Let me tell you about Jojo.
I met Jojo in my first year of university. I was moving in to my student halls and I walked right past this tall ginger kid, sure I’d get to know my new flatmates once I’d finished emptying the car. He leaned over the stair bannister and asked me something - maybe “what’s your name”, or “what are you studying”, or maybe “where are you from,” but I don’t remember and it didn’t matter. I was moving to an unfamiliar city, utterly daunted by the task of living with nine complete strangers, and this random guy just stopped what he was doing and tried to be my friend. Suddenly, my first year of university felt a lot more possible.
Over the next year I spent most of my evenings in Jojo’s room, watching cartoons and knitting. Other people were harder to get along with and I struggled to balance introversion with isolation. Jojo, though, was easy. He’s one of those people you can just exist near and feel better about everything, or pour your heart out and know that even if he doesn’t get it, he still wouldn’t judge you for it.
We lived together for almost six years, and I have never found anyone I am more glad exists in this world.
Fair note: This account may make him sound like a quiet, wise old soul full of wisdom and gentle spirit. Nah. This is also the guy who once climbed a tree in a thunderstorm to get a good view of the rain, who used to chew on scissors when he was bored and once put a dish sponge under the grill to check whether it would melt.
He moved away with his partner to live in the snowy mountains of Scotland, and every November I go up and visit them and their adorable dog. These socks are knitted in his honour - they’re bright, cheerful, bold, painfully colourful, loud, and the colours remind me of his ginger hair and godawful fashion sense.
(He is also the most appreciative receiver of knitwear ever - always a good trait among friends)