Tag Archives: Emotional Health

No Strategy, No Plan, Just Scribbles and the Occasional Crow

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How do you write what people actually want to read?

It’s an interesting question.

And, if I’m being completely honest, I’m not entirely sure I do.

I don’t mean that to sound arrogant.

Quite the opposite.

I’m probably one of the least commercially minded writers you’re ever likely to meet.

I don’t sit down at my keyboard thinking:

Right, Bob. What will the internet like today?

What’s going to get the most clicks?

What’s going to go viral?

What will the algorithm be particularly fond of?

If I did, I’d probably have given up years ago.

The truth is, I started writing for a completely different reason.

I needed somewhere to put the stuff rattling around inside my head.

Twenty-odd years ago, my “poetry” was barely poetry at all.

I called them scribbles.

Still do, actually.

They were thoughts, emotions, anger, fear, confusion and occasionally a bit of hope, thrown onto paper because keeping everything inside clearly wasn’t working terribly well.

Writing became a form of therapy.

The scribbles eventually became poems.

The poems eventually became books.

And somehow, along the way, people started reading them.

Which still amazes me.

Because I never really set out to become a poet.

I certainly didn’t start writing because I thought:

One day, thousands of people might read this.

I was just trying to make sense of myself.

And perhaps that’s the answer to the question.

Maybe you don’t write what people want to read.

Maybe you write what you need to say.

And then you hope that somewhere out there, somebody needs to hear it.

That’s certainly how I approach this blog.

Some days I’ll write about mental health.

Some days it might be something completely ridiculous.

Photography.

A walk.

A memory.

A book.

A film.

Something that made me laugh.

Something that pissed me off.

Something that made me stop and think.

And occasionally, for reasons known only to the universe, I’ll write about bloody crows.

There isn’t necessarily a grand content strategy behind it.

It’s just me.

Rambling.

Hence the name.

And yes, I’m aware that there are probably people who read something I’ve written and think:

What the hell was that bloke going on about?

Fair question.

I’ve asked myself the same thing.

But here’s the thing.

I don’t normally write poetry, scribbles, or these ramblings because I want to be liked.

I don’t write them because I want everyone to agree with me.

And I certainly don’t write them because I expect everyone to enjoy them.

I write because it helps.

It helps me process things.

It helps me understand what I’m thinking.

Sometimes it helps me put a name to an emotion I couldn’t quite identify before.

And sometimes, putting something down on paper means I can stop carrying it around in my head.

That’s why the mental health side of my writing has always mattered so much to me.

There have been times when writing wasn’t just a creative outlet.

It was part of keeping my head above water.

Poetry gave me a way of taking all that internal noise and turning it into something I could actually look at.

Something I could shape.

Something I could eventually put down.

And then something rather lovely happened.

Other people started saying:

“I understand that.”

Or:

“I’ve felt like that.”

Or:

“Thank you for writing this.”

And that’s when you realise that something you wrote purely to help yourself can sometimes become useful to somebody else.

That, to me, is the magic bit.

Not the numbers.

Not the views.

Not the likes.

Not whether something gets shared fifty times on Facebook.

Although, obviously, if you do want to share it fifty times, I won’t complain.

I’m not completely bloody stupid.

But that isn’t why I write.

If somebody reads something I’ve written and gets something from it, brilliant.

If somebody laughs, even better.

If somebody sees themselves in one of my poems and realises they aren’t quite as alone as they thought they were, then bloody hell…

That’s worth more than any number on a screen.

So, how do you write what people actually want to read?

I honestly don’t know.

I suspect there are people far cleverer than me who can explain algorithms, audience engagement, SEO, demographics and all the other mysterious machinery that apparently makes the internet go round.

Me?

I just write.

I write what interests me.

I write what bothers me.

I write what makes me laugh.

I write what hurts.

I write what I’m trying to understand.

And sometimes I write complete and utter nonsense because my brain has apparently decided that’s what we’re doing today.

And if people want to read it?

Well…

That’s a happy little accident.

(Bob Ross would approve.)

The funny thing is, though, perhaps the best writing isn’t created by trying desperately to please an audience.

Perhaps it comes from being honest enough to say the thing you actually wanted to say.

Because somewhere, there might be someone who needed those exact words.

I never expected my scribbles to become twenty years of poetry, six books, guest publications and all the other amazing things that have happened along the way.

I certainly didn’t have a five-year plan.

I had a pen.

A head full of noise.

And a desperate need to get some of it out.

Everything else has been a happy little accident.

And I think I’m quite happy keeping it that way.

So I’ll carry on rambling.

I’ll carry on scribbling.

I’ll carry on taking photographs.

I’ll carry on writing about mental health, life, love, the ridiculousness of being human, and whatever else wanders into my head.

If you enjoy it, thank you.

If something I write helps you, even better.

And if you don’t like it…

Well, there are plenty of other blogs on the internet.

No hard feelings.

I’ll still be here tomorrow.

Probably writing something nobody asked for.

And quite possibly enjoying myself immensely while I do it.

Stay safe,

BC

Two Cats, 300 Miles & A Very Good Idea

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What’s the most spontaneous thing you’ve ever done?

Packing two cats and what was left of my house into a car and driving nearly 300 miles to go and live with someone I’d only known for a few months.

Completely sensible behaviour.

Obviously.

In hindsight, I suppose there were a few warning signs.

For starters, I was leaving behind pretty much everything I knew.

Home.

Friends.

Familiar places.

The life I’d built.

And replacing it with a car full of belongings, two probably very confused cats, and a woman I’d known for a few months.

What could possibly go wrong?

To be fair, the cats probably had the biggest adjustment.

They hadn’t exactly been consulted on the matter.

I imagine their conversation went something like:

“Why are we in the car?”

“Where are we going?”

“Why has he packed the litter tray?”

“IS THIS A VET?”

And then several hours of feline outrage.

Meanwhile, I was driving nearly 300 miles towards an entirely new chapter of my life.

I’d met Mrs Bob only a few months earlier.

And somehow, somewhere between those early conversations and whatever bizarre sequence of events brought us to that particular day, I’d reached the point where I thought:

“Yeah.

This seems like a good idea.”

So I loaded up the car.

Cats.

Stuff.

Whatever possessions had survived the previous chapter.

And off I went.

Towards Narnia.

Which, for those who don’t know, is what I affectionately call this part of the world.

Although technically it’s twinned with Totnes.

Which is probably about as close to Narnia as Devon is going to get.

There’s something slightly terrifying about starting again.

We tend to imagine big life changes as these carefully planned things.

You know the sort of thing.

Step one:

Make a five-year plan.

Step two:

Research everything.

Step three:

Make a spreadsheet.

Step four:

Have another meeting about the spreadsheet.

Step five:

Eventually do something.

I apparently skipped steps one through four.

I just got in the bloody car.

And yet…

It turned out to be the best decision I’ve ever made.

The following year, we got married.

And somehow that spontaneous decision turned into more than a decade together.

A marriage.

A family.

A home.

A completely different life.

And eventually, a new career.

There have been ups and downs, obviously.

Life isn’t a Disney film.

There are bills.

There are arguments.

There are days when you wonder why you’ve spent twenty minutes trying to explain to a cat that the cardboard box isn’t actually a suitable substitute for the perfectly good cat bed sitting six inches away.

But that’s life.

It’s messy.

It’s unpredictable.

And occasionally it involves putting everything you own into a car and driving 300 miles because you have a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re heading in the right direction.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed where I was.

What if I’d talked myself out of it?

What if I’d decided it was too risky?

What if I’d waited until everything was perfect?

I probably wouldn’t be sitting here now.

I wouldn’t have Mrs Bob.

I wouldn’t have this life.

I wouldn’t be wandering around Devon with a camera, photographing birds, beaches, cats and whatever else happens to catch my eye.

I wouldn’t have written all the poetry.

I wouldn’t have met all the people I’ve met.

And I certainly wouldn’t be sitting here calling this place Narnia.

Sometimes we spend so much time worrying about making the right decision that we forget something rather important.

There isn’t always a right decision.

Sometimes you just have to make a decision.

Take the leap.

See what happens.

And occasionally, against all odds, it works out rather bloody brilliantly.

So, what’s the most spontaneous thing I’ve ever done?

I packed two cats and what was left of my house into a car.

I drove nearly 300 miles.

I went to live with a woman I’d known for a few months.

And I started a completely new life.

Spoiler alert:

We got married the following year.

And after more than a decade together, I can honestly say that moving in with Mrs Bob and starting that new life and career in Narnia was the best decision I’ve ever made.

Sometimes the biggest adventures don’t begin with a plan.

Sometimes they begin with a full boot, two pissed-off cats and a very questionable sat-nav route.

And maybe that’s okay.

Because if I’d waited for certainty…

I might never have found home.

Stay safe,

BC

Even my beard has a back story

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People keep calling me a hipster. I laugh, obviously, every time.
Not because it is funny, but because it proves everything.
Because apparently, that is exactly what a hipster would do.

“No, no, no,” I tell them, “I just appreciate craftsmanship.”
You hear that? Not denial. Denial dressed in artisan packaging,
wrapped carefully – in brown paper, naturally.

I do not wear a pocket watch for quirkiness.
I wear it because I appreciate history, sincerely.
Actually, give me a second. I need to check something.
Yes, the time, like it’s still 1894 somewhere.

I did not grow this beard because it was fashionable.
I grew it ironically, which somehow feels much worse now.

Irony has an annoying habit of overstaying its welcome.
Leave it long enough, and irony becomes sincerity with lighting—
better lighting, usually, and much more expensive beard oil.

I own vinyl, not because it sounds better, necessarily.
I just enjoy paying forty quid for technical difficulties.
There is something beautiful about music arriving with problems:
a little crackle, a little hiss, a little emotional damage.

I drink caramel skinny lattes because coffee needs accessories.
If coffee tastes exactly like coffee, then what was accomplished?
Why pay six pounds for something that knows its own identity?

I wear charity shop T-shirts and call them vintage, confidently.
No, Dave from Torquay donated that in 2018, mate.

I wear a flat cap because my forehead needed branding.
I write poetry about societal issues because subtlety failed.
I bought a notebook because the paper felt creative.
That sentence alone should disqualify me from several conversations.

I collected crystals, insisting they were decorative, nothing more.
Then Mercury went retrograde, and suddenly quartz looked suspicious.

I have tattoos, and every one carries meaning,
because apparently I cannot get ink without writing commentary.
Even my mistakes need footnotes, context, and emotional symbolism.

Somewhere between prayer beads and thrift shops, I started wondering.
Between beard wax and obscure Scandinavian bands nobody knows.
Thirty-seven monthly listeners, and yes, I checked yesterday.
Do not worry. You’ve probably never heard them.

That is important, apparently, because obscurity is credibility.

And somewhere beneath all this carefully curated nonsense, I realised:
this was not a phase, an aesthetic, or rebellion.
This was a lifestyle subscription, and I somehow renewed it.

I spent years trying desperately not to become labelled.
I avoided stereotypes so carefully that I became one.


I accidentally became the human equivalent of a farmers’ market:
organic, locally sourced, and somehow charging extra for conversation.

The worst part is not the beard, vinyl, or crystals.
It is what happens whenever somebody says it.

“Mate, you are such a hipster.”

And I still answer, “No, I am not.”

Which is exactly, exactly what a hipster would say.

God. I am a hipster.

There. I said it, and somehow the room survived.

I suppose confession is healthy, especially in vintage denim.
Maybe I should accept it, like an overpriced emotional diagnosis.
Maybe this is simply who I am now.

A man wearing irony until irony started wearing me.
And honestly, that is probably the most fashionable tragedy available.

Still, before we finish, I have one final request.

Can we have this confession somewhere with exposed brick?
Maybe near a plant, a record player, and gluten-free sourdough.

I have standards, after all. 

The Maintenance Light is On

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How do you make time for self-care?

I think the answer is that I’ve finally realised I have to.

We’re usually pretty good at looking after our physical health.

We eat better.

We try to exercise.

We go to the doctor when something hurts.

We know that our bodies need looking after.

But our minds?

That can be a different story.

For me, I’ve learned that I need to make time for my mental health in exactly the same way.

Not when I’ve completely run myself into the ground.

Not when everything has become too much.

Before that.

Because self-care isn’t about being selfish.

It’s about maintenance.

Much like putting fuel in the car before the warning light comes on.

For me, that maintenance comes in a few different forms.

Sometimes it’s a coffee with friends in the market.

Nothing particularly complicated.

Just sitting down, having a coffee, chatting, laughing, putting the world to rights and generally not rushing off somewhere.

There’s something incredibly therapeutic about good company and a decent cup of coffee.

Then there’s my shed.

My little escape from the world.

There’s something about closing the door, sitting down and having some quality downtime that just works for me. Sometimes I’ll write. Sometimes I’ll tinker. Sometimes I’ll do absolutely nothing.

And sometimes doing absolutely nothing is exactly what you need.

Then there’s Sunday.

Beach day.

Mrs Bob and me, heading down to the sea and switching off from the week.

There’s something about the beach that resets me.

The sound of the waves.

The wind.

The smell of the sea.

Just being there.

Not worrying about what needs doing tomorrow.

Not replaying what happened yesterday.

Just being present for a little while.

And, of course, there’s the camera.

I love going out with my camera.

It gives me an excuse to slow down and actually look at the world around me.

A bird.

A tree.

A strange bit of light.

Something that most people might walk straight past.

Photography makes me stop.

Look.

Notice.

And sometimes that’s self-care too.

Then there’s meditation.

Taking a little time to sit quietly, breathe and simply be.

I’m not going to pretend I’ve suddenly achieved some state of perfect enlightenment.

I’m still me.

I still overthink things.

Probably more than I should.

But those quiet moments help me step back from the noise.

And perhaps that’s what all of these things have in common.

They give me space.

Space to breathe.

Space to think.

Space not to think.

Space to be Bob.

I don’t think self-care has to involve expensive retreats, complicated routines or seventeen different types of herbal tea.

Sometimes it’s a coffee with a mate.

Sometimes it’s sitting in a shed.

Sometimes it’s standing in the sea with Mrs Bob.

Sometimes it’s going out with a camera and looking for something beautiful.

Sometimes it’s simply sitting quietly and breathing.

The important thing, for me, is recognising that these things matter.

They aren’t luxuries.

They’re part of maintaining the balance.

Because life can be bloody noisy.

There’s always something that needs doing.

Someone who needs something.

Another email.

Another job.

Another problem to solve.

And if we’re not careful, we can spend all our time looking after everything and everyone else…

…and forget to look after ourselves.

So I make time.

Not because I have loads of spare time.

I don’t.

I make time because I know I need it.

Because my mental health matters just as much as my physical health.

And because I’ve learned that sometimes the best way to keep moving forward…

…is to stop for a while.

Stay safe,

BC

The Older I Get, The Less I Give a Shit

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What’s one thing you wish you had started doing earlier in life?

The simple answer?

Not giving a shit.

Now, before anyone gets terribly offended by the language, let me explain.

I don’t mean becoming an arsehole.

I don’t mean treating people badly.

And I certainly don’t mean wandering around behaving like your actions don’t have consequences.

I mean not caring quite so much about what other people think of you.

It’s something I’ve got considerably better at as I’ve got older.

Because apparently one of the benefits of getting older is finally realising that a lot of the things you spent your younger years worrying about…

…weren’t actually worth worrying about.

People are going to have an opinion about you.

They just are.

It doesn’t matter whether they’ve met you.

They might have read something you wrote online about a divisive subject.

They might have seen you walking through town wearing that ridiculous hat.

They might have heard a story about you from someone who knew someone who was there that one time you completely fucked something up.

And suddenly they have a version of you in their head.

A character.

A story.

A collection of assumptions.

And you know what?

You can’t control that.

You could spend your entire life trying to make sure everybody has the “right” opinion of you.

You could change what you say.

Change what you wear.

Change what you believe.

Change how you behave.

You could spend years trying to become the version of yourself that you think other people will approve of.

And eventually you’ll probably discover something rather depressing.

They’re still going to have an opinion.

Because people are people.

We all look at the world through our own experiences, prejudices, memories and expectations.

Someone can meet you on a bad day and decide you’re an unpleasant person.

Someone else can meet you on exactly the same day and think you’re having a difficult time.

Someone can read one thing you wrote and decide they don’t like you.

Someone else can read it and think, “Bloody hell, finally, someone said it.”

You can’t win.

And honestly?

I’ve stopped trying.

It’s bloody liberating.

Because I’ve finally realised that other people’s opinions of me are not actually my responsibility.

My responsibility is how I treat people.

Whether I’m honest.

Whether I try to be kind.

Whether I own my mistakes.

Whether I apologise when I’ve fucked up.

Whether I try to leave people a little better off for having crossed paths with me.

Beyond that?

Well…

People are going to think what they think.

And that’s okay.

I’ve spent far too much of my life worrying about how I’m perceived.

Wondering whether somebody misunderstood something I said.

Replaying conversations in my head.

Thinking about what someone might have meant by something they said.

Trying to work out whether someone likes me.

Or whether they’ve changed their opinion of me.

Or whether I’ve somehow pissed them off.

You know what?

That’s exhausting.

And for what?

Because there’s a rather uncomfortable truth about being human.

Everyone has a version of you.

To some people, you’re a monster.

To others, you’re a great person.

To some, you’re annoying.

To others, you’re hilarious.

To some, you’re selfish.

To others, you’re the person they can always rely on.

To some, you’re the villain in their story.

To others, you’re the person who helped them through a difficult time.

And somewhere in amongst all those versions is the actual you.

Flawed.

Complicated.

Occasionally brilliant.

Occasionally a complete bloody idiot.

Trying your best.

Getting things wrong.

Learning.

Growing.

Making mistakes.

Making memories.

Doing what we all do.

Living.

I once heard someone say that everyone has a version of you.

They all got the version of you they deserved.

I don’t know if that’s entirely true.

But I do know this.

I’m no longer interested in spending my life trying to control which version people have.

They can have whatever version they’ve created.

They can like me.

They can dislike me.

They can misunderstand me.

They can make assumptions.

They can even think I’m a bit of a dick.

That’s their business.

I’ll carry on being me.

And perhaps that’s one of the things I wish I’d learned a lot earlier.

You don’t have to be liked by everyone.

You don’t have to be understood by everyone.

You don’t even have to explain yourself every bloody time someone gets you wrong.

Sometimes you can simply shrug…

…and carry on.

Because peace is worth more than approval.

And honestly?

I’d much rather be comfortable being myself than spend the rest of my life trying to be somebody everyone else is comfortable with.

So, if there’s one thing I wish I’d started doing earlier in life?

Not giving a shit.

Well…

Not giving quite so much of a shit.

There are still people I care about.

There are still opinions that matter to me.

There are still times when I get things wrong and need to listen.

But the imaginary audience in my head?

The people I thought were constantly judging me?

The endless worrying about what someone, somewhere, might think?

I’ve finally told them to fuck off.

And do you know what?

It’s wonderfully peaceful.

Stay safe,

BC

It’s Your First Time Being Alive

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What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?

Don’t worry if, in your twenties, you don’t know where you’re going.

Honestly.

Most of us are making it up as we go along.

There seems to be this unwritten expectation that by a certain age you’re supposed to have everything worked out. A career. A five-year plan. A purpose. A clear idea of who you are and where you’re heading.

Life rarely works like that.

When we’re young, we somehow expect ourselves to have all the answers despite the fact we’ve barely had time to collect the questions.

It’s your first time being alive.

Be kind to yourself.

I didn’t know who I truly was, or what I wanted my life to look like, until I was nearly forty. Looking back, I spent far too much time worrying that I was behind everyone else.

The truth?

Nobody knows what they’re doing quite as much as they pretend to.

And that’s okay.

Because life isn’t really about the final destination anyway.

It’s about the journey.

It’s about the people you meet along the way.

The late-night conversations.

The road trips.

The laughter that leaves your face aching.

The memories you make with friends and family.

Years later, you won’t remember every deadline, every promotion, or everything you thought was a disaster at the time.

You’ll remember the people.

You’ll remember how they made you feel.

You’ll remember the moments.

Another thing I’d tell my younger self is this:

Learn to love yourself.

Not in an arrogant way.

Not in a “look at me” sort of way.

Just learn to be comfortable in your own skin.

Because once you stop trying to be who you think everyone else wants you to be, and start accepting who you actually are, something wonderful happens.

You can breathe.

You stop fighting yourself.

And that feeling is worth more than you can imagine.

I’d also tell you to let go of grudges.

They’re heavy things to carry.

The person who upset you years ago is probably not sitting at home replaying the argument.

Meanwhile, you’re giving them space in your head they haven’t earned.

They don’t deserve to live rent free in there.

Forgiveness isn’t always about them.

Sometimes it’s about freeing yourself.

So be patient.

Be kinder to yourself than you think you need to be.

Take photographs.

Make memories.

Tell people you love them.

Don’t panic if the map isn’t clear.

Most of us are finding the path one step at a time.

And sometimes the scenic route turns out to be the best one.

Stay safe,

BC

Ps Don’t forget to wear sunscreen

The Glasses I Don’t Need

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I have a pair of glasses.

My glasses

Proper glasses.

You know the sort. You go to the opticians, sit in the chair while someone shines various bits of machinery into your eyes, reads out letters that get progressively smaller, and eventually tells you that your eyesight is apparently not quite as good as you thought it was.

Except…

Mine are a little bit different.

One lens is Plano.

In other words, completely plain. No prescription. Nothing.

The other one had a very, very small prescription in it.

And I mean tiny.

So tiny, in fact, that I’ve now outgrown the prescription altogether.

Technically, I don’t need the glasses anymore.

But I still wear them.

Why?

Because they are my Clarke Kent glasses.

Yes.

Really.

Those of you who know me will already know that I’m a massive comic book nerd, so perhaps this shouldn’t come as much of a surprise.

But there’s actually a bit more to it than that.

You see, glasses can create a little physical barrier between me and the world.

Not a huge one.

Nobody looking at me would think, “Blimey, that bloke has constructed a defensive perimeter around himself.”

But they do something.

Much like sunglasses do.

For years, I’ve found sunglasses useful in social situations because they make eye contact easier. They create that tiny bit of separation between me and the person I’m talking to.

I can still see them.

I can still listen.

I can still have the conversation.

But somehow, having something between their eyes and mine makes me feel a little less exposed.

A little less vulnerable.

And that can make a surprisingly big difference.

The problem with sunglasses, of course, is that they’re not exactly practical all the time.

At night?

Not really.

In a dark room?

Probably not.

When it’s raining and the sky looks like it’s personally offended by the existence of daylight?

Definitely not.

And wearing sunglasses indoors can occasionally result in people wondering whether I’m about to perform at a nightclub rather than attend a perfectly ordinary meeting.

So these glasses fill the gap.

They look like normal glasses.

Because, well, they are.

Nobody needs to know that one lens is doing absolutely nothing and the other one is basically on permanent holiday.

They give me that little barrier without making the world around me darker.

And when I’m nervous, particularly if I’m standing on a stage or speaking in front of people, they help.

Stage fright is an odd thing.

You can know exactly what you want to say.

You can have prepared.

You can know that the people in front of you aren’t actually waiting for you to fail.

And yet your brain can still decide:

“Excellent. This is the moment we panic.”

Having my glasses on gives me something.

A tiny bit of confidence.

A little shield.

Perhaps even a psychological costume.

Which brings me back to Clarke Kent.

Because Superman has always fascinated me.

Not simply because he can fly, lift cars and apparently survive being thrown through buildings.

It’s the idea of the alter ego.

Clark Kent puts on a pair of glasses and suddenly he’s just an ordinary bloke.

Nobody looks twice.

Nobody expects him to save the world.

And while I’m certainly not claiming that my glasses give me superpowers

They help me feel like I’m wearing my social armour.

They give me a little bit of distance.

A little bit of protection.

And sometimes, that’s all you need.

I think we all have things like that.

Little routines.

Objects.

Clothes.

Jewellery.

Music.

Something we carry with us that makes the difficult things feel slightly easier.

They might look completely insignificant to somebody else.

But they aren’t insignificant to us.

For me, apparently, it’s a pair of slightly ridiculous glasses with one lens that doesn’t need a prescription and another that doesn’t need one anymore.

To everyone else, they’re just glasses.

To me?

They’re my Clarke Kent glasses.

And sometimes, even when you don’t need a prescription, you still need the glasses.

Stay safe,

BC

Productive-ish

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Today was one of those mornings where work didn’t really feel like work.

I headed into town to have a wander around and look at potential locations for an upcoming photography gig for Totnes Pride.

There’s something about photographing an event that makes you look at familiar places slightly differently. Suddenly you’re not just seeing streets, buildings and corners of town, you’re looking for light, angles, backgrounds and those little spots where a photograph might just come together.

Of course, I took the camera with me.

Because apparently I’m incapable of going anywhere without looking at things through a lens these days.

Once the location scouting was done, it was time for the important stuff.

Coffee.

A slow, relaxing coffee morning in the market, with some good friends, and friends I’d just met, absolutely no rushing about and nowhere particularly urgent to be.

And then, as if The Universe hadn’t already delivered enough, a calico cat wandered down the stairs.

Obviously, I had to say hello.

The cat seemed perfectly happy to accept some fuss, so who was I to argue?

Photography locations sorted.

Coffee enjoyed.

Cat fussed.

All in all, not a bad morning.

Sometimes the best days are the ones where you manage to get a little bit of work done…

…and still find time to stop and enjoy the small stuff.

Stay safe,

BC

The lady in question

“Optimus Prime, VHS Tapes and the Slow Death of My Childhood”

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Who is your favorite cartoon character?

Who is your favourite cartoon character?

That’s an easy one.

Although the answer might surprise you.

It’s Transformers.

No, not the Michael Bay films.

I’m talking about the original Transformers.

The Saturday morning Transformers.

The sit in your pyjamas with a bowl of cereal while your parents repeatedly tell you to do something useful Transformers.

You see, I’m an old man.

Well…

Gen X.

Which is basically what happens when you leave a child from the 1980s unattended for long enough.

I remember the original series.

Optimus Prime.

Megatron.

Bumblebee.

Starscream.

Soundwave.

The Dinobots.

And that glorious moment when a robot transformed into something completely ridiculous and somehow nobody questioned the physics of it.

Because why would they?

It was a cartoon.

And it was brilliant.

The original series arrived in 1984, alongside the Hasbro and Takara toy lines, and for a generation of kids it became much more than something to watch on a Saturday morning.

It became part of childhood.

There were the toys.

The comics.

The stickers.

And yes…

I had the toys.

I had the stickers.

I probably spent far too much of my pocket money trying to get the ones I was missing.

There was even the Panini sticker album.

256 stickers.

Which sounds perfectly reasonable.

Until you’re a kid and you’re staring at your album with three bloody stickers left to find.

Then the maths changes.

Suddenly 256 seems like an unnecessarily cruel number.

You’d go through your pile.

“Got.”

“Got.”

“Got.”

“Need.”

And then you’d swap with your mates.

Or try to.

Because there was always that one kid who somehow had about fourteen of the sticker you needed.

And absolutely no intention of giving you one.

If you know, you know.

And then there was the VHS.

Google it.

I’ll wait.

For younger readers, VHS was basically YouTube, Netflix and Disney+ rolled into one.

Except you had to physically rewind it.

And if someone forgot?

Well…

You’d find out pretty quickly when you put it in and the bloody thing started halfway through an episode.

And I still have all of mine.

Which probably says something about my inability to throw anything away.

But that’s the thing about Transformers.

When I think about them now, I don’t just remember robots fighting robots.

I remember being a kid.

I remember Saturday mornings.

I remember cereal.

I remember sitting far too close to the television.

I remember that feeling when the theme tune started and you knew you were about to disappear into another world.

For twenty minutes, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

Back then, we didn’t have endless streaming services.

There wasn’t a catalogue containing practically every television programme ever made sitting in your pocket.

If you missed something…

You missed it.

Unless you were lucky enough to have recorded it.

And if you had?

You guarded that VHS tape like it contained the nuclear launch codes.

There was something wonderfully simple about it all.

Good guys.

Bad guys.

Robots.

Cars.

Spaceships.

Dinosaurs.

And a giant transforming robot called Optimus Prime who somehow managed to be incredibly cool while also being strangely reassuring.

Looking back, though, I don’t think Transformers was ever really just about the characters.

It was about what they represented.

Childhood.

Freedom.

Imagination.

That little bit of magic we seem to lose somewhere between being a kid and becoming an adult.

Because that’s the funny thing about growing older.

The toys get packed away.

The sticker albums disappear into cupboards.

The VHS tapes gather dust.

And life carries on.

Work.

Bills.

Responsibilities.

Emails.

Appointments.

All that grown-up nonsense.

Then, completely unexpectedly, you hear a piece of music.

Or see an old toy.

Or find something buried in a box.

And suddenly…

You’re eight years old again.

Sitting on the carpet.

Bowl of cereal beside you.

Pyjamas on.

No responsibilities.

No bills.

No emails.

No bloody grown-up nonsense.

Just Saturday morning.

And for twenty minutes, everything is alright.

I suppose that’s why nostalgia can be such a powerful thing.

We’re not necessarily missing the cartoon.

We’re missing the person we were when we watched it.

The version of ourselves who could be completely absorbed by something as simple as a cartoon about alien robots.

Before life became complicated.

Before we learned that sometimes people leave.

Before we discovered that adults don’t actually have all the answers.

Before we started worrying about mortgages, pensions, politics and whether we’ve remembered to put the bloody bins out.

Back then, Optimus Prime had the answers.

Well…

Most of the time.

So, who is my favourite cartoon character?

Transformers.

Not because they were the greatest cartoons ever made.

Not because the animation was perfect.

And certainly not because every storyline made sense.

It didn’t.

Not even remotely.

But because they were part of my childhood.

And sometimes that’s more important.

Because when something can survive forty-odd years of technological progress, adulthood, responsibilities and everything else life throws at you…

And still make you smile?

That’s more than just a cartoon.

That’s a memory.

And perhaps that’s what was really hiding underneath all those robots, cars and explosions.

Something more than meets the eye.

Stay safe.

Bc