Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

I’ve been asked this question a few times over the years, and I’ll be honest—it used to come with grand plans.

You know the sort…
Big goals. Bigger dreams. A vague idea that somewhere along the line everything neatly falls into place.

But life, as I’ve learned (often the hard way), doesn’t really do “neat.”

It does messy.
It does unexpected.
It does “well, that wasn’t in the brochure.”

And yet… here we are.

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So, ten years from now?

If I’m lucky—retired.

Not in the flashy, lottery-win, sipping-something-expensive-on-a-yacht sense.
More in the “I’ve earned a bit of peace and quiet” sense.

The kind of retirement where the alarm clock becomes optional.
Where time slows down just enough to notice things again.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve come to understand, it’s this:

Life isn’t about filling every minute…
It’s about feeling the minutes you’ve got.

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I imagine something simple

A shed.
(There’s always a shed, isn’t there?)

A chair that’s seen better days.
A notebook that’s half full of scribbles that may or may not make sense.
A cup of something warm within arm’s reach.

Maybe I’ll still be writing—because let’s face it, once you start using words to make sense of your head, it’s hard to stop. It’s been part of me for over 20 years now, a way to process the noise and turn it into something resembling meaning. 

Maybe I’ll still be taking photos of birds that refuse to sit still long enough for a decent shot.

Maybe I’ll just sit there… and do absolutely nothing.

And for once, not feel guilty about it.

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There’s a deeper part to it though

Retirement, for me, isn’t just about stopping work.

It’s about arriving at a place where:

• The chaos has quietened
• The edges have softened
• And I’ve made peace with the things I can’t change

Because life has a funny way of reminding you it’s fragile. You don’t get to negotiate with it when your time’s up—you just have to make the most of what’s in front of you while it’s there. 

So if I make it ten years down the line…

I don’t just want to be retired.

I want to be content.

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And if I’m honest…

If people ask me that question in ten years’ time—

“Where do you see yourself now?”

I hope the answer is something like:

“Right here.
Still writing.
Still breathing.
Still finding small bits of magic in ordinary days.”

Because at the end of it all, that’s probably enough.

---

Stay safe,

What are 5 everyday things that bring you happiness?

Pull up a chair, grab a brew, and let’s have a little natter about something simple. Not grand gestures, not lottery wins, not “one day when I’ve made it” dreams…

Just the everyday bits.

Because, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt while scribbling my way through life, it’s this: happiness rarely kicks the door in… it usually just taps politely and waits to be noticed.

There’s something quietly magical about the ordinary things in life. The grand moments are lovely, of course, but it’s the little, everyday fragments that often keep us grounded and smiling.

For me, happiness is often found in five simple places.

First, the early morning quiet. Before the world fully wakes, there’s a stillness that feels almost sacred. A hot brew in hand, the house calm, and a few moments where thoughts can settle before the day begins.

Second, nature’s small performances. A bird perched on the fence, the rustle of leaves, the changing sky. I’ve always found comfort in watching the natural world carry on with such effortless grace,

Third, writing. Sometimes it’s poetry, sometimes it’s just scribbles and scattered thoughts, but putting words to feeling has long been a source of peace and joy. There’s a kind of healing in giving emotions a voice. 

Fourth, family laughter. The sound of Mrs Bob laughing in another room, the gentle chaos of family life, shared memories, silly moments—those are the things that stay with us longest.

And finally, a good photograph captured by chance. That one unexpected image where the light lands just right, and suddenly an ordinary moment becomes something worth keeping forever. 

Happiness, I’ve found, rarely arrives with fanfare. More often, it slips quietly into the day, hidden in the everyday things we might otherwise overlook.

Stay safe,
Bc

Describe something you learned in high school.

I learnt a lot at school.

None of it was on the curriculum.

---

They’ll tell you it’s about maths, English, science…
and to be fair, I did pick up enough of that to get by.

But the real lessons?

Those weren’t written on the blackboard.

They were written in corridors.
In the spaces between classes.
In the way footsteps sounded when they were coming a bit too fast behind you.

---

You see, school teaches you patterns.

Not the kind in textbooks—
the kind in people.

Who to avoid.
When to keep your head down.
How to read a room in half a second flat.

Because sometimes, reading the room
was the difference between getting through the day…
or not.

---

I learnt how to become invisible.

Not in some superhero, cloak-and-dagger way.
Nothing glamorous about it.

I’m talking about shrinking yourself down
until you barely register.

Don’t answer too many questions.
Don’t stand out.
Don’t give them a reason.

Blend into the background like a dodgy bit of wallpaper
no one quite notices anymore.

It’s amazing how small a person can make themselves
when they have to.

---

Funny thing is, the ones doing the teaching—
they didn’t even know they were teachers.

The lads who peaked at fifteen.
Kings of a kingdom that only exists
inside school gates.

Out there?
Different story.

But in here?
They were everything.

And you learnt quickly
that their approval didn’t matter…
but their attention did.

So you avoided it.

Like stepping around a loose paving slab
you just know is going to ruin your day.

---

I don’t remember much about algebra.

But I remember timing.

Waiting just long enough before leaving class
so the corridor would be empty.

Taking the long way round.
Always the long way round.

I remember silence.

How quiet you can be
when you’re trying not to be noticed.

---

The strange part?

Those lessons stick.

Long after school’s finished,
long after those corridors disappear into memory,

you still find yourself
checking the room.

Still measuring your words.
Still knowing, instinctively,
how to fade into the background.

---

But here’s the thing they never taught…

You can unlearn it.

Slowly.

Awkwardly.

Bit by bit, like stretching a muscle
you forgot you had.

You realise you’re allowed to take up space.
To speak.
To exist without apology.

---

Still though…

On certain days, in certain rooms,
that old lesson taps you on the shoulder.

“Keep your head down.”
“Stay small.”
“Stay safe.”

And for a moment—just a moment—
you remember exactly how to disappear.

---

Stay safe,
BC

Describe one positive change you have made in your life.

It’s funny, the things you think matter in the moment.

The red mist.
The clenched jaw.
That urge to snap back, louder, sharper… just to prove a point.

I used to live there more than I care to admit.

Not all the time, mind you—I’m not some permanently raging bull—but enough that it left its mark. Enough that a bad five minutes could ruin an entire day. Or worse, spill over onto people who didn’t deserve it.

And here’s the thing I’ve learned (the hard way, obviously—because that’s how most of us learn anything worth keeping):

Getting angry doesn’t change what’s already happened.

Not one bit.

You can replay it.
You can argue with it in your head.
You can even “win” the argument ten different ways…

But reality just sits there, arms folded, completely unimpressed.

As I’ve gotten older—and perhaps a little bit wiser, or at least more tired—I’ve started to realise something else too.

Anger isn’t just useless… it’s heavy.

It clings to you.

It follows you around like a bad smell, turning one small (often insignificant) moment into something far bigger than it ever needed to be. And before you know it, you’re carrying it into the next conversation, the next hour, the next day.

And for what?

The situation hasn’t changed.
The past hasn’t rewritten itself.

All that’s changed… is you.

There’s a quiet sort of freedom in recognising that.

A sort of… letting go.

Not in a grand, dramatic, “I’ve reached enlightenment on a mountain” kind of way. Nothing like that. More like standing there, mid-annoyance, and thinking:

“Is this actually worth it?”

Most of the time… it isn’t.

So now, when I feel that familiar spark starting up, I try—keyword being try—to pause. Take a breath. Let it pass through rather than explode outward.

Because emotions are a bit like weather. They come, they go. Storms included.

No point shouting at the rain.

And I won’t pretend I’ve mastered it. Far from it. I still have my moments. I still get it wrong. But compared to how I used to be… it’s a change. A positive one.

A quieter one.

And, if I’m honest, a kinder one too—both to myself and to everyone else caught in the crossfire.

Turns out, peace isn’t found in winning every argument.

Sometimes, it’s found in deciding not to have it in the first place.

Stay safe,
BC

What’s the most fun way to exercise?

What’s the most fun way to exercise?

For me, it’s archery.

Not the frantic kind of movement that leaves you breathless and counting down the seconds until it’s over, but something slower, steadier… something that asks more of the mind than the body at first glance.

There’s a certain magic to it.

You step up to the line, the world seems to hush, and for a moment everything else fades into the background. The noise of the day, the endless lists in your head, the weight of whatever you’ve been carrying all seem to pause.

Then it’s just you, the bow, and the target.

There’s something deeply satisfying about drawing back the string, feeling the tension build through your shoulders and fingertips, and then letting go. That split second where the arrow cuts through the air feels almost poetic. Purpose in motion.

Some people might not immediately think of archery as exercise, but spend an afternoon under the open sky repeating that draw, hold, and release, and your arms, shoulders, and back will soon have something to say about it. It’s strength, control, focus, and patience all wrapped into one. I’ve said before how pulling a bow with serious draw weight 35-40 lbs) for hours combined with repeatedly walking 40 meters (and back) to retrieve your arrows is absolutely a physical activity, and one i genuinely love.  

But the real joy of it isn’t just the movement.

It’s the feeling.

The quiet thrill when the arrow lands true.
The small triumph of getting a little closer to the centre than the last shot.
The calm that settles over you between each breath.

Exercise doesn’t always have to be sweat and struggle.
Sometimes the most fun way to move your body is the one that makes your soul feel lighter too.

For me, that’s archery.

A sport of stillness, strength, and the occasional moment where, just for a second, you feel a little bit like Robin Hood.

Stay safe,
BC 

What book could you read over and over again?

I’ve been asked what book I could read over and over again.

Now, if you’ve ever seen the ever-growing pile of books beside my chair (or teetering precariously somewhere near the shed), you’ll know that’s a dangerous question. Because there’s always another book waiting its turn. And yet… there are a few that never really go back on the shelf at all. 

But if I had to pick one—the one that sticks, the one that quietly follows you through life like an old friend—it would have to be The Watchmen by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons.

Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s comforting. But because every time you go back to it, it feels like you’ve changed… and somehow, it has too.

---

A Book That Grows As You Do

I first came across Watchmen years ago—borrowed, like most good things in life, from someone else. It wasn’t just a comic. It was the comic that made me realise stories could be layered, messy, human. 

Back then, it was all about the surface:
Masks. Heroes. Anti-heroes. The grit and the grime.

Now?

It’s about the cracks underneath.

It’s about morality, and how it bends depending on where you’re standing. It’s about time, consequence, and the uncomfortable truth that doing the “right” thing isn’t always clean or heroic—it’s often complicated and a bit ugly.

And that’s why it’s re-readable.

Because you don’t read it the same way twice.

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The Familiar Comfort of Returning

There’s something reassuring about going back to a book you know.

Life has a habit of throwing curveballs—some gentle, some that knock the wind clean out of you. And in those moments, there’s comfort in familiarity. A story where you know the beats, even if they hit differently this time around.

A bit like sitting in the shed on a warm day—same chair, same view, but you’re not quite the same person who sat there last summer. 

Books like that don’t just tell a story.

They become part of yours.

---

Why This One?

Because it stayed.

Out of all the books I’ve read—and there have been plenty, from religious texts to graphic novels, all in an effort to understand the world a little better—this is the one that never quite let go. 

It sparked something.

A love of stories.
A love of complexity.
A love of asking “what if?” and not always liking the answer.

And maybe that’s what the best re-readable book does.

It doesn’t just entertain you.

It challenges you… every single time.

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Final Thought

So if you’re asking me what book I could read over and over again?

It’s not the easiest read.
It’s not the happiest read.
It’s not even the most comfortable read.

But it’s the one that still has something to say, no matter how many times you’ve heard it.

And I suppose, in the end, that’s what keeps you coming back.

---

Stay safe,
Bc

If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?

If you’d asked me this question twenty years ago, I might have said someone flashy. Someone with powers. Someone who could bend the rules of the world without breaking a sweat.

But life… life has a way of sanding down the edges of those answers.

These days, there’s only one choice that makes sense.

Batman.

Not because he’s the strongest. Not because he’s the smartest. And certainly not because he’s the happiest.

But because he’s the most human.

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You see, what draws me to Batman isn’t the cape, the gadgets, or even the theatrics of it all. It’s the simple, brutal truth at the core of who he is:

He’s just a man.

No super serum.
No alien DNA.
No magic hammer that only he can lift.

Just a man… who decided that pain wasn’t going to be the end of his story.

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And that resonates more than I’d like to admit.

Because like a lot of us, life throws things your way that you didn’t ask for. Things that shape you whether you like it or not. And you’ve got two choices:

You can let it break you.

Or you can build something out of it.

Batman chose to build.

---

What I admire most is the discipline.

The relentless, almost obsessive drive to be better. Stronger. Sharper. Not for ego… but for purpose.

That idea that even when the world is falling apart, even when you’re running on fumes, you still show up.

You still do the right thing.

Even when nobody’s watching.

---

And let’s be honest for a second…

There’s something deeply comforting about the fact that Gotham’s protector is, at his core, flawed.

He doubts.
He struggles.
He carries ghosts that never quite leave.

Sound familiar?

Because it should.

That’s all of us.

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But here’s the bit that really sticks with me…

Batman doesn’t wait to feel ready.

He acts anyway.

And maybe that’s the lesson in all of this.

We don’t need to be perfect.
We don’t need to have it all figured out.
We don’t need superpowers.

We just need to decide.

---

So if I could be anyone?

Yeah… I’d be Batman.

Not for the mask.

But for what’s underneath it.

A man who took everything life threw at him…

…and chose to stand anyway.

---

Stay safe,
BC

What animals make the best/worst pets?

When it comes to pets, we often find ourselves caught between what we want and what we need. And no animal embodies this dichotomy quite like the cat.

Oh, the cat. It’s the creature that teaches us how to love, but only on its terms. With its sleek, independent soul, the cat walks into our lives, flips its tail, and demands that we bend to its will, not the other way around.

What makes them the best? The answer lies in their balance. Cats don’t require constant attention. They’re the introverts of the pet world, needing their space to lounge in quiet corners, to nap in the sunbeam of their choosing, to purr when it pleases them. Cats offer the best kind of love—a love that asks for nothing, yet gives you everything in return. It’s in that soft purr at night, the gentle nudge of a head against your hand, the knowing stare from across the room.

But let’s not sugarcoat it: there are worst aspects, too. Cats can be temperamental, almost too independent at times. They’ll love you when they want, and ignore you when they don’t. They knock things off counters not out of malice, but because—well, because they can. Their judgment of you is final, and they’ll withhold affection for the smallest infraction. Like that one time you dared leave the room while they were mid-pounce on an invisible prey. Or when you moved their favorite blanket.

Yet, for all their complexity, cats offer a kind of companionship that no other animal quite does. If you’ve never experienced the quiet bond between human and feline, you’ve never understood what it means to earn someone’s trust without asking for it. Cats don’t need us to be perfect. They simply ask us to be present, and they reward us with the kind of love that lingers in the spaces between the moments.

So, if you’re ready to open your heart to a creature that demands respect but gives it back in kind, the cat might just be your perfect pet.

Stay safe

Bc

What job would you do for free?

There are questions that are easy to answer, like “Do you want coffee?” And then there are questions that make you pause, tilt your head, and squint at your own life. “What job would you do for free?” is one of those questions.

For me, it’s simple: anything involving cats. Cats are the original masters of relaxation, the unofficial philosophers of the living room, and the undisputed rulers of Instagram. If I could get paid in nothing but head bumps, purring, and the occasional judgmental glance, I’d be all in.

I’ve thought about it a lot. Could I be a professional cat cuddler? A feline behavior consultant? A writer of cat memoirs? Sure. But really, it doesn’t matter what the title is. The point is showing up for the creatures who ask nothing but a warm lap and maybe some tuna. They don’t care if I have a degree, a resume, or a LinkedIn profile. They care if I’m present.

There’s a lesson in that for all of us. The jobs we do for free—when we feel no pressure, no expectations, no deadlines—often show us what we truly value. For me, it’s connection, curiosity, and the quiet joy of a cat stretching on the sunlit floor.

So yeah, if you ever see me volunteering at a cat shelter or just lingering on the couch with a dozen cats, know this: I’m getting paid exactly what matters. And that’s everything

Stay safe

Bc

What Olympic sports do you enjoy watching the most?

If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be sitting on the edge of my seat, eyes glued to the screen, watching people slide rocks down ice, I would’ve laughed so hard at you. Curling? Really?

I mean, sliding stones, sweeping frantically like it’s some sort of manic cleaning competition, and… what’s that? Strategy? Who needs that when the action is happening at the speed of, well, ice?

Fast forward to today, and here I am—obsessed. I couldn’t have named half the rules last winter, let alone tell you what a “house” or a “guard” is. But there’s something about curling that clicks. It’s not about speed or brute strength; it’s about rhythm. The slow, deliberate slide of the stone, the quick, frantic sweep of the broom, and then… the quiet. It’s this strange, electric stillness before the stone reaches its mark. And when it does? It’s like the whole arena collectively holds its breath, then lets out a cheer that vibrates through your bones.

I’ll admit, I don’t understand half the jargon. It’s all foreign to me. But here’s the thing: none of that matters. Curling is pure tension. It’s the unpredictability, the strategy unfolding move by move, and that unpredictable moment when one sweep can change the game.

Do I need to know it all? Absolutely not. I’m hooked anyway. The excitement, the suspense, the unspoken tension—it’s all so thrilling. Curling’s my thing now. Who would’ve thought?

Stay safe,
Bc