross Street where the gap between the floor and the wall was so wide you could see clearly in the the alley below and the kitchen shared space with the loo I slowly learned the tools of the trade helped by colleagues - who became friends - the late Bill Baldock, Patti Griffiths and of course Jeff.

A true gentleman in all senses of the word - who frequently drove us to distraction - Jeff rarely raised his voice and while Patti and I ranted and raved at the world, would simply raise his eyebrows and shrug at Bill who sought refuge in the ever growing pile of pink, yellow and blue council minutes with threatened to overwhelm his desk at any moment.

Jeff’s occasional criticism was gentle and always well placed. “I think you could do a better job on this,” he would say handing back a red ink covered piece of copy. Invariably he was right.

On those rare occasions any of us were given a dressing down we emerged from his office vaguely aware you’d had a telling off but never really able to identify how and when it had started and ended.

“You need to find yourself a niche,” Jeff suggested when I’d been at the Chron for several weeks. “Bill does council and sport, Patti does news and you need to find something for yourself,” he advised.

“What about theatre reviews and arts coverage,” I said, having recently passed three years at university avoiding my ‘real’ studies by spending every waking hour either on stage or directing productions.

“The Borough Theatre is being refurbished so that would be ideal. Everyone loves a theatre review,” he added in a rare lack of judgement.

Those years under his guidance represented a different time for local newspapers when page plans were hand drawn immaculately by Jeff - who once confessed he’d harboured ambitions to be an architect and whose plans showed how good he would have been - who then spent a Wednesday morning at our typesetters in Swindon frantically phoning back to the office because this story was too long or that story was too short with the occasional muttered ‘damn’ the only sign of the panic undoubtedly surrounding him as our volatile French typesetter screeched in the background.

Our best days though were Fridays, when with the pressure of deadline day and the stress of publication day behind us, we retreated to the relative safety of The Greyhound Vaults where landlord Roy kept a corner table seemingly permanently on reserve for The Chron.

And it’s there, sitting quietly sipping his pint that I will always remember Jeff Morris - an editor and a gentleman.