Has your idea of what makes a good friend changed as you’ve gotten older?
Absolutely.
And I suspect I’m not alone in that.
As I’ve gotten older, my friendship needs have changed too.
When we’re younger, friendship can be about having people around us. The more, the merrier, as they say. Going out, having a laugh, sharing experiences and generally getting into whatever mischief life throws our way.
But somewhere along the road, things change.
You start to realise that having lots of friends isn’t necessarily the same as having good friends.
These days, I value quality over quantity.
I don’t need someone who wants to talk to me every five minutes, or someone who feels the need to fill every silence.
I value people who understand that sometimes life gets in the way. That we might not speak for weeks, perhaps even months, but when we do, it’s as though we’ve only just put the kettle down.
I value honesty.
Loyalty.
Kindness.
People who accept me for who I am, warts, weirdness and all.
Someone who can have a meaningful conversation one minute and take the absolute piss out of me the next.
Because friendship shouldn’t feel like hard work.
It shouldn’t be about keeping score, wondering who messaged last, or feeling obliged to be someone you’re not just to keep somebody happy.
And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned that a good friend doesn’t necessarily need to have all the answers.
Sometimes they just need to listen.
Sometimes they need to offer a shoulder.
Sometimes they simply need to sit alongside you while life does its usual impression of a complete bloody circus.
I also think getting older teaches us to be a little more selective about who we allow into our lives.
Not because we’re becoming miserable old sods (although I make no promises there), but because peace of mind becomes increasingly important.
I’d rather have a handful of genuine friendships than a hundred superficial ones.
People who bring something positive into my life, and whose lives I can hopefully enrich in return.
Because friendship works both ways.
It’s about showing up, making an effort, accepting differences and remembering that everyone has their own battles going on.
So yes, my idea of a good friend has changed.
Perhaps it’s not that I’ve become more demanding.
Perhaps I’ve simply become better at recognising what actually matters.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:
A good friend isn’t necessarily the person who’s been around the longest, or the one you see most often.
It’s the person who makes you feel comfortable being exactly who you are.
No pretence.
No expectations.
Just friendship.
And honestly?
At this stage of life, that’s worth its weight in gold.
Is it the amount of money sitting in your bank account? The shiny car parked on your drive? The size of your house, the holidays you take, or the number of expensive gadgets you’ve managed to accumulate?
Don’t get me wrong, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with having nice things. If you’ve worked hard for them and they’re what makes you happy, then good for you.
But are those things really what make someone successful?
Personally, I don’t think so.
For me, success has very little to do with what’s in your bank account or what you own. It’s much more about the person you are, the challenges you’ve faced, the obstacles you’ve overcome, and perhaps most importantly, whether you can look at yourself in the mirror and be comfortable with the person looking back.
And if I’m honest, that’s taken me quite a few years to achieve.
You see, my journey hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park.
I didn’t grow up with everything handed to me on a silver platter. Far from it.
I experienced sexual and physical abuse throughout my childhood. I spent my teenage years living in a hostel, without many of the things that other young people might have taken for granted.
Life wasn’t particularly kind, and there were plenty of times when simply getting through the day was an achievement in itself.
I also spent a large part of my life trying to understand why I seemed to experience the world differently from other people.
It wasn’t until later in life that I understood I was autistic. For years, I was living with undiagnosed autism, trying to navigate a world that often felt as though it came with an instruction manual that everyone else had received except me.
There were plenty of hurdles along the way.
Some were visible. Others were carried quietly, behind a smile or a seemingly ordinary conversation.
And yet, here I am.
At 50, I can honestly say I’m comfortable in my own skin.
Now, that might not sound like a particularly spectacular achievement to some people.
I’m not standing on a stage collecting a lifetime achievement award. I haven’t got a mansion, a Ferrari or a yacht parked somewhere in the Mediterranean.
Although, if anyone happens to have a spare yacht, I’m prepared to discuss the matter!
But seriously, when I look back at the younger version of myself, living in a hostel with very little, I think he’d probably be rather surprised by where life has taken me.
Because somehow, somewhere along the way, I managed to build something.
I found my voice through poetry.
What started as a way of getting the thoughts and emotions out of my head eventually became something much bigger. Those early scribbles developed into poems, and those poems eventually became books.
I’ve now written several poetry books, had my work published in books and magazines, and even picked up a few awards along the way.
Not bad for a bloke who originally started writing because he was simply trying to make sense of himself.
Then there’s photography.
Another passion that started out as something I enjoyed doing, which has gradually opened doors and given me opportunities I never imagined I’d have.
I’ve had photographs published, worked behind the camera at events, and experienced moments that the younger me probably wouldn’t have believed possible.
Am I famous? Absolutely not.
Am I some sort of photographic genius? Mrs Bob might argue otherwise, but I’m certainly not going to make that claim!
But I’ve achieved things that I’m genuinely proud of.
And perhaps that’s the point.
Success doesn’t have to mean becoming rich, famous or particularly important in the eyes of the world.
Sometimes, success is simply doing something you were once told, or perhaps believed, you would never be able to do.
Sometimes it’s getting out of bed when life feels overwhelming.
Sometimes it’s finding the courage to speak about things you’ve spent years keeping buried.
Sometimes it’s learning to accept yourself, including the bits you once thought needed fixing.
And sometimes, it’s reaching the age of 50 and realising that you no longer need to apologise for being you.
For me, that’s a pretty big deal.
I also wouldn’t be telling the whole story if I didn’t mention Mrs Bob.
Because behind every bloke who thinks he’s got his life reasonably well organised, there’s quite often someone quietly keeping everything from falling apart.
And in my case, I’ve been incredibly lucky.
The love, support, patience and courage of Mrs Bob have been an enormous part of my journey.
She’s been there through the good times and the not-so-good times. She’s supported my writing, encouraged my photography, helped me navigate some of life’s more complicated moments and, on occasion, probably had to put up with more than her fair share of my ramblings.
She’s believed in me when I’ve struggled to believe in myself.
She’s encouraged me to keep going, even when I’ve doubted what I was capable of.
And she’s helped me become comfortable with the person I am today.
I don’t think you can put a price on that.
So, when somebody asks me how I define success in life, my answer is actually quite simple.
Success is being able to look back at where you started, recognise everything you’ve been through, and still be proud of the person you’ve become.
It’s not about having the biggest house, the fanciest car or the healthiest bank balance.
It’s about character.
It’s about resilience.
It’s about kindness, compassion and the ability to keep moving forward, even when life gives you every reason to stop.
It’s about finding something that makes you happy, having the courage to pursue it, and appreciating the people who walk alongside you.
Most importantly, it’s about understanding that your past doesn’t have to dictate your future.
I can’t change what happened to me as a child. I can’t go back and give that teenage boy the childhood he deserved.
But I can look at the life I’ve built since then.
I can look at the poetry books, the photographs, the opportunities, the friendships and the people who have become part of my world.
And I can look at Mrs Bob, knowing just how fortunate I am to have her beside me.
Then I can look in the mirror.
And for perhaps the first time in my life, I don’t see someone who needs to be different, someone who doesn’t quite fit, or someone who hasn’t achieved enough.
I see me.
A bloke who’s had his fair share of knocks, who’s made mistakes, who’s still learning, still scribbling, still taking photographs and still occasionally wondering what on earth he’s doing.
But a bloke who’s happy with who he is.
A bloke who’s proud of what he’s achieved.
And a bloke who knows that, despite everything life has thrown at him, he’s still here.
And if that’s not success, I really don’t know what is.
So perhaps the next time we measure somebody’s success, we should spend a little less time looking at what they’ve got and a little more time considering what they’ve overcome.
Because you never really know what battles someone has fought to get where they are today.
And sometimes, the greatest achievement isn’t what you’ve accumulated along the way.
Those things we’re apparently supposed to set ourselves so we can become more productive, more successful, and generally a better version of ourselves.
You know the sort of thing.
Attend a motivational seminar, buy a rather expensive notebook, write down your five-year plan, and spend the next twelve months feeling guilty because life got in the way.
Yeah… I’ve never really gone in for all that.
Don’t get me wrong, I admire people who set themselves goals and work hard to achieve them. If that’s your thing, crack on. Good for you.
It’s just never really been my cup of tea.
I’ve never been particularly interested in turning my life into a spreadsheet, complete with targets, deadlines, and little boxes to tick.
I’m a poet, a photographer, and a professional rambler. I spend a good deal of my time scribbling words, taking photographs, and generally following whatever creative rabbit hole happens to catch my attention.
And honestly?
I quite like it that way.
That doesn’t mean I don’t want to grow.
Of course I do.
I’d love to see my poetry reach more people. I’d love for my photography to find its way in front of a few more pairs of eyes. I’d love for the things I create to connect with somebody, somewhere, who might need them.
Who wouldn’t?
There’s something rather lovely about putting a little piece of yourself out into the world and discovering that somebody, somewhere, has connected with it.
Especially when that little piece of yourself started life as a few scribbles in your head.
But I’ve never felt the need to turn that desire into some grand, all-singing, all-dancing personal development programme.
No five-year plan.
No motivational posters telling me I can achieve anything if I just believe hard enough.
And absolutely no standing in front of a mirror at six in the morning, telling myself I’m going to conquer the world.
The neighbours would probably worry.
Besides, I’ve come to realise that life doesn’t always work according to plan. Sometimes things go brilliantly, sometimes they go spectacularly pear-shaped, and sometimes you spend an afternoon wondering what on earth you went into the kitchen for.
That’s life.
So, do I have a goal?
Well, I suppose I do.
Although calling it a goal might be stretching the definition somewhat.
At the end of every month, I have a little look at the number of interactions my creative work has received.
That’s it.
Nothing complicated.
My goal, if you can call it that, is simply to do as well as I did the previous month.
Not necessarily better.
Just the same would do nicely.
If the numbers go up, which they usually do, then that’s a lovely little bonus.
If they don’t?
I’m not going to beat myself up because a particular post didn’t reach as many people as the one before it.
Nor am I going to decide that my work has somehow become less valuable because an algorithm has had a funny five minutes.
After all, numbers can tell you how many people interacted with something.
They can’t always tell you what it meant to them.
And that’s an important distinction.
Because somewhere out there, somebody might read a poem of mine and feel a little less alone.
Somebody might look at a photograph and see something beautiful in an otherwise ordinary day.
Somebody might read one of these ramblings, have a little chuckle, or find a thought that stays with them long after they’ve closed the page.
I’ll probably never know about most of those moments.
And that’s okay.
I don’t need to.
If something I’ve created makes a difference to even one person, then there’s value in that which no monthly statistic can properly measure.
Perhaps that’s the thing about creativity.
You can spend hours worrying about reach, engagement, followers, likes, shares, and all the other things the internet has taught us we’re supposed to care about.
Or you can get on with creating things because you enjoy doing it, because you have something to say, or because sometimes putting words on a page is simply how you make sense of the world.
Personally, I’ll take the second option.
I’ll keep writing.
I’ll keep taking photographs.
I’ll keep sharing whatever happens to fall out of my head and onto the page.
And if more people find their way here along the way, then that’s wonderful.
But I’m not going to spend my life chasing a number.
Life’s a journey, after all.
And I’d rather enjoy the scenery than spend the entire trip staring at the satnav, worrying whether I’m getting there quickly enough.
Which brings me to something I really do want to say.
To those of you on the other side of this screen…
Thank you. Genuinely.
Whether you’ve been reading my scribbles for years or you’ve only stumbled across one of my ramblings today, I’m grateful you’re here.
Every comment, every like, every share, every message, and every moment you’ve taken out of your day to read something I’ve written means more than you probably realise.
I know the internet is a busy place. There’s an almost endless supply of things demanding our attention, and yet you’ve chosen to spend a little of your time here.
With me.
And that genuinely touches me.
I started writing because I had things I needed to get out of my head. Over the years, those scribbles have grown into something much bigger than I ever expected.
And the fact that other people have found something in them?
Well, that’s a rather lovely bonus, isn’t it?
So, no, I don’t have a grand plan for world domination.
I’m not aiming to become the next big thing.
I’m not sitting here plotting how to turn every waking moment into an opportunity for personal growth.
I’m just Bob.
An old soul with a head full of thoughts, a camera, a keyboard, and an apparently endless supply of things to ramble about.
I’ll keep doing what I do.
Creating, and keep putting my work out into the world.
And at the end of each month, I’ll have a little look at those numbers and see how things are going.
If they’re up, I’ll do an extra happy dance.
If they’re the same, I’ll be very happy.
And if they’re down?
Well, there’s always next month.
Because perhaps the point isn’t to keep setting bigger and bigger goals until we’re so busy chasing the next achievement that we forget to appreciate what we’ve already got.
Perhaps it’s about enjoying what we’re doing, appreciating the people who come along for the ride, and being grateful that we get to do it in the first place.
At least, that’s how I see it.
And once again, to everyone who reads, shares, comments, or simply stops by for a little while…
What’s something you’ve done that you never thought you could?
This one is very easy to answer.
In fact, I reckon I could probably give you two answers. Funny how life works out sometimes, isn’t it?
Around twenty years ago, I started writing poetry.
Well, poetry is probably what we’ll call it. Back then, I referred to them as my scribbles, and if I’m honest, that’s still a pretty good description of some of them.
I didn’t start writing because I wanted to be a poet. I wasn’t dreaming of seeing my name in magazines, winning awards, or having people read my words.
Nope.
I started writing because I needed to get the stuff in my head out of it.
My mental health was in a pretty rough place, and I needed a way to process the thoughts, emotions, and general chaos that I was struggling to make sense of. Writing became a form of therapy, a pressure valve, and eventually a way of understanding myself a little better.
It was never about being good enough for anyone else.
It was about trying to be okay.
As I kept writing, something unexpected happened. People started taking an interest in my words. I wrote a poem for a family member’s naming ceremony, and people began asking where I’d got it from.
When I told them I’d written it myself, they seemed rather surprised.
Truth be told, so was I!
Perhaps there was something in this poetry malarkey after all.
Fast-forward twenty years, and I’ve had my work published in magazines and books, written six books of my own, and even picked up awards for my poetry.
For a bloke who started writing just to try and keep his head above water never imagined that his words would find their way into print, let alone receive recognition.
I certainly didn’t set out with any of that in mind.
I was just trying to make sense of life, one scribble at a time.
And yet, somewhere along the way, those scribbles became something more.
They became my voice.
Then there’s the camera…
The second answer would obviously be photography.
I’ve always enjoyed taking pictures, but it was never something I thought of as a talent. When I got my first camera phone, I started snapping away at whatever caught my eye.
A bird. A landscape. Something interesting on a walk. Whatever took my fancy, really.
I wasn’t following some grand artistic vision. I wasn’t studying photography or worrying about aperture, shutter speeds, focal lengths, or any of those other technical things that proper photographers seem to know about.
I just liked taking pictures.
Still do, actually.
The difference is that people started noticing them.
Some of my photographs have been shared by local news outlets, which is something I certainly never expected when I first started pointing a phone at things and pressing a button.
And then there was the opportunity to photograph an event featuring Howard Jones.
Yes, THAT Howard Jones!
Genuine 80s pop royalty.
If you’d told me years ago that one day I’d be taking photographs at an event with someone whose music helped soundtrack an era, I’d probably have looked at you as though you’d been at the cooking sherry.
But it happened.
And that’s the thing about life. Sometimes you stumble into opportunities that you never even knew were possible, simply because you followed something you enjoyed.
No master plan. No five-year strategy. No carefully mapped-out career.
Just a bloke with a camera, taking pictures of things that caught his eye.
So what have I learned
I suppose the biggest lesson is that you don’t always need to know where something is going before you start.
Sometimes, you just need to begin.
You don’t have to be brilliant at something on day one. You don’t need qualifications, a grand ambition, or even the confidence to call yourself good at what you do.
Sometimes, you just need to give yourself permission to have a go.
For me, poetry started as a way of looking after my mental health. Photography started as a bit of fun.
Neither began with the intention of achieving anything spectacular.
And yet both have taken me places I never expected to go.
My poetry has been published, recognised, and awarded. My photographs have reached audiences I never imagined, and I’ve had opportunities that the younger version of me would probably have thought were beyond his reach.
Am I some sort of literary genius or photographic wizard?
Absolutely not.
I’m still learning. I’m still experimenting. I still write things that need a fair bit of work, and I still take photographs that don’t quite turn out the way I imagined.
But I keep going.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last twenty years, it’s that you never really know what might come from doing something that makes you feel a little more like yourself.
Sometimes, the thing you start doing simply to survive becomes the thing that helps you thrive.
And sometimes, the hobby you pick up without a second thought turns into an opportunity you could never have dreamed of.
So, if you’re sitting there wondering whether you should give something a go, perhaps this is your nudge.
Write the poem.
Take the photograph.
Pick up the paintbrush.
Try the thing that’s been sitting at the back of your mind.
You don’t have to know where it will lead.
You just have to start.
Because twenty years ago, I was a bloke scribbling words to help make sense of his own head and taking pictures because something caught his eye.
I never imagined either would lead to the things they have.
Ask ten people and you’ll probably get ten different answers. For me, it comes down to something rather simple: helping others, treating strangers with kindness, and trying to leave the world a little better than I found it.
Nothing revolutionary, is it? Although, given the state of the bloody world sometimes, you’d think kindness was a rare and endangered species.
But here’s the thing. Kindness isn’t weakness, and peace isn’t an inability to fight.
You can be compassionate without being a pushover. You can stand up for yourself and those you love without making aggression your default setting.
It’s why the idea of a demon hand and a Buddha heart resonates with me. Strength tempered by compassion. The ability to confront darkness without allowing it to dictate who you become.
I’ve been trained for war, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend my life fighting. Quite the opposite.
There’s a difference between being unable to hurt someone and having the capability to do so but choosing not to. One is a limitation. The other is restraint.
And restraint, in my opinion, takes a fair bit of strength.
We all have anger, pride and darker impulses. The question isn’t whether those feelings exist, but whether we allow them to control our actions. Just because somebody insults us doesn’t mean we have to respond. Just because we can win an argument doesn’t mean we should have it.
Sometimes, walking away is the strongest thing you can do. Not because you’re frightened, but because your peace of mind is worth more than having the last bloody word.
So, what makes someone a good person?
Not perfection. I’ve yet to meet anyone who has that particular trick figured out.
It’s about trying. Helping when you can. Admitting when you’re wrong. Apologising when you’ve hurt someone. Standing up for those who need it, setting boundaries when necessary, and having the courage to change your mind when life proves you wrong.
We can’t control how others behave, but we can take responsibility for how we respond.
For me, that’s the balance:
It’s known as Demon hand, Buddha heart. Strength without cruelty. Compassion without helplessness. Peace without pretending the world is always peaceful.
I don’t have to be harmless to be kind, weak to be gentle, or blind to the world’s darkness to choose not to add to it.
I can walk a path of peace while being prepared for war. But above all, I can choose to lead with my heart.
Will that change the world overnight? Probably not. I’m not that bloody optimistic.
But if we all made a little more effort to choose kindness over contempt, restraint over retaliation, and understanding over hatred, perhaps we’d make this place a little easier to live in.
And before you start saying, “But Bob, we have GPS…”
Yes.
I have satnav on my phone too.
And it’s bloody brilliant.
Until your phone battery dies.
Or your GPS stops working.
Then suddenly you’re standing in the middle of nowhere with absolutely no idea where you are, or how the hell you’re getting from there to where you need to be.
Map reading is one of those skills the Army taught me that has stayed useful long after I left.
And actually, I’d put basic first aid right alongside it.
Neither skill is particularly glamorous.
Neither is something you think about every day.
But when you need them…
You really, really need them.
So perhaps these are two skills we should all learn.
Because technology is wonderful.
But sometimes knowing how to read a map and patch someone up is worth a hell of a lot more than having 5% battery left.
What’s a skill you consider basic, that most people don’t actually know how to do?
Read a map.
Use a compass.
Administer basic first aid.
Look after yourself if things don’t go to plan.
In other words, the sort of skills many of us picked up through Scouts, the Cadets, the military, or simply from parents and grandparents who believed you should know how to do practical things.
It’s funny really.
We’ve got access to more information than any generation in history. We carry supercomputers in our pockets. We can ask AI almost any question imaginable and get an answer in seconds.
Yet many people would be completely lost—literally—if their phone battery died.
I remember when learning to read an Ordnance Survey map wasn’t unusual. You learned what the symbols meant, how contour lines worked and, if you were lucky, someone would hand you a compass and expect you to work out where you were.
There was no blue dot showing your location.
You had to think.
The same applies to first aid.
I’m always surprised by how few people know what to do when someone collapses, how to deal with a serious cut or even how to make someone comfortable until help arrives.
These aren’t specialist skills reserved for doctors or mountain rescue teams.
They’re simply useful.
Hopefully you’ll never need them.
But if you do, you’ll be very glad you learned them.
The same can be said for lighting a fire, putting up a shelter, purifying water or tying a decent knot. They’re not about preparing for the apocalypse; they’re about understanding the world around you and having the confidence to deal with it.
Looking back, I realise Scouts and later the Army taught me far more than outdoor skills.
They taught self-reliance.
Responsibility.
Teamwork.
The ability to stop, assess a situation and solve a problem without immediately reaching for someone else to fix it.
Perhaps that’s what concerns me most.
We’ve become brilliant at finding answers, but we’re losing the ability to work things out for ourselves.
Convenience is wonderful.
Technology is incredible.
Neither should replace capability.
There’s something reassuring about knowing that if the sat-nav stops working, you’ll still get home.
If someone gets hurt, you can help.
If circumstances change, you can adapt.
Those aren’t old-fashioned skills.
They’re timeless ones.
Maybe it’s time we started teaching them again.
Not because the world is becoming more dangerous.
But because capable people make stronger families, stronger communities and, ultimately, a stronger society.
And if, along the way, a few more young people discover the joy of getting gloriously lost with nothing more than a map, a compass and a bit of common sense…
