Which celebrity would you love to meet, and what would you talk about?
There are plenty of celebrities I could name, but if I had the opportunity to sit down with anyone, I think it would have to be the Dalai Lama.
Now, before you all start imagining me sitting there asking deep and meaningful questions about the meaning of life, the universe, and everything, I have a confession to make.
I’d probably say very little.
Not because I’d have nothing to ask him, but because I suspect I’d have far more to gain by listening than by talking.
We live in a world where everyone seems to have something to say. Social media is full of opinions, arguments, and people determined to have the last word. We’re so busy thinking about what we’re going to say next that we sometimes forget to listen to the person in front of us.
So, imagine sitting across from someone who has spent a lifetime talking about compassion, kindness, and finding a little peace in a world that often seems determined to do the opposite.
Would I ask him how we fix the world? Perhaps.
Would I ask him how we learn to be kinder to one another? Probably.
Would I ask him how we find a little peace in our own heads when life gets a bit too much?
Quite possibly.
But I think the most important thing would be to give him the space to talk, without feeling the need to fill every silence with my own words.
I’m not sure I’d come away with all the answers. I’m not even sure I’d know what to say when the conversation ended.
But perhaps that’s the point.
Sometimes, we don’t need to be the cleverest person in the room. We don’t need to impress anyone, offer advice, or turn every conversation into an opportunity to share our own experiences.
Sometimes, we just need to shut up and listen.
And if I could spend an hour doing that with the Dalai Lama, listening to his thoughts on humanity, compassion, and life, I reckon that would be an hour well spent.
After all, you can learn an awful lot when you stop talking long enough to hear what someone else has to say.
What’s something you’ve done that your past self would be proud of?
That’s an interesting one?
When we look back at our younger selves, we tend to remember the things we got wrong. The opportunities we missed. The things we were too scared to try. The dreams we quietly tucked away because, well, you know, life got in the way.
But every now and then, something happens that makes you stop and think…
“Blimey. I actually did that!”
For me, one of those moments would be taking an old camera, a dream, and a stubborn determination to see what I could achieve, and getting one of my photographs in the local news.
Now, I appreciate that might not sound particularly spectacular to some people.
It’s not winning an Oscar. It’s not appearing on the front of National Geographic. And it certainly doesn’t involve a Hollywood producer knocking on my door offering me a six-figure contract.
Although, if one happens to be reading this, my email address is available. Just saying.
But here’s the thing.
It was never really about the newspaper.
It was about proving to myself that I could do something with a passion, a bit of determination, and whatever equipment I could get my hands on.
You see, I’ve always enjoyed taking photographs. Capturing those little moments that other people might walk straight past. A bird sitting in just the right place. The way the light catches a building. A landscape that makes you stop for a moment and simply appreciate where you are.
Sometimes you get lucky.
Sometimes you take fifty photographs and discover that forty-nine of them are absolutely rubbish.
And sometimes, just sometimes, you get that one image.
The one that makes you smile.
The one that makes you think, “Actually, that’s not half bad.”
And then, when that photograph finds its way into the local news?
Well, that’s something else entirely.
Because suddenly, something you created, something you saw through your own eyes and captured, is being shared with other people.
And that matters.
Not because it makes you famous. Not because it means you’re suddenly some sort of photographic genius who should be wearing a black polo neck and talking about aperture settings over an expensive coffee.
But because it reminds you that you don’t necessarily need all the latest equipment, the perfect circumstances, or a carefully mapped-out plan to make something worthwhile.
Sometimes, you just need to start.
Take the photograph.
Learn as you go.
Make mistakes.
Try again.
And keep going.
Looking back, I think my younger self would be rather chuffed with that achievement. Perhaps a little surprised, too.
After all, dreams have a funny way of changing as we get older. Sometimes they get bigger. Sometimes they get smaller. And sometimes they sit quietly in the back of our minds, waiting for us to stop making excuses and give them a chance.
I’m not suggesting that getting a photograph into the local news is going to change the world.
But it changed how I looked at what I might be capable of.
And that, in its own little way, is important.
These days, photography has become a much bigger part of my life. I’m still learning, still experimenting, and still occasionally pressing buttons without being entirely certain what they’re going to do.
Some things never change.
But I’ve learned that you don’t have to be the best at something to enjoy it. You don’t need qualifications hanging on the wall or thousands of followers telling you how brilliant you are.
You just need passion and to care enough to keep doing it.
And if something good comes from that? Brilliant.
If it doesn’t? You’ve still spent your time doing something you love.
So, what would my past self be proud of?
Probably the fact that I took a chance on myself.
That I picked up a camera, followed a dream, and managed to get one of my photographs into the local news.
Not bad for a bloke who simply wanted to take some decent pictures.
And perhaps that’s the real answer to this question.
It’s not always about the grand achievements or the life-changing milestones.
Sometimes, it’s about looking back at the person you used to be and realising that you’ve become someone who had the courage to try.
Someone who kept learning, and failing.
Someone who didn’t give up on the things that made him happy.
And someone who discovered that an old camera and a dream could take him further than he ever expected.
So, if there’s something you’ve always wanted to try, perhaps give it a go.
Pick up that camera.
Write that poem.
Start that project.
Take that first step, even if you haven’t got the faintest idea what you’re doing.
You never know where it might lead.
And one day, you might just look back and realise that the person you used to be would be rather proud of the person you’ve become, I know I am
I’m sure you’re all aware that, apart from my twenty-odd years as a fully qualified scribbleologist (poet to those who prefer the technical terminology), I’ve also had a longstanding love affair with photography. Words have always been my way of capturing the world, but lately I’ve discovered that a camera can do much the same thing — only with fewer syllables and considerably less punctuation.
And blimey, things seem to be gathering pace!
Since buying my first DSLR back in October last year, I’ve photographed a wedding, covered two Pride events (one of them as the main photographer, no less), and had the pleasure of photographing an evening fundraiser featuring the legendary Howard Jones. Yes, that Howard Jones. Eighties musical royalty, and me with a camera trying to look as though I know exactly what I’m doing.
Next up, I’ve another shoot this month at a poetry event hosted by local celebrity Tom Hirons. Which means I’ll be swapping between two of my favourite worlds: the one where people perform their words, and the one where I attempt to capture the moment before it disappears into the ether.
When I bought that camera, I rather fancied I’d take a few photographs, enjoy myself, and perhaps produce the occasional image that didn’t require an apology. I didn’t quite anticipate things moving along quite so quickly.
But here we are. One minute you’re experimenting with a new bit of kit, the next you’re photographing weddings, Pride celebrations and musical legends, with more opportunities popping up on the horizon.
It’s funny how life sometimes opens a door when you’re busy looking through a viewfinder.
So, between scribbling poems, chasing light and trying to remember which button does what, it seems this particular adventure is gathering momentum.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt after twenty-plus years of playing with words, it’s this: you never really know where a creative itch might lead you.
I’d better keep the batteries charged, then. It looks like I’m going to need them!
Totnes Castle (Totnes Times)Ruth Theodore Totnes Pride.Portrait of Howard Jones. (Sherree Valentine-Daines) The River Dart (Narnia) Roses (Mirror photography, DSLR)Raven (Paignton beach)
What’s one thing you know now that would have saved your younger self a lot of pain?
If there’s one thing I wish I could sit my younger self down and explain, over a decent brew, it would be this:
You don’t have to carry everything.
Not every injustice needs to be revisited. Not every wrong needs to be replayed in your head a thousand times. And not every person who hurt you deserves to occupy so much space in your life long after they’ve gone.
I spent far too much time holding onto anger.
Replaying conversations.
Thinking about what I should have said.
Wondering why people did what they did.
And, of course, imagining all the wonderfully satisfying things I could say if I ever got the chance to have that conversation again.
Funny thing is, most of those conversations never happened.
But I still carried the anger.
And who was it hurting?
Me.
The people and situations I was angry about weren’t necessarily giving me a second thought. Yet there I was, dragging the past around like an overpacked suitcase I couldn’t bring myself to put down.
It took me a while to understand something rather important.
Letting go doesn’t mean what happened was acceptable.
It doesn’t mean forgiving everyone, forgetting the lessons, or pretending an injustice never happened.
It simply means refusing to let yesterday dictate how you live today.
There’s a little wisdom in Buddhism that I wish I’d understood much earlier. We suffer when we cling too tightly to things, including our anger, our expectations and our need for life to have been different.
The past has happened.
We can learn from it. We can grieve it. We can even be bloody furious about it for a while.
But we cannot change it.
At some point, we have to decide whether we want to keep carrying it.
These days, I try to look at anger a little differently. I acknowledge it, ask myself what it’s trying to tell me, and then try to let it go.
Some days, I manage that better than others. I’m human, after all.
But I’m learning that peace isn’t about winning every argument or getting the apology you deserved.
Sometimes peace is simply deciding that your happiness is worth more than your resentment.
So, to my younger self, if I could pass on just one piece of advice, it would be this:
Feel what you need to feel. Learn what you can. Stand up for yourself when you need to.
But when the time comes, put the bloody suitcase down.
You’ve got places to go, people to love, and a life to live.
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.
That’s all it took to turn a road into a place my body still remembers.
People asked if I was hurt.
I said no.
Because I could walk. Because nothing was broken. Because the blood belonged to somebody else’s panic and the bruises faded like they had somewhere better to be.
But nobody asks the nervous system what it thinks happened.
Nobody tells your hands that they’re allowed to stop shaking.
Nobody explains to your heart that the car is no longer spinning.
So now—
every sudden brake light is a memory with headlights.
Every tyre screech is a door opening to the same three seconds.
I flinch at roundabouts.
I count cars.
I sit in the passenger seat and press my foot into the floor as if I can find a brake pedal that isn’t there.
Sometimes I hear the crash when the room is completely silent.
And that is the cruelest part.
The world looks at me and sees someone who survived.
I look at the world and see potential impact.
They told me I was lucky.
I know they meant it kindly.
But luck is a strange word when your body survives and your mind becomes the crime scene.
There are no stitches for this.
No plaster cast.
No X-ray that says,
Here. This is where it hurts.
So I learned to carry an invisible injury through visible places.
I laugh.
I go to work.
I answer questions.
I say I’m fine because “I’m remembering the moment I almost died” is not considered (or socially) appropriate small talk.
And sometimes I wonder if healing is supposed to feel like forgetting.
I hope not.
Because I don’t want to forget.
I just want to remember without fucking reliving it.
I want a red light to become just a red light again.
I want the sound of tyres to belong to the road instead of my nightmares.
I want my body to understand what my mind keeps refusing to believe:
The crash is over.
The car stopped.
I survived.
And this time,
when I close my eyes,
I want the darkness to be nothing more than darkness.
I think this last week has probably been the pinnacle of my 2026 journey.
But before we get into that, let’s rewind a little.
At the start of the year I spotted an advert on Instagram looking for volunteer photographers for Torbay Pride.
Now, being me, I thought…
Why not?
So I threw my hat into the ring.
Somehow, they said yes.
And suddenly I found myself being one of the volunteer photographers for Torbay Pride.
My first proper photography gig.
And I bloody loved it.
Something had happened.
That little spark had caught light.
So when my hometown of Narnia announced its own Pride in July, I did what any sensible person would do.
I sent them a cheeky email asking if they needed a photographer.
Apparently, nobody had thought of that.
So, by a mixture of enthusiasm, timing and possibly nobody else putting their hand up, I became the official Pride photographer.
Which brings us to last week.
Totnes Pride.
Another fantastic day. Another camera full of photographs. Another reminder of just how much I love doing this.
And then came the inevitable bit.
The bit where I sat down afterwards and started looking through hundreds of photographs.
Yes, they were in focus.
Yes, they were clear.
But…
Did they have that something?
Probably not.
And when you combine that with a healthy dollop of imposter syndrome and failing to score in a poetry competition, it’s fair to say I was being a little hard on myself.
Then Friday happened.
One of the Pride volunteers contacted me.
She sent me a lovely photograph of me in action with my camera.
Then came the unexpected bit.
She was looking for a volunteer photographer to photograph 80s music legend Howard Jones while he had his portrait painted, followed by an auction raising money for a local youth music charity.
Would I be interested?
Well…
Yes.
Obviously.
I didn’t even need to think about it.
More experience.
More hours behind the camera.
A chance to build my portfolio.
And, quite frankly, an excuse to take photographs.
What’s not to like?
Then, as if the universe was trying to make its point, some of my astrophotography started producing some rather lovely results too.
And suddenly that slump didn’t seem quite so deep.
Perhaps I’d just forgotten something fairly obvious.
I’m still learning.
I’m still finding my eye.
Not every photograph is going to be the photograph.
And that’s okay.
You take the next one.
You learn.
You keep going.
Sometimes you just need to stop judging the last frame long enough to notice that you’re already holding the camera for the next one.
And maybe there’s something to be said for simply being there for that moment, rather than worrying too much about what comes afterwards.
Anyway…
The camera’s charged.
There are more photographs to take.
And apparently, I’ve got a portrait of Howard Jones to go and shoot.
It’s one of those questions that sounds wonderfully simple.
You rub the lamp. The genie appears.
Three seconds later, you’re suddenly faced with the biggest decision of your life.
And I’m guessing most people would go for something fairly obvious.
£100 million in the bank. A mansion. Fame.
Maybe becoming a bestselling author, a world-famous photographer, or whatever else happens to float your particular boat.
And don’t get me wrong, I’d quite happily take the £100 million, but there’s a problem. If I became a successful poet or photographer because some magical blue bloke handed it to me, I’m not sure I’d want it. I want to know that I earned it.
Every poem. Every photograph. Every little bit of progress.
The mistakes. The failures. The hours nobody sees.
That’s where the meaning comes from.
So if the genie stood in front of me today and said: “Bob, you get one wish. Anything you want.” My answer would probably surprise you.
I wouldn’t ask for money. I wouldn’t ask for fame. I wouldn’t even ask for anything for myself. I’d wish for one thing.
I would wish to eliminate child sexual abuse.
Completely. Everywhere. No exceptions. No child ever having to experience it. No teenager carrying a secret they’re terrified to tell anyone.
No adult waking up decades later and realising that something that happened in childhood has somehow followed them through and affected their entire life.
Because I know what it’s like.
I’m a survivor of child sexual abuse.
It happened more than forty years ago.
Forty.
Years.
And yet here I am, all these decades later, still thinking about it. Finally talking about it. Still understanding that something that lasted for a relatively small part of my childhood managed to leave fingerprints all over the man I became.
That’s the thing about abuse.
People sometimes imagine that when the abuse stops, the damage stops too.
It doesn’t necessarily work like that.
The perpetrator might walk away.
The child grows up. Life moves on. People get married. Have children. Build careers. Take photographs. Write books. Stand on beaches. Have therapy.
Laugh. Love… Live.
But sometimes, the past comes along for the ride. It sits quietly in the passenger seat. You might not notice it for years. Then something happens: A smell. A place. A memory.
A conversation.
A particular feeling.
And suddenly that little passenger taps you on the shoulder and reminds you that it’s still there.
That’s why my wish wouldn’t be about making me rich. It wouldn’t even be about erasing my own past. Because if I could magically remove what happened to me, I’d also remove part of the journey that made me who I am today.
And despite everything… I don’t want to erase myself, now.
I want to erase the reason children need to become survivors in the first place.
That’s the difference.
I don’t want a world where we become really good at helping people pick up the pieces.
I want a world where fewer people have pieces to pick up.
I want children to grow up knowing what safety feels like.
I want survivors to know that they will be believed when they find the strength to tell someone what happened, or is happening.
I want them to understand that their bodies belong to them.
That saying no means no.
That adults are supposed to protect children, not exploit them.
And perhaps most importantly…
I want survivors to know that what happened to them wasn’t their fault.
Not then. Not now. Never.
Because shame has a nasty habit of attaching itself to the wrong person: The child carries it. The teenager carries it. The adult carries it. Sometimes, to their grave.
Meanwhile, the person responsible may carry absolutely none of it.
That’s backwards. The shame belongs with the person who caused the harm, not the person who survived it.
So yes, if that genie ever does turn up, lamp in hand, waiting patiently for my answer… I know exactly what I’ll ask for… I’d simply look him in the eye and say:
“Make sure no child ever has to become a survivor of sexual abuse again.”
And if that sounds like an impossible wish… perhaps it is.
But I’ve spent enough of my life being told that some things are impossible. Sometimes impossible just means we haven’t tried hard enough yet.
So until that genie turns up, perhaps the rest of us have a part to play.
Listen. Believe. Protect. Educate.
Speak when silence would make things easier for the wrong person.
And when a survivor finally finds the courage to say those words:
“This happened to me.”
Don’t ask them why they didn’t tell someone sooner. Don’t brush it off with a throwaway comment. Don’t ask what they were wearing. Don’t ask what they did to cause it. Don’t ask why they didn’t fight or scream.
Just listen.
Believe them.
And do remind them of something they may have spent years struggling to believe themselves:
It wasn’t their fault.
Forty years later, I’m still here. Still writing. Still taking photographs. Still telling stories. Still trying to turn some of the darker parts of my life into something that might help somebody else. Perhaps that’s the closest thing I have to magic.Not changing the past, but using what happened to me to try to make somebody else’s future a little safer.
And if I only ever get one wish… That’s the one I’ll choose.
Which relationship has taught you the most about yourself?
Mrs Bob.
There really isn’t anyone else who comes close.
I suppose the obvious answer would be that she’s taught me about love.
And she has.
She’s taught me about patience.
Definitely that.
Although, to be fair, she’s probably had to teach me more about patience than most people would consider reasonable.
But the biggest thing Mrs Bob has taught me is actually about myself.
She’s allowed me to grow.
And, let’s be honest, she’s allowed me to mature into the person I am today.
I wasn’t a finished product when we met.
Far from it.
I was still figuring out who I was, what I wanted, and probably making far more mistakes than I’d care to admit.
Some of those mistakes were mine.
Some were lessons I simply hadn’t learned yet.
And some were things I didn’t even realise I needed to learn.
Mrs Bob never tried to turn me into somebody else.
She just gave me the space to become more myself.
And I think there’s a huge difference between those two things.
She’s the calm to my fire.
Where I can be passionate, impulsive, stubborn and occasionally a complete pain in the arse, she has this remarkable ability to bring me back down to earth.
Not by changing me.
Not by trying to silence me.
Just by being there.
Sometimes that’s all you need.
Someone who knows when to let you burn brightly…
And when to quietly remind you that perhaps setting fire to everything isn’t the best solution.
Over the years, she’s seen the versions of me that I’m proud of.
And the versions I’m not.
She’s seen the good days.
The bad days.
The days where I’ve been convinced I had everything figured out.
And the days where I quite clearly didn’t have a bloody clue.
And somehow, through all of that, she’s still here.
Still beside me.
Still encouraging me to grow.
Still putting up with me.
Which, frankly, deserves some sort of medal.
I often think we underestimate what it means to really know another person.
Not just knowing their favourite food or what makes them laugh.
But knowing their fears.
Their insecurities.
Their strengths.
Their weaknesses.
Knowing what they’re capable of, even when they don’t know themselves.
Mrs Bob has done that for me.
She’s helped me see parts of myself that I couldn’t see.
She’s encouraged me when I doubted myself.
She’s challenged me when I needed challenging.
And she’s given me the freedom to become the person I was supposed to be.
So, which relationship has taught me the most about myself?
That’s easy.
Mrs Bob.
Because I’m not the same man I was when we first met.
I’m calmer.
I’m more comfortable in my own skin.
I’ve learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness.
I’ve learned that asking for help doesn’t make you less of a man.
And I’ve learned that sometimes the person who helps you become yourself isn’t the person who tells you who to be.
It’s the person who stands beside you while you work it out.
I’m the person I am today because of a lot of people, a lot of experiences, a lot of mistakes and a ridiculous number of lessons.
But Mrs Bob?
She’s been there for the whole bloody journey.
And I wouldn’t want to have travelled it with anyone else.
