Jamie Campbell

Every Friday night at the pub quiz — that's where I'll always picture Jamie. Team captain, terrible at geography, but somehow convinced us all we'd win every single week. We never did. But we laughed until it hurt every time. I miss you more than I can say.

I worked alongside Jamie for eleven years. What strikes me most, looking back, is the quiet kindness — the way they'd stay late to help a struggling student, or ask after your family when you'd had a hard week. The staffroom has never quite felt the same.

We raised you to be kind and you were. We raised you to be brave and you were that too. The world is smaller without you in it. We carry you with us every single day — in the songs you loved, the food you cooked, the way you always called on Sunday mornings. Always our Jamie.

I never told you, but you changed my life that day in the staffroom. You noticed I was struggling when nobody else did. You sat with me for an hour and you just listened. I went on to finish my degree because of that hour. Thank you.

Right. I promised myself I wouldn't be soppy, so I won't be. You were infuriating, you were stubborn, you always ordered the last slice of pizza without asking and somehow made it seem like a favour. You were also the best person I've ever known. I'll see you on the other side, pal. Save me a slice.