Dave Kitchen passed away suddenly at 68, leaving behind a deep sense of loss anda world of memories. He was the kind of person you could reconnect with instantly,no matter how much time had passed since the last meeting. Dave was a belovedcolleague at St Johns House, a forensic service for people with developmental disabilities inNorfolk, England. Tributes have poured in, filled with stories of his humour, music, love ofrum, dancing and fearless travel. His global adventures, often to remote and risky places offthe beaten track, and his inimitable way of writing about those were, for many, a source ofjoy and awe.
A Learning Disability Nurse for over 40 years, Dave was knowledgeable, compassionate and committed. He trained as a student nurse at Woodpark Mental Subnormality Hospital, latterly Meanwood Park Hospital, in Leeds, his hometown. His research into the history of that institution is documented in his book, An Institutional Education (Kitchen, 2023). Dave wrote, “My time at Woodpark became an exploration of human nature, most especially what made workers there behave well or badly, and how could some people hang onto their human decency when the gravity of the place seemed to work against it. The lives of many hundreds of patients played out over many decades inside the walls. It was an odd world, on its own and mostly shut off from society…Almost fifty years later, my mind is still full of stories of life in this large institution for people we would now call Learning Disabled. A place that was so typical of its type and time. In fifty years, there will be no one left who saw and experienced the lives I saw first-hand. This work may help others, in future, to understand how it was to be there”. Dave’s early career spanned continents – from St Brendan’s Hospital, Bermuda, to Johannesburg, South Africa, to Napa Valley State Hospital, California. His stories from these places too, were vivid, raw and unforgettable.
At St John’s House Hospital, Norfolk, where we met him first, Dave had various job titles – charge nurse, behaviour support lead, training lead, practice development lead, the list goes on. Regardless of the exact job title, he was a genuine leader, a physical presence on the wards, one that staff could look up to as a role model. An exceptional de-escalator, he had a manner which patients instinctively responded well to. Fiercely championing the rights of those deemed “challenging”, he led, with a dedication that was unwavering, efforts to reduce restrictive practices. A keen follower of the Colton checklist for assessing an organisation’s readiness for reducing seclusion and restraint (Colton, 2004), his clinical academic work with colleagues, shaped local and national guidance (Thomas et al., 2005; Kitchen et al., 2014; Royal College of Psychiatrists, 2018). A mentor, teacher and the first friendly face for many a new staff member, Dave made even the driest of training courses engaging.
In 2019, Dave and I (VC), visited the Langdon Down Museum of Learning Disability, based at the site of the Normansfield hospital, Teddington. We watched there, a documentary about Aktion T4, the euthanasia programme in Nazi Germany, which killed over 300,000 disabled people. We viewed all the museum exhibits and were struck by the patient’s artwork, the terminology changes over the years, and the poignant letters from parents enquiring about their children. Dave was especially interested in an exhibit describing how restraint and seclusion were forbidden, and how staff would be fined monetarily for using such methods.
Dave’s post-retirement life was eclectic – time with the family interspersed with travels to Argentina, India, South Africa, Tanzania, Bermuda, Albania, Israel, Central Asia and all over Europe, including several gruelling Camino walks. He would blog and post pictures regularly; his photographs a welcome contrast to the usual social media feed. They were raw, reflective of a place’s day-to-day life, and not curated in any way. “My goal is always to be like a human camera, recording everything I see and experience”, he said. Travelling on a tight budget, he would drive thousands of miles, sleeping in his car, and the occasional hostel or hotel. These adventures were described by his two daughters as “frustrating, but a source of pride”. During all this, he continued working too in various capacities, including as a prison librarian and as a steward at music festivals and county fairs in the summer.
Later in life, Dave threw himself into writing, mainly personal and travel memoirs, as well as some fiction. He described waking at 4 a.m. to write for 2 h before beginning his day: “Writing has become an essential part of my life, and I can’t imagine living without it. While I have limited formal education and my writing has its limitations, I have worked hard and taken advice to improve my craft. My writing mostly draws from my personal experiences, and I hope its strengths are in its humour and appreciation for the odd and eccentric” (Kitchen, 2025). Dave’s words there do raise a smile because he had the uncanny knack of “forgetting” his glasses for every meeting on whichever project we were working on, meaning I (VC) had to do all the computer work!
A devoted father to his two daughters, Emma and Ruby, Dave was a playful and proud grandfather. Dave Kitchen lived richly, wrote passionately and cared deeply. While his absence today is deeply felt, the impact of a lifetime of achievement will endure.
