Life doesn’t come with a map. No neat lines, no tidy directions, and certainly no guarantees it’ll all make sense when you look back on it. It’s messy, unpredictable, and more often than not… completely off-script.
I’ve spent years trying to figure it out—through the noise, the chaos, the dark places you can’t point to on any map but know all too well when you’re there.
And somewhere along the way, I realised something.
Direction doesn’t always come from plans or big ideas.
Sometimes… it comes from a person.
For me?
It’s Mrs Bob.
My co-pilot. My constant. The one who keeps me steady when the world tilts a bit too far off balance. The one who believes in me when I’m not quite managing it myself.
Not in some made for Disney fairy-tale, everything’s-perfect kind of way.
Do you have a quote you live your life by or think of often?
This one’s simple.
No grand philosophy. No dusty old rulebook carved into tablets of stone. No ten-step programme to becoming a “better person.”
Just one line.
One rule.
One thing I try—try being the key word—to keep in the back of my mind as I bumble my way through life:
Don’t be a dick.
That’s it.
Now, before anyone starts looking for deeper meaning hidden between the lines… there isn’t one.
And yet—there absolutely is.
Because the older I get, the more I realise life doesn’t really need complicating. It’s already messy enough on its own. We don’t need to pile extra nonsense on top of it.
People are tired. People are carrying things you’ll never see. People are fighting battles they’ll never talk about.
And you?
You get to decide what you add to that.
I’ve spent enough time in my own head—and a fair bit of time in darker places than I’d care to revisit—to know how easy it is to snap, to lash out, to react first and think later.
Sharp word here. Short temper there. A moment of “I’m right and that’s all that matters.”
But here’s the thing…
Being right and being decent aren’t always the same thing.
“Don’t be a dick” isn’t about being perfect.
You’ll still mess up. You’ll still have bad days. You’ll still say the wrong thing at the wrong time (usually to the wrong person… funny how that works).
It’s about the pause.
That split second where you choose:
Am I about to make this situation better… or worse?
It’s choosing not to fire back just because you can.
It’s holding your tongue when your ego’s screaming for airtime.
It’s remembering that not every hill is worth dying on—and not every argument needs winning.
Sometimes the strongest move you can make…
is just not being a dick about it.
No commandments. No sermons. No pretending I’ve got it all figured out—because I absolutely don’t.
Just one rule.
Simple. Practical. Surprisingly difficult some days.
And if more of us stuck to it?
The world wouldn’t magically fix itself overnight…
…but it might feel a little less heavy to walk through.
What is your favorite holiday? Why is it your favorite?
I’ve been asked about favourite holidays before, and you might expect something simple—sun, sand, a cold drink in hand. Nice enough, don’t get me wrong. But the ones that stay with you… they tend to have a bit more about them than a decent tan and an overcooked buffet.
For me, it goes back to my first cruise with Mrs Bob.
Now, I’ll be honest—I was the youngest by a country mile on that ship. Felt a bit like I’d wandered into the wrong queue at first. But there’s something quietly magical about that way of travelling….you go to sleep in one place, wake up somewhere entirely different, like the world’s turning pages for you overnight. And if there’s one thing life’s taught me, it’s that the journey rarely sticks to the brochure anyway.
But the real moments?
Standing out at sea, surrounded by nothing but water… and then the universe just… flicks the switch. A total solar eclipse. Day turns to night in the middle of the ocean, and for a few minutes, everything goes still. You don’t really watch it—you feel it.
And then, later on, up past the edges of the map into the Arctic Circle… watching the northern lights dance like they’ve got nowhere better to be. No rush. No noise. Just colour moving across the sky like it’s telling a story you almost understand.
That was the trip that did it.
Not just for the places—but for the feeling of it all. The quiet wonder. The sense that the world’s a lot bigger (and a lot stranger) than we give it credit for.
Whether calling the army “camping” makes it… well… camping.
And the answer?
Yes.
But only in the same way a storm is “a bit of rain.”
Because life has a funny way of dressing things up in softer words. We take something harsh, something structured, something built on discipline and grit… and we wrap it in a term that feels familiar. Comfortable. Almost harmless.
Camping.
Like a weekend away. A flask of tea. Maybe a dodgy tent and a damp sleeping bag.
But this isn’t that.
This is early mornings that don’t ask if you’re ready. It’s mud that doesn’t care about your boots. It’s carrying more than you think you can, and then being told to carry a bit more.
And yet…
Strip it back, and what is it really?
You’re outside. You’re sleeping rough. You’re dealing with the elements. You’re learning what you’re made of when the comforts are gone.
It’s not at a desk. Not in front of a screen refreshing emails like it might suddenly mean something.
It’s when I’m in the shed.
There’s something about stepping into a space that’s unapologetically mine—tools within reach, half-finished ideas lying around, the quiet permission to make a mess. No expectations. No noise. Just the rhythm of doing. You pick something up, you start, and before long you’re deep in it—completely unaware of time slipping past.
Or I’m behind the camera.
That’s a different kind of focus. Sharper. More deliberate. The world narrows to a frame, and suddenly everything becomes about light, timing, and instinct. Photography has this way of pulling you into the present—forcing you to see rather than just look. And in that moment, you’re not thinking about productivity… you just are productive.
I’ve found that productivity isn’t about squeezing more into your day. It’s about being in the right place—physically and mentally—where things flow without friction.
I’ve got loads of other interests, then sure there’s Life, memories, the usual things maybe even the weather. There’s one topic I love, comics? That’s the constant. That’s the thing that never really fades into the background.
It started years ago with Watchmen—the moment I realised comics weren’t just colourful distractions. They were layered. Thoughtful. Sometimes darker than anything else on the shelf.
And then there’s Batman.
No powers. No shortcuts. Just discipline, intellect, and a refusal to quit. That’s what makes him interesting. Not the cape—the mindset.
So if you ever wonder where the conversation’s heading…
It’ll probably circle back to Gotham.
And I won’t apologise for that.
Stay safe
Bc
Ps incase your wondering
Adam West was my first Batman. I mean the Anti Mechanical Shark Repellent, it was iconic and better than the other two previous tv Batmen
Rob Pattinson is my favourite, as controversial as it maybe, I loved his first outing and combined with Penguin I loved it. I think it’s got a Zero Year or No Mans Land sequel vibe.
Issue Five of AEOS Magazine is out now. Its bold collection of art, literature, and original talents. There’s even a poem of mine nestled in the pages.
If you’d asked me 15 years ago what “risk” looked like, I’d probably have pictured something dramatic.
You know the sort of thing… Skydiving. Quitting a job on a whim. Throwing caution to the wind and hoping the universe catches you.
But life—real life—rarely deals in those neat, cinematic moments. It’s usually quieter than that. Messier. Less obvious.
And the biggest risk I ever took?
Well that was packing up what I owned, and everything I knew… and moving all the way to Devon.
Not for a job. Not for convenience. Not because it made perfect, logical sense on paper.
But for her.
Mrs Bob.
Now, I won’t dress it up as some grand heroic leap.
It didn’t feel brave at the time.
It felt… uncertain.
Leaving behind the familiar—your routines, your places, the little corners of the world that feel like yours—it has a way of rattling you. Even more so when you’re someone who already finds the world a bit loud, a bit overwhelming at the best of times.
There’s comfort in the known. Safety in the predictable.
And I walked away from that.
Because sometimes life gives you a choice.
Stay where it’s safe… Or go where your heart is pulling you.
And the truth?
I didn’t know how it would turn out.
There was no guarantee. No neat little roadmap. No voice from above saying, “Go on, this one works out.”
Just a feeling.
A quiet, stubborn certainty that this was someone worth risking it for.
And here’s the part that matters.
I don’t regret it. Not for a second.
Because what I found wasn’t just a new place—it was a life.
A shared one.
The kind built in small, ordinary moments… the kind I’ve come to realise matter far more than any grand plan. The routines, the laughter, even the occasional chaos—those are the things that quietly shape a life into something meaningful.
People talk about risk like it’s all adrenaline and big gestures.
But sometimes…
The biggest risks are the quiet ones.
The ones where you choose love over certainty. Where you step into the unknown, not because you’re fearless—but because something matters more than the fear.
Moving to Devon was one of those moments.
A gamble, if you like.
But some gambles don’t feel like losing, even when they’re uncertain…
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 