How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?
Truth be told, I’m not always very good at knowing when it’s time to unplug from the matrix. Being autistic, I can get so focused on what I’m doing that I don’t always notice the signs until my batteries are already running low. By the time I realise I need a break, I’m usually feeling drained, overwhelmed, or struggling to process the constant noise that modern life seems determined to throw at us.
When that happens, I keep things simple. I’ll put my phone in another room, switch it to Do Not Disturb, or if I really need some peace and quiet, I’ll turn it off completely. It’s the same thing I do at night when I need to sleep. There’s something reassuring about that silence, knowing that for a little while the messages, notifications, and endless demands can wait.
The world will still be there when I switch it back on. Sometimes, giving yourself permission to step away is exactly what you need to recharge and find a little calm again.
As you can see, the garden is finally starting to take shape now, and the roses are beginning to bloom at last. It’s been lovely to sit and enjoy it (from the shade is enough for me, thank you very much) alongside all the little creatures that call it home.
(Some pics of the garden)
It was my birthday on Friday, and it feels like the universe handed me a rather lovely gift, as this month we’re being blessed with a Blue Moon. (Totality is due on June 31st.)
Blue moon 29/5 (94% totality)
What is a Blue Moon?
It’s one of those interesting little lunar facts. Well, interesting to me at least — your opinion may vary.
A Blue Moon is the name given to the second full moon that occurs within a single calendar month, thanks to there being 13 full moons in this lunar year.
They only come around every two or three years, and they’re responsible for the old saying:
“Once in a Blue Moon.”
If you’d like to read more about it, there’s a chapter covering all twelve full moons in Spells and Scribbles. Which is currently free on Kindle Unlimited.
The older I get, the more I realise that friendship isn’t measured by the years we’ve known each other, the likes on a post, or the ease of convenience.
It’s measured by who remains when the storm arrives.
Loyalty is rare. Genuine honesty is rarer still.
Give me the friend who speaks the truth when it’s uncomfortable, who stands beside me when it’s inconvenient, and who stays when others quietly walk away.
Since leaving school, I’ve had a fairly varied employment history. Some planned, some accidental, and a few that probably only made sense at the time. Looking back, it’s been an interesting mix of industries, responsibilities, and experiences — enough to keep life from ever getting too predictable.
I started out as a baker and confectioner after doing my work experience in a bakery. Truthfully, I’d wanted to do my placement at a bank, but my mum decided I “wasn’t academic enough” for that route. So flour, ovens, and early mornings it was. I was made redundant just before starting my apprenticeship, which felt unfair at the time, but probably taught me early on that job security is mostly an illusion.
After that, I ended up at Rolls-Royce. If I’m being honest, I suspect my paternal grandfather’s reputation as a well-liked senior management figure helped open that door. Over the years I worked across several departments and roles there, on and off rather than continuously. One useful thing that came out of it was gaining my first FLT certification at 17, which at the time felt like serious machinery and responsibility.
From there, my career path becomes less “carefully mapped out” and more “adapt and overcome.”
Some of the more notable roles along the way included:
Soldier in the British Army as a Supply Chain Operator
Close protection and VIP security
Research and Development Engineer in both the automotive and aerospace industries
Aerospace X-ray Technician
Head of Hospital Security — including at the same hospital where my children were born
General Manager and Bar Manager across several pubs and a nightclub
Wax Injection Operator for one of Rolls-Royce’s sister companies
Warehouse Manager, Social Media expert, and Photographer — all somehow at the same workplace
NVQ Assessor for PMO (Performing Manufacturing Operations)
Quality Engineer in a clean room environment
There’s probably a lesson somewhere in all of that about versatility, resilience, or refusing to stay in one lane for too long. Personally, I just see it as a working life built by saying yes to opportunities, learning quickly, and figuring things out as I went.
Some jobs paid the bills, some taught discipline, some taught leadership, and a few simply gave me stories worth telling later. Looking back now, I wouldn’t really change much — even the chaotic bits served a purpose in the end.
Interesting footnote. I’ve never been out of work or signed on (unemployment benefits) since leaving school. This mentality of doing any job to keep the money coming in is a reflection of my maternal grandfather and his moral code.
That’s always a slightly awkward question to answer, because the honest answer is…
Sort of.
I suppose the easiest way to explain it is that I have a belief system rather than following one strict path. It’s a mixture of Buddhism, witchcraft, and a lot of personal reflection and soul-searching along the way. In fact, I even wrote a book inspired by some of those ideas called Spells and Scribbles.
Now before anyone starts clutching pearls or reaching for holy water, let me say this clearly: I have absolutely no issue with mainstream religion whatsoever. If someone’s faith helps them become kinder, more compassionate, and more understanding of other people, then I genuinely think that’s a beautiful thing.
The problem only starts when belief becomes a weapon. When it’s used to shame people. Control people. Exclude people. Or hurt people for simply existing as themselves.
That part never sat right with me.
For me personally, I’ve always preferred finding my own path through life rather than being told exactly what I should think or believe. I’m not particularly good at blindly following rules anyway — anyone who knows me will probably laugh knowingly at that.
Buddhism appealed to me because there’s no angry deity standing over you with a clipboard waiting to condemn you for being human. At its heart, Buddhism recognises something incredibly honest:
Life involves suffering.
Not because we’re evil. Not because we’re broken. But because being human is messy and painful and complicated sometimes.
The whole point seems to be learning. Growing. Trying to become a little wiser, a little kinder, a little more aware of ourselves and the impact we have on the world around us.
Nobody is expected to be perfect.
You just do your best.
And if you stumble? Well… you learn from it and keep going.
That makes far more sense to me than the idea of eternal punishment for simply failing at being human occasionally.
Then there’s Wicca and witchcraft, which drew me in for completely different reasons. I love the connection to nature, the seasons, the moon, the idea that the earth itself deserves respect rather than ownership.
There’s also something deeply comforting in the balance of it all. Masculine and feminine energies existing side by side, neither above the other, both equally necessary. The world works through balance. Nature teaches that constantly if you stop long enough to notice.
Honestly, both paths seem to meet in the same place eventually:
Be mindful of your actions. Take responsibility for the harm you cause. Show compassion where you can. Try to leave the world a little softer than you found it.
That feels like enough spirituality for me.
The older I get, the less interested I am in who has the “correct” religion and the more interested I am in whether someone is kind to waiters, animals, strangers, and themselves.
Because I suspect whatever magic or enlightenment exists in this world probably lives there far more than it does in arguments about doctrine.
Back before the world lived inside a glowing rectangle. Before every thought needed posting, every meal photographing, and every spare second filled by doom-scrolling through other people’s arguments about absolutely nothing.
I was born and raised Gen-X, which means we grew up in that strange little window of time where freedom still existed in abundance, but technology was only just peeking around the corner like an awkward neighbour wondering if they should knock.
And honestly? It was glorious.
I’d like, if I may, to take you on a little wander back through the years. No fancy time machine required. No DeLorean hitting 88mph. Just close your eyes for a moment and picture it with me…
The 1970s rolling gently into the 1980s.
A world before mobile phones. Before social media. Before the internet became humanity’s collective attention span wrapped in adverts.
A world where “being online” meant the washing line was full.
If you’ve ever watched The Wonder Years, then you already know the feeling I’m talking about. That warm haze of scraped knees, noisy kitchens, and the sort of summers that seemed to last forever.
Back then, social media was sitting squashed together on a worn-out sofa while your nan shouted because somebody was blocking the telly.
The streetlights coming on were your curfew.
Not a suggestion.
Not a polite parental negotiation.
A commandment.
You’d hear the faint electric buzz as those orange lights flickered awake and suddenly every child on the estate knew the clock had run out. Bikes were untangled from heaps outside someone’s house, shouted goodbyes echoed down driveways, and you pedalled home like your life depended on it — usually because your mum had already yelled your full name three times.
And if your full name came out? God help you.
Saturday mornings were sacred.
You’d be parked cross-legged in front of the television with cereal going soggy while watching The Wide Awake Club, Timmy Mallett causing absolute chaos, reruns of Flash Gordon, or cartoons like The Transformers and M.A.S.K. convincing us all that the future would involve laser cannons and vehicles transforming into other vehicles for no practical reason whatsoever.
Afternoons drifted into a glorious blur of televised nonsense.
World of Sport wrestling — which was basically panto in lycra — followed by shows like Street Hawk and Blue Thunderwhere every problem in the world could apparently be solved with either a helicopter or a motorbike.
Simple times.
Wonderful times.
And the thing is… we didn’t know they were special.
That’s the strange part about nostalgia, isn’t it?
While you’re living those moments, they just feel ordinary.
You don’t realise you’re making memories.
You don’t realise one day you’ll miss things like:
The clunk of a VHS tape. The sound of a cassette rewinding with a pencil. The smell of your dad’s shed. The excitement of hearing the ice cream van three streets away. The absolute gamble of taking twenty-four photos on holiday and not knowing if any were usable until Boots developed them a week later.
There was patience built into life back then.
You couldn’t instantly contact everyone. If your mate wasn’t home, that was it. You either waited or rode your bike somewhere else.
And somehow, despite having less technology, we actually seemed more connected.
We knocked on doors instead of sending messages.
We learnt social skills face-to-face.
We got into trouble properly too — not online arguments with strangers called “xXShadowWolfXx” — but real childhood stupidity involving shopping trolleys, homemade ramps, and at least one friend who genuinely believed jumping off the garage roof was “probably safe.”
Health and safety hadn’t fully arrived yet.
Neither had common sense, admittedly.
Of course, technology itself wasn’t the enemy. Far from it.
I still remember the excitement surrounding early home computers. Machines like the ZX Spectrum 48K suddenly made the future feel like it had crash-landed in your living room. Those strange rubber keys and screeching cassette loads somehow opened the door to an entirely new world.
But even then, technology still had limits.
When the game crashed, that was it. You went outside.
Now we carry the entire internet in our pockets and somehow still complain we’re bored.
Funny how that works.
And look, I’m not pretending the past was perfect, it really wasn’t.
People struggled. Families struggled. There were hardships, worries, and problems, just the same as now.
But life did seem slower somehow. Quieter. More present.
You could disappear for hours and nobody panicked because nobody expected constant updates on your location. Parents operated largely on instinct and optimism.
“Be home before dark” covered most situations.
And somehow… we survived.
Barely.
Just.
I think what I miss most is this:
We lived in the moment because there wasn’t really another option.
There was no endless stream of distractions demanding our attention every thirty seconds. No notifications dragging us away from conversations. No pressure to document every experience instead of simply experiencing it.
Memories lived in our heads instead of cloud storage.
And maybe that’s why they still feel so vivid now.
Perhaps every generation says this eventually, but I do think we were lucky to grow up when we did. We experienced the last breath of an unplugged world before technology changed absolutely everything.
We got the freedom of the old world and the wonder of the new one arriving.
That’s quite a thing when you think about it.
Anyway…
That’s enough rambling from me for today.
I’m off to make a brew and probably bore Mrs Bob by reminiscing about the days when five channels on the television felt excessive.
Stay safe
Bc
(Inspired by my draft autobiography, You Just had To Be There, chapter 1 – “Summers That Lasted Forever”.)
That’s one of those questions that sounds simple until you actually try answering it.
Truth be told, people probably expect me to say poetry. Or photography. Maybe both. And I suppose after twenty odd years of scribbling away, a few books, and having my work published in magazines and anthologies, I’ve certainly earned the right to say it. Same with photography. I’m still learning every day, but apparently I’ve got “a good eye” for it.
But if I’m being completely honest?
The thing I’ve always been best at… is doubting myself.
I could write something people connect with deeply and still sit there afterwards convinced it wasn’t good enough. I could take a photograph I’m genuinely proud of, then immediately spot twenty things wrong with it. That little voice in the back of your head never quite shuts up, does it?
Imposter syndrome is an absolute bitch.
It’s strange really. You can spend years building things — poems, photographs, books, relationships, a life — and still feel like you’re somehow winging it while everyone else has the instruction manual.
Maybe that comes from the past. Maybe from growing up feeling different. Maybe from spending years trying to shrink yourself down enough to fit into places never designed for you in the first place.
But here’s the funny thing I’ve realised as I’ve gotten older.
Being good at something isn’t always about confidence.
Sometimes it’s about persistence.
About carrying on despite the doubt. About still picking up the camera. Still writing the poem. Still putting your heart into the project even when part of you is whispering: “Don’t bother.”
So what am I good at?
I’m good at feeling things deeply. I’m good at noticing the little things people miss. I’m good at turning chaos into words. And despite all the self doubt, I’m apparently quite good at refusing to give up.
Which, all things considered, probably matters more than talent anyway.
What does “having it all” mean to you? Is it attainable?
People often talk about “having it all” as though it’s some finish line hidden behind a bigger house, a flashier motor, or another few zeros in the bank account.
Truth is… I don’t think that’s it at all.
Because wants and needs are two very different beasts.
A want whispers. A need sustains.
And somewhere along the line, society convinced us they were the same thing.
To me, having it all is much simpler than people make out.
It’s being able to pay the bills each month without lying awake at 3am wondering which direct debit is about to knock you sideways.
It’s opening the fridge and knowing there’s food in there.
It’s having enough left over for little moments that make life feel human — fish and chips on the beach, an ice cream on a warm afternoon, a coffee shared with someone you love while the world rushes past unnoticed.
That’s wealth too.
Just not the kind they advertise on billboards.
Having it all is also love.
Not the Hollywood nonsense. Not grand gestures and violins in the rain.
I mean real love.
The kind where someone stands beside you when life gets messy. The kind where they steady you when your own mind becomes too loud. The kind where they push you towards your dreams while reminding you not to lose yourself chasing them.
A good woman. A true partner. Someone who helps carry the weight of the world when your arms are tired.
That matters more than any sports car ever will.
I think the mistake many of us make is believing happiness lives somewhere else.
In the next promotion. The next purchase. The next achievement.
So we spend years running.
Chasing.
Grasping.
Only to discover peace was quietly sitting beside us the whole time, waiting patiently for us to notice it.
There’s an old idea found in a lot of eastern philosophy — though you don’t need to shave your head or sit on a mountain to understand it — that suffering often begins with attachment.
With wanting.
With believing life must look a certain way before we allow ourselves to be content.
And maybe that’s true.
Because the older I get, the more I realise happiness rarely arrives with fireworks.
Usually it turns up quietly.
In ordinary moments. In enough. In gratitude. In learning the difference between what fills the soul and what merely fills the shopping basket.
So, is “having it all” attainable?
Yes.
But only once you stop trying to own the world and start appreciating your small corner of it.
I don’t really have anyone I’d like to talk to, unless this hypothetical offer went beyond the veil, then I’d talk to Mrs Bob’s father, as I never met the man responsible for the woman I adore.
Otherwise.
Honestly?
Anyone who needs to be heard.
Not the polished version of them either. Not the “I’m fine” version. Not the social media highlight reel.
I mean the exhausted version.
The bloke sat in his car for ten extra minutes because he can’t face walking into the house carrying another day on his back.
The father who hasn’t slept properly in months.
The husband who feels emotionally disconnected but doesn’t know how to explain it without sounding weak.
The businessman who calls burnout “being busy” because that sounds more acceptable.
The friend who makes everybody laugh while quietly falling apart in private.
Those people.
Because the truth is, there are a lot of men walking around carrying invisible weight while pretending it’s manageable.
And society is still incredibly good at rewarding the performance.
The bills get paid. The shifts get worked. The family gets looked after. The jokes still land at the pub. The smile still appears on cue.
Meanwhile inside?
Some men are absolutely drowning.
The dangerous part is that many don’t even recognise it anymore because struggle has become normal. Exhaustion becomes personality. Emotional shutdown becomes “just how men are.” Isolation gets dressed up as independence.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, one phrase still echoes louder than it should:
“Man up.”
It sounds harmless to some people. Motivational even. Like tough love.
But for a lot of men, what they actually hear is:
Don’t feel. Don’t break. Don’t talk. Don’t let anyone see what’s happening inside you.
That’s where the damage starts.
Because many men were raised on survival before self-awareness. Responsibility before vulnerability. We learned how to endure pressure long before we learned how to process emotion.
So when life caves in — grief, divorce, redundancy, addiction, anxiety, loneliness, depression — many men don’t have the language for it.
They don’t say:
“I’m struggling.”
They disappear into silence instead.
And silence is dangerous.
Far too many good men have convinced themselves that asking for help somehow makes them less dependable, less masculine, less strong.
Personally?
I think honesty takes far more courage than pretending ever will.
It takes guts for a father to admit he’s overwhelmed. It takes strength for a husband to say he feels disconnected. It takes bravery for a man to ring a friend and simply say:
“I’m not doing great.”
That’s not weakness.
That’s self-awareness.
We desperately need healthier versions of masculinity now. Not softer men necessarily — just more honest ones.
Because healthy masculinity was never supposed to mean emotional suppression.
A strong man can still be disciplined. Still dependable. Still protective. Still resilient.
But he should also be allowed to be human.
Allowed to feel grief without shame. Allowed to ask for help without embarrassment. Allowed to admit when the weight gets too heavy.
A strong man is not a man who never breaks.
A strong man is a man who stops lying about being broken.
That’s the difference.
And maybe that’s what “man up” should mean now.
Not:
“Hide your pain.”
But:
“Face your truth.”
Because too many men have spent years hearing the same message:
Be useful. Be tough. Be quiet.
That silence has cost lives.
The reality is painfully simple:
Before provider. Before protector. Before husband. Before father. Before leader.
Men are human beings first.
And human beings need connection. Support. Purpose. Rest. Honesty. Sometimes help.
I’m sure people expect the obvious answers. My wedding ring, some ancient family heirloom passed down through generations, baby photos, or maybe some ridiculously rare comic hidden away in a protective sleeve somewhere.
Truth is, it’s much simpler than that.
My old DSLR camera and my mobile phone.
Now before anyone rolls their eyes and mutters something about modern technology taking over our lives, hear me out.
My DSLR was my first “proper” camera. Not the fanciest bit of kit in the world, not one of these eye-wateringly expensive setups professional photographers use. But it was mine. The camera that taught me how to look at the world differently. The one that came with enough lenses and buttons to confuse me for several weeks straight.
It also helped me capture my first proper moon shots, which honestly felt like a tiny personal victory against the universe itself.
Worm Moon (March 3rd)
I still pretend I know what I’m doing with photography, by the way. Half the time I’m just pressing buttons and hoping for the best. Occasionally though, the universe rewards me with something beautiful.
As for my phone, it’s less about social media and doom-scrolling and more about the fact it’s basically my portable life support system at this point.
It’s got my emails, banking, contacts, calendars, reminders and enough important information on it that losing the thing would probably send me into cardiac arrest.
The social media side of it? I could honestly live without that quite happily.
Now, honorary mention…
My first magazine publication.
That moment mattered more than I can probably explain properly. Seeing my words printed for the first time was the moment I stopped feeling like someone who just scribbled random thoughts into notebooks and started believing maybe — just maybe — I was actually a poet.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 