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

I wish I could slow down…

Not in the dramatic, sell-everything-and-move-to-a-mountain kind of way.
Just… slow down enough to notice the bits of life that don’t shout for attention.

Because the truth is, life has a funny way of slipping past while you’re busy doing the important things.
Work. Responsibilities. The never-ending to-do list that seems to breed overnight like gremlins in the sink. 

And before you know it, the day is done,
and you’re left wondering where it actually went.

I wish I could spend more time in those small, quiet moments.

The ones that don’t look like much from the outside…
but somehow feel like everything when you’re in them.

Sitting with a good book from the top of that ever-growing pile,
getting comfy, and just disappearing into it for a while. 

Or standing outside with a camera in hand,
trying to catch the moon before it decides it’s had enough of being admired. 

Or even just sitting in the shed, tinkering with something that doesn’t really need fixing…
but fixing it anyway, because it gives your mind somewhere quiet to land. 

I wish I could be more present.

Not half here, half somewhere else.
Not thinking about what’s next, or what I should have done yesterday.

Just… here.

Because if life has taught me anything, it’s that it’s fragile.
Painfully, beautifully fragile.
And it doesn’t wait for you to catch up. 

There’s no pause button.
No rewind.
No “I’ll get to it later” that actually guarantees you will.

I wish I could do more of the things that make me feel human.

Write more.
Notice more.

Appreciate more.

Tell the people I care about that I care about them —
not just assume they know.

Laugh a bit louder.
Breathe a bit deeper.
Let the world be what it is, without trying to wrestle it into something it’s not.

Because at the end of the day…

It’s not the big moments we miss.

It’s the small ones we never made time for.

So I suppose the real answer is this:

I don’t wish for more hours in the day.

I just wish I used the ones I’ve got…
a little better.

Stay safe
BC

You know, it’s funny—when you’ve got as many tattoos as I do, finding the space for another one becomes its own form of art. I mean, where do you put it without looking like a human canvas?

I’ve got most of the tattoos I’ve wanted, each one telling a story, each piece of ink marking a moment in time. But if I’m being real, there’s one I’ve always held back on, a tattoo that’s been sitting in the back of my mind for over two decades.

See, about 25 years ago, I made a decision—no regrets, just a choice. I got a tattoo on the back of my neck that, well, it doesn’t quite speak to me the way it used to. If I could spare the time and the funds for another therapy session at The Ink Inn, I’d cover it up with something that’s been on my mind for years: a crow in flight, based on one of my photographs.

The crow. Now, here’s where it gets interesting. You don’t just throw a bird like that on your skin without understanding the weight it carries. The crow isn’t just a bird—it’s a symbol, a messenger, and honestly, it’s misunderstood. People often link them to death or bad luck, but the deeper meaning is far richer.

Crows represent transformation—change that’s profound, often unseen, but always necessary. They’re tied to mystery, intelligence, and wisdom, connecting the spiritual and the physical worlds. They’re protectors, guides, survivors.

In a way, I see a lot of myself in the crow. I’ve had my own moments of darkness, my own battles with transformation, but that’s where wisdom comes from, right? In the chaos, the transformation, and the understanding that comes from it.

So, yeah. If I had the space, the time, and the cash for one more session, I’d add that crow. Not just for the aesthetic, but for the symbolism. Because life, like the crow, is all about navigating the mysteries, embracing change, and flying through it with purpose.

Stay Safe

BC

Resilient.

Not in the loud, chest-beating, “look at me conquering mountains” kind of way…
but the quieter version.

The kind that gets up when it doesn’t particularly want to.

The kind that’s taken a few hits from life—
and I mean proper hits—
and instead of pretending they didn’t hurt,
sat with them, learned from them,
and carried on anyway.

Because if there’s one thing life has a habit of reminding us,
it’s that it’s fragile… blink-and-you-miss-it fragile. 

So you adapt.

You bend a little.

You find your way through the chaos—
whether that’s through scribbles on a page,
a bit of soul-searching,
or just taking a quiet moment to breathe and reset. 

Resilient doesn’t mean unbreakable.
Far from it.

It means you’ve cracked a few times,
but you’ve learned how to put yourself back together—
not the same as before,
but maybe… a little wiser.

A little softer in the right places,
and a little tougher where it counts.

Stay safe,
Bc

Funny thing about compliments… the flashy ones fade.

You can be told you’re talented, creative, even “gifted,” and for a moment it lands — like a decent cup of coffee on a cold morning — but it doesn’t always stick.

The one that stayed with me?

Someone once said I had a good heart.

Not a good poem.
Not a good photo.
A good heart.

And that hit differently.

Because talent is something you do…
but who you are, underneath all the scribbles and noise — that’s the bit that matters. 

I’ve spent years trying to turn thoughts into words, chaos into something readable, something honest.
But if all of that adds up to someone thinking I’m decent at my core…

Yeah.

I’ll take that over applause any day.

Stay safe
BC

For me… it’s the train. Every time.

Not because it’s the fastest. It isn’t.
Not because it’s the fanciest. It rarely is.

But because it lets you breathe.

You see, I’ve spent enough time dealing with traffic, bad driving, and all the chaos that comes with it to know—it drains you before you’ve even arrived . Sitting behind a wheel, watching brake lights stretch into the horizon, isn’t a journey… it’s endurance.

A train is different.

You step on, find your seat, and that’s it. No stress about directions. No worrying about the bloke who can’t indicate properly. No sudden stops because someone’s decided the middle of the road is a parking space.

Just motion.

There’s something almost meditative about it. The steady rhythm of the tracks, the quiet hum, the world rolling by outside your window like a film you didn’t know you needed to watch.

Fields. Towns. People going about their lives.

You’re not fighting the journey—you’re part of it.

And maybe that’s the point.

We rush so much in life, always trying to get somewhere quicker, easier, sooner. But every now and then, it’s worth choosing the slower road… or in this case, the rails.

Sit back.
Watch the world pass by.
And just be in it for a while.

Stay safe,
BC

Confidence is a funny thing.

Most people think it looks like a loud voice, a firm handshake, or someone who never doubts themselves. The sort of person who walks into a room like they own it.

But in my experience, that’s not confidence. That’s theatre.

The most confident person I know was my grandfather, Walter S Christian. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t try to impress anyone. In fact, he was happiest pottering about in his shed or greenhouse, quietly working on something with his hands. 

What made him confident was something far rarer: certainty in who he was.

He believed in simple things — working hard, being honest, helping people regardless of their background or beliefs. He carried himself like a gentleman not because someone told him to, but because that’s the kind of man he chose to be. 

There’s a particular calm about people like that.
They don’t need applause.
They don’t need to win every argument.
And they certainly don’t need to tell you how confident they are.

They just get on with life.

If you ever met him, you’d understand. He was the sort of man who could teach you more in a quiet afternoon than most people manage in a lifetime. In fact, he influenced me so much that I even took part of his name for my own. 

So when people ask me who the most confident person I know is, I don’t think of celebrities or athletes.

I think of a retired firefighter, an artist, a gardener… and a man who simply knew what it meant to be decent.

Turns out, real confidence doesn’t shout.

It quietly gets on with being the kind of person worth remembering.

Stay safe

Bc

Negative feelings are a bit like British weather — they roll in whether you invited them or not. You can shout at the clouds all day, but it rarely stops the rain.

For me, the trick is learning to sit with it for a moment.

Meditation helps. Just a few quiet minutes, breathing, letting the noise in my head settle down a bit. Nothing fancy. Just stillness and a bit of space between me and whatever nonsense my brain is currently shouting about. It’s amazing how much calmer things look when you stop wrestling them.

And then there’s poetry.

Or what I prefer to call scribbles.

Sometimes I’ll grab a notebook and just dump the mess onto the page. No structure, no worrying about spelling or grammar — just thoughts escaping the pressure cooker. I started doing that years ago as a way to process what was going on in my head, and it turned out to be surprisingly good therapy. 

The funny thing is, once the feelings are written down, they stop rattling around inside quite so loudly.

So my strategy is fairly simple:

Sit. Breathe.

Then scribble until the storm passes.

Not glamorous.

But it works.

Stay Safe

Bc