I first met Phoebe at Cambridge, resplendent in her fabulous coat but I really got to know her when I moved into the infamous 46C over four years ago.  We got on from the word go, in part because we were unphased by each other’s idiosyncrasies.  She giggled when I realised that we had a toaster - two whole years after moving in.  I was amused when she rearranged all my books according to colour, so that Auden was now helpfully located next to Wittgenstein.    In fact, we got on so well that Phoebe had suggested we flatshare indefinitely - and I was in total agreement.
 
Something that amazed me about Phoebe was her enormous capacity to love. She had a huge number of friends.  “The thing is,” she explained “I find the best people and don’t let go until eventually they get so worn down they have to befriend me.  In fact, I am just a simple Taylor.”  Of course, that wasn’t remotely true.  Phoebe was easy to love. She was hilarious, a masterful punner and joke-teller – Barry the whale, anyone?  When she found something that tickled her, she really committed to it, like reclaiming the colour orange after the demise of Trump with an entirely orange dinner.  And although she would squirm if anybody told her so, she was clever, talented and creative.    
 
Phoebe’s most special quality though, was her rare, quiet kindness.  On my longest teaching day she’d slip her truly terrible drawings into my bag to make me laugh – an artist she was not.  She was always giving friends and family carefully chosen or handmade presents and cards (often anonymously) for every conceivable occasion, like Congratulations on Not Taking Yet Another Job, Mum! or Happy International Sloth Day!, or just because.  She could sense when a friend needed to be entertained or listened to or just sat with – and never failed to do just that.    
 
Phoebe was also extremely close to her family and fiercely proud of them.  She loved chatting and listening to Leonard Cohen with her mum, Ros, and sent me screenshots of her mum’s particularly bananas messages – sorry Ros!  She enjoyed meeting her dad, Carl.  She’d show me pictures of his wonderful paintings and, of course, report on his beloved cat, Pixel.  Phoebe was in awe of her brother Sammy’s skill with the pencil and the plectrum and talked to her grandma every Sunday without fail in lockdown. 
 
Phoebe always came skipping back happily from her aunt Liz’s or cousin Susannah’s, and Anna and Mila’s photos and drawings were stuck all over her room.  Phoebe was enjoying spending more time with Bernard and his family, and was particularly looking forward to seeing how little Felix was going to conquer the world, imaginary and real.  And then there were her many family WhatsApp groups.
 
Phoebe had worked out exactly who she was and what she wanted out of life and she was unafraid to be completely herself and just go for it.  After all, why wait until you are old to wear purple?  She wanted to walk in the Lake District, learn languages, vid, eat too much ice cream, talk unstoppably about her latest book or TV obsession to anybody who would listen, howl with laughter.  Most importantly though she wanted spend time with her friends and family and to be kind and thoughtful and generous in her quiet understated way. She did all of that: she lived and laughed and loved and touched more people in more ways just in the few years that I knew her than most 
would do in ninety.