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

People will usually talk about sacrifice like it has to be something heroic.

Like standing on a battlefield.
Giving up on your dreams.
Working yourself to the bone so your children can eat. (Thanks mum)

And yes… sometimes sacrifice looks like that.

But sometimes?

Sometimes sacrifice is quieter.

Sometimes it’s choosing peace over blood.

One of the hardest sacrifices I ever made was walking away from my biological father.

Not because I wanted to.
Not because it didn’t hurt.
But because eventually I realised that loving someone doesn’t magically make them want to love or acknowledge you, or make them safe to keep in your life.

Especially when alcohol turns them into someone cruel.

There’s a strange sort of grief that comes with cutting ties with a parent. People don’t really talk about it enough. Society teaches us that family is forever. That blood is sacred. That we should forgive endlessly because “they’re still your dad” or “they’re still your family.”

But abuse (and neglect) doesn’t stop being abuse just because it shares your surname.

And alcoholism leaves wreckage far beyond the bottle itself.

It spills into words.
Into tempers.
Into fear.
Into childhood memories that sit in your chest for years like broken glass.

For a long time, I kept trying.

Trying to fix something I didn’t break.

Trying to earn kindness from someone who only seemed capable of giving pain.

You tell yourself:
Maybe this time will be different.
Maybe they’ve changed.
Maybe if I just say the right thing…

When you said to my half sister she was an only child, or told a solicitor I was a confidence trickster, trying to get money, after grandad passed away.

That’s when eventually reality taps you on the shoulder hard enough that you can’t ignore it anymore.

Some people do not heal while you stand beside them.

Some people drag you under with them.

And there comes a moment where survival itself becomes an act of courage.

So I walked away.

Not out of hatred.

Oddly enough, that would’ve been easier.

I walked away because I was so tired.

Tired of the chaos.
Tired of the endless years of disappointment.
Tired of carrying wounds reopened by the very person who should have protected me from getting them in the first place.

And I won’t lie to you…

It cost me something.

There are moments where you mourn the version of them you wished existed.
The father you deserved but never really had.
The conversations that never happened.
The apologies that never came.

You grieve someone who is still alive, which is its own particular kind of heartbreak.

But what did I gain?

Peace.

Actual peace.

The kind where your shoulders slowly stop bracing for impact.
The kind where your phone ringing no longer fills you with dread.
The kind where silence stops feeling dangerous.

That peace was worth the sacrifice.

Because protecting your mental health is not cruelty.
Choosing distance from abuse is not weakness.
And refusing to drown alongside someone else’s addiction does not make you selfish.

Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is say:

“Enough.”

Not with anger.
Not with revenge.

Just quiet finality.

And maybe that’s the strange truth about sacrifice.

The older I get, the more I realise it isn’t always about giving something up for success.

Sometimes it’s giving something up so you can finally breathe.

Stay safe,

Bc

Easy. It’s either my wedding ring… or the small (8mm) piece of amethyst crystal in my ear.

One is a promise.
The other is a reminder.

The ring has survived years of work, weather, gardening, hard conversations,  and ordinary Tuesdays. It carries scratches like tree rings carry seasons.

The amethyst is older in a completely different way. Millions of years old. Formed slowly underground under pressure and heat. long before any of us arrived here arguing about emails and algorithms. Amethyst has long been associated with calm, clarity, and protection across different cultures and traditions. 

I like the contrast.

One object marks a human lifetime.
The other measures geological time.

Both still matter every single day.

Stay safe

Bc

That’s one of those questions people love to throw around as though the world is neatly divided into wolves and sheep. As if every person must either stand at the front barking orders or trail behind blindly hoping someone else knows where they’re going.

Truth is, life doesn’t work like that.

Neither do people.

I was a soldier once, and the military teaches you something very quickly:

If you cannot follow, you should never lead.

A good soldier learns discipline. Learns trust. Learns when to listen, when to move, when to hold the line, and to put faith in the person beside them. Because in the real world, ego gets people hurt.

Far too many people think leadership means being loud.

Being in charge.

Being the one with the answers.

But some of the finest leaders I ever met were quiet professionals. The sort who didn’t need to remind everyone of their rank every five minutes. The sort who would never ask someone to do something they wouldn’t do themselves.

And strangely enough, nearly all of them were excellent followers too.

Because they understood something important:

Leadership is service.

Sometimes you lead from the front.
Sometimes you support from the rear.
Sometimes you carry the weight.

That isn’t weakness.
That’s teamwork.
That’s survival.

The world likes extremes these days. Everyone wants to be an “alpha,” whatever that means this week. Social media is full of self-proclaimed leaders, or influencers as they’re called now, shouting into cameras about dominance and success while treating basic kindness like some sort of character flaw, that needs to be erased.

But real leadership?

Real leadership is checking on the quiet member of the team.
Taking responsibility when things go wrong.
Remaining calm while everyone else loses their head.
Making decisions that won’t make you popular, but are necessary.

And following well takes strength too.

It takes humility to admit someone else might know better.
It takes trust to place yourself in another person’s hands.
It takes discipline to work toward something bigger than your own ego.

So am I a leader or a follower?

Both.

Because life demands both.

Anyone can bark orders.
Anyone can blindly follow a crowd.

But knowing when to do each?
That takes experience.

And sometimes, the people best suited to lead are the ones who first learned how to follow with honour

Stay safe

Bc