There’s something oddly comforting about collections, isn’t there? Not just the objects themselves, but the stories attached to them. Little fragments of life tucked away in drawers, boxes, shelves and cabinets. Tiny anchors to moments, people and memories.

I’ve somehow ended up with a few collections over the years. None of them really intentional at first — they just sort of… happened. Like most good things in life.

First up is my collection of pocket watches.

That all started when one of my younger siblings bought me one because, in their words, it was “just so you.” Which, if I’m honest, probably says far too much about me. Since then the collection has steadily grown, each one carrying its own little story.

One bears the double R of Rolls-Royce Holdings, a nod to the years I spent working in aerospace, much like my grandfather before me. Sadly, not the glamorous car side of things — more jet engines than leather interiors.

Another, with the square and compass, was gifted to me by my mother when I was initiated. That one probably means more to me than I could ever properly explain.

They all hold value far beyond money. These days they sit safely tucked away in a special jewellery box, waiting for those increasingly rare occasions when I have to put on a suit and pretend to be respectable.

Then there’s my little collection of antiques.

Well… “collection” might be stretching it slightly, but let’s roll with it.

I own two ancient oil lamps, both somewhere around two to three thousand years old. Which honestly feels slightly surreal when you stop and think about it. They sit protected inside a Perspex display case so Tiddles can’t decide archaeology is a contact sport. Not that she would, of course. Probably.

Then there are the boxes.

Ten of them in total, scattered around the house like little treasure chests from different eras of my life.

One is a handmade Welsh box from the 16th century — somewhere between a chest and a tiny trunk — which itself contains another carved box where I keep tarot cards and assorted curiosities.

Another is an old artificer’s box handed down through my mum’s side of the family. That one locks, which automatically makes it feel important. Inside are things I’d hate to lose: medals, keepsakes, and an old copy of On the Origin of Species among other bits and pieces that matter for reasons only I probably understand.

The rest are dotted around the house holding everything from jewellery to ornaments and strange little nick-nacs gathered from various adventures and travels over the years.

And finally — the biggest collection of them all.

Graphic novels. Or comic books, depending on which side of the geek divide you stand on.

Now if you’ve followed my ramblings for any length of time, you’ll know this obsession probably won’t surprise you in the slightest.

I’ve got somewhere around six hundred graphic novels, most of them centred around Batman — because apparently my brain enjoys hyper-fixating on brooding vigilantes dressed as bats. There’s also a healthy dose of The Punisher, Daredevil and a fair helping of indie titles for balance.

One indie series deserves a special mention though.

A random late-night impulse buy of Twisted Dark Vol 1 by Neil Gibson turned into a full blown obsession with the series and eventually led to friendship over the years, along with the wonderfully surreal experience of being written into a future story.

Life’s strange like that sometimes.

Other treasures in the collection include several books by Jock, who I’ve had the pleasure of meeting multiple times and even interviewing years ago for a geek website I used to run. Small world moment — he’s also from my tiny Devon hometown and somehow always remembers me at conventions, which still triggers the occasional fanboy moment.

I also own a signed copy of Watchmen.

If you’ve heard me ramble before, you’ll know that book is basically my comic-book origin story. One of those rare pieces of art that changes how you see storytelling entirely.

And finally, there’s a signed copy of Freeway Fighter — the comic adaptation of the old choose-your-own-adventure book I adored as a kid back in the 80s and still own to this day. Somehow, decades later, I even ended up interviewing the creator, which honestly felt like one of those wonderfully full-circle geek moments life occasionally throws your way.

Funny really.

Most people probably just see shelves of “stuff.”

But to me, they’re memories you can hold in your hands.

Stay safe 

Bc

I don’t need to be remembered for brilliance.

Just for this:

That somewhere,
at 2am,
someone carrying trauma,
grief,
neurodivergence,
or the weight of being misunderstood,
reads my words and whispers:

“Thank God…
it’s not just me.”

If my poetry helped even one person feel less alone,
that’s enough of a legacy for me.

Stay safe,
BC

Cold weather and I have always got along just fine. There’s something honest about it. The sharp air, the quietness that comes with frost, the way the world feels stripped back to its essentials. Warm weather is pleasant enough, but I’ve never really trusted heat; it makes me feel sluggish and boxed in. Cold weather feels alive.

Considering my last two holidays took me into the Arctic Circle, I think it’s safe to say I actively seek the cold out these days. There’s a strange kind of peace standing somewhere so bitterly cold that the air bites your face and every breath reminds you that nature is still vastly bigger than we are. The Arctic has a way of making you feel wonderfully small, in the best possible sense. 

I think part of the appeal is that cold places feel quieter to me. Less chaotic. Less rushed. Snow muffles the noise of the world in a way few things can. Even the light feels different up there, softer and more thoughtful somehow. It suits the way my brain works.

So yes, give me frozen coastlines, dark winter mornings, thermals, and a flask of coffee over blazing sunshine any day. There’s beauty in the cold if you’re willing to stand still long enough to notice 

Stay safe

Bc

Drawing a line between work and home life is something I’ll admit I don’t always get right. The modern world has a nasty habit of keeping us permanently plugged in, and when your work emails live on the same phone as your family photos, music, and messages from loved ones… the boundaries can blur faster than we’d like. 

I try to make a conscious effort to switch off when I can. Sometimes that means putting the phone down and disappearing into the shed for a while, tinkering with something pointless but peaceful. Other times it’s sitting quietly with Mrs Bob, having a brew, or simply reminding myself that not every email needs answering immediately.

Truth be told, balance probably isn’t a perfect set of scales. It’s more like trying to keep several spinning plates wobbling in roughly the right direction without smashing them all on the floor.

Some days I manage it brilliantly.

Other days… not so much.

But I think the important thing is remembering that work helps us make a living — it shouldn’t stop us actually living.

Stay safe
Bc