People like to think uniqueness comes from something obvious—talent, personality, maybe the way someone carries themselves. But the truth is, it’s far messier than that. And, if I’m honest, far more interesting.

We’re all a patchwork.

It starts with what you’ve lived through. The good days, the bad ones, and the moments that quietly changed you without asking permission. Two people can walk the same road and come out seeing the world completely differently. That alone makes us unique.

Then there’s the mind—how you think, how you process things, what lingers with you when everything goes quiet. Some people find logic, others find meaning, others just try to make sense of the noise. However your mind works, it’s yours. No one else runs on the exact same wiring.

Add to that the people you’ve met along the way. Whether you realise it or not, you carry pieces of them—lessons, habits, perspectives. We’re shaped by others, but never in identical ways.

And then comes the part that matters most: choice.

What you do with everything life throws at you. You can harden, or you can soften. You can turn away, or lean in. Those decisions—especially the quiet ones—leave the deepest mark.

Don’t forget the small things either. The quirks, the odd interests, the bits of nostalgia that don’t make sense to anyone else. That’s the detail. That’s the character.

Put it all together—experience, thought, influence, choice, and those little unexplainable traits—and you get something no one else can replicate.

That’s you.

And whether you realise it or not, that’s your kind of rare.

Stay safe

Bc

Sometimes I catch myself thinking about legacy. Not the grand, Shakespeare-in-the-library kind, but the smaller, quieter kind. You know—the little things that don’t make headlines but make mornings a little warmer.

So here’s a thought: if I could have something named after me, I think I’d go with a shed. Not a fancy one. Not the kind with solar panels and Wi-Fi. Just a shed. A simple, weathered shed tucked in a backyard somewhere, maybe leaning slightly to one side, filled with tools, a bit of sawdust in the corners, and sunlight streaming through the cracks in the walls.

Why a shed? Because it’s a place that quietly holds things together. A space where ideas get built, where projects start with a plan and a bit of elbow grease, where the world slows down enough for hands to do their honest work. It’s humble. It’s practical. It doesn’t demand attention—but if you know it, you know it.

So yeah, if I had something named after me, let it be a shed. A small space that stands steady while the seasons roll on, a place that whispers, “Here’s where a bit of ordinary magic happens.”

Stay safe

Bc

It’s a simple question, isn’t it? The kind that feels like it should have an easy, ready-made answer. A list, perhaps. A few dependable go-tos. Something neat and repeatable.

But the truth is, laughter doesn’t really work like that.

For me, it’s rarely the obvious punchline. Rarely the polished joke. It’s not the thing that tries to be funny that gets me. It’s the moment that isn’t trying at all.

Mrs Bob, for instance.

Sometimes—very occasionally—she’s intentionally funny. A well-timed comment, a dry observation, the kind that lands clean and you have to give it to her. Those moments exist. I won’t deny them.

But more often, it’s not that.

It’s the in-between bits. The things she says without realising. The way a sentence comes out slightly sideways. The look that follows when she knows—just a second too late—what she’s said. That’s where the laughter lives.

And the strange part? You couldn’t script it if you tried.

That’s the thing about what makes us laugh. It’s not just the content—it’s the context. Timing. Familiarity. History. It’s knowing someone well enough that the smallest deviation from their “normal” becomes unexpectedly brilliant.

Laughter, I think, is recognition.

It’s that moment when something feels both surprising and completely true at the same time. When the world slips slightly out of alignment, just for a second, and you get to notice it.

And maybe that’s why it’s hard to manufacture.

Because the more you try to force it, the more it slips away. Real laughter tends to arrive uninvited. It shows up in the middle of ordinary moments. In conversations that weren’t meant to be funny. In people just being themselves.

Especially the ones you know best.

So what makes me laugh?

Not much, if we’re talking about the obvious stuff.

But also… quite a lot, if you know where to look.

Stay Safe

Bc

When I was five, I probably didn’t have a carefully mapped-out career strategy, a five-year plan, or a LinkedIn profile (shocking, I know). What I had instead was a TV, an imagination, and the absolute certainty that adults were missing a trick.

Because obviously… I wanted to be in The A-Team.

Not “like” them. Not “inspired by” them. No—in the team. Driving the van, welding something together out of scrap in a barn, and emerging ten minutes later with a fully operational, physics-defying contraption. That seemed like a perfectly reasonable life goal.

Looking back now, it says a lot.

It wasn’t about fame or money. It was about belonging to something—your people, your crew. A band of misfits who somehow made things work, usually with duct tape, bad plans, and sheer stubbornness. There’s something in that which sticks, even decades later.

As a kid, you don’t overthink it. You don’t worry about qualifications or whether you’ve got the “right experience.” You just see something that feels right and go, “Yeah… that. I’ll have that.”

And maybe that’s the point.

Because while I never quite made it onto The A-Team (still waiting for the call, by the way), bits of that idea carried on. The tinkering. The creativity. The slightly chaotic “let’s see if this works” approach to life. 

Turns out, you don’t need the van or Mr. T’s jewellery to live a version of it.

You just need a bit of imagination… and maybe a shed to build things in.

Stay safe,
BC

Life isn’t sturdy.

It isn’t built like the houses we trust,
With brick and mortar confidence,
With insurance policies and backup plans,
With a neat little calendar reminder
For when things go wrong.

No.

Life is more like glass.

Not the thick, bulletproof kind you see in films,
But the kind you find in an old photo frame—
Smudged with fingerprints,
Held together with hope
And a couple of bent clips on the back.

And yet…

We carry it around
Like it’s indestructible.

I’ve seen enough

The arrivals.
The departures.
The quiet hospital rooms where time sits heavy in the corner,
And pretends it’s not watching you.

I’ve brushed past the edge myself a few times,
Close enough to hear the silence
On the other side of the noise.

And here’s the thing

When it’s your time…

It’s your time.

No bargaining.
No “just five more minutes.”
No dramatic speeches that rewrite the ending.

The universe doesn’t negotiate.

(It barely even acknowledges the complaint.) 

But here’s the bit people really don’t get

Fragile
Doesn’t mean pointless.

In fact, it’s the opposite.

It’s because it breaks
That it matters.

We spend so much time
Armouring up for battles
That may never come,

Saving the good mugs “for best,”
Putting off the phone call,
Waiting for the mythical “right moment”
(You know the one—
It lives somewhere between tomorrow and never.)

Meanwhile—

Life is happening in the small things:

A quiet cuppa in the shed.
A daft joke that makes no sense but still lands.
The way someone you love smiles
And suddenly the whole room feels lighter.

Those moments—

They’re not the background.

They’re the whole show.

I didn’t learn that from books,

Though I’ve read enough of them

Holy ones, dusty ones,
The kind that promise answers

And the kind that just ask better questions. 

No

I learned it the long way round.

By living.
By losing.
By realising that strength
Isn’t about holding everything together…

It’s about knowing it won’t stay that way
And choosing to love it anyway.

So here it is, plain and simple

What most people don’t understand is this:

You don’t have time.

You have now.

And now is fragile.
Handle it accordingly.

Stay safe,
BC

I’d love to tell you I’ve got something impressive tucked away.
Something flashy.
Something that makes people stop mid-sentence and go, “well… that’s a bit special.”

But truth be told, I don’t.

Unless you count the ability to overthink absolutely everything at three in the morning… which, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly a party trick.

Now—if we’re talking about wishing for a skill… that’s a different kettle of fish.

I think I’d like the ability to switch off the noise.

Not the world—because for all its chaos, it’s still got moments of magic tucked into the corners—but the internal chatter. The constant replaying of conversations, the “what ifs”, the “should haves”, and all the little ghosts we all drag around with us.

Because if I could quiet that?

I reckon I’d hear things clearer.
See things sharper.
Feel things without second-guessing whether I’m doing it “right.”

It’s a funny thing really… we spend years learning skills—jobs, hobbies, all the practical stuff—but nobody hands you a manual for your own mind.

So maybe that’s my secret non-skill.

Learning—slowly, imperfectly—how to sit with myself without trying to fix, fight, or flee from it.

Not flashy.
Not marketable.
But quietly powerful.

And if I ever master it…

I’ll be sure to let you know.

Stay safe,
BC

Well… that depends on the day, the mood, and whether the kettle’s just boiled.

But if I’m being honest—proper honest, no messing about—it’s autumn. Always has been.

There’s something about it that just sits right.

Not the blazing heat of summer where everything feels too much, too loud… and definitely not the biting cold of winter that gets into your bones and sets up camp. Autumn’s that middle ground—the in-between—where the world seems to take a breath and say, “steady on.”

You step outside and the air’s got that crisp edge to it. Not unfriendly… just enough to wake you up. Like nature giving you a gentle nudge instead of a shove.

Leaves turning all shades of fire—gold, amber, rust—before they let go and drift down like they’ve made their peace with it. And there’s something in that, isn’t there? A quiet reminder that not everything has to last forever to be beautiful.

It’s the kind of weather where you can chuck on a hoodie, stick the kettle on, and just be. No pressure to do anything grand. Just exist for a bit.

Maybe sit in the shed, if you’ve got one… tinker with something that doesn’t really need fixing, or scribble a few lines that may or may not turn into something meaningful later. 

And yeah… there’s a calm to it. A grounding sort of peace. The kind that doesn’t shout about itself, but you notice it all the same.

So yeah—autumn.

Not too hot, not too cold… just right.

Stay safe,
Bc

That’s a funny one, because the honest answer is… they never stood at the front of a classroom.

They never handed me homework.
Never marked my work in red pen.
Never told me to “try harder” or “see me after class.”

Instead, they showed up on a screen… late at night… while I was scrolling and trying to figure out where I fit in all this poetry malarkey.

I’m talking about Kyle Tran Mhyre AKA Guante and Neil Hilborn — part of the Button Poetry stable that, quite frankly, turned everything I thought I knew about poetry on its head.

Before that moment, poetry felt… stiff.

Like it belonged in dusty books.
Like you needed permission to write it.
Like every line had to behave itself, sit up straight, and rhyme politely.

And then I stumbled across slam poetry.

Raw.
Honest.
Messy in all the right ways.

I remember hearing Guante for the first time — reading “Ten Responses To The Phrase, Man Up”the way he delivered his words, not just saying them but meaning them — and it hit me like a freight train. This wasn’t poetry you studied… it was poetry you felt in your chest.

Then came Neil Hilborn, with “Joey” that unmistakable vulnerability, laying everything bare in a way that made you uncomfortable… in the way truth usually does.

And that was it.

That was the moment the penny dropped.

Poetry didn’t have to rhyme.
It didn’t have to be pretty.
It didn’t even have to make people comfortable.

It just had to be real.

That discovery changed everything for me. 

Because up until then, I thought I didn’t fit into poetry.

Turns out… I just hadn’t found my kind of poetry yet.

These weren’t teachers in the traditional sense.
But they taught me more than most ever could.

They taught me that:

• your voice doesn’t need permission
• your story is valid, even when it’s messy
• and sometimes the most important thing you can do… is say the thing others are too afraid to

And maybe that’s what a real teacher is.

Not someone who tells you what to think,
but someone who shows you that you can.

So yeah…

My most influential teachers?

Two poets on a screen,
who had no idea I was sitting there,
quietly learning how to finally find my voice.

Stay safe,
BC