Tag Archives: family

She Fought for Me When I Couldn’t

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What’s the kindest thing someone has ever done for you?

That’s actually a surprisingly difficult question.

There are plenty of answers I could give.

Someone making me laugh when I desperately needed it.

Someone listening when I needed to talk.

Someone offering a helping hand when I was struggling.

Someone simply being there.

But if I’m being completely honest, there’s really only one answer that feels right.

Mrs Bob.

The kindest thing anyone has ever done for me was choosing to love me.

Not the polished version.

Not the version who has his life together.

Not the bloke who can string a few words together and occasionally convince people he knows what he’s talking about.

Me.

The complicated version.

The version who has spent far too much of his life fighting battles inside his own head.

The version who, at times, couldn’t see any light at the end of the tunnel.

There have been periods in my life when I simply couldn’t fight for myself.

My mental health was so bad that survival could feel like a full-time job. There were times when I couldn’t see my own worth, let alone believe anyone else could.

And then there was this woman.

She didn’t magically fix me.

She didn’t wave a wand and make everything better.

She did something much more important.

She stayed.

She loved me when I wasn’t particularly easy to love.

She believed in me when I couldn’t believe in myself.

And, perhaps most importantly, she fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself.

That means more to me than I could ever properly put into words.

Because love isn’t just the grand gestures.

It isn’t always flowers, chocolates, romantic meals or expensive presents.

Sometimes love is sitting beside someone in the darkness and saying, in whatever way you can:

I’m still here.

Sometimes it’s reminding someone who they are when they’ve forgotten.

Sometimes it’s holding the line until they have enough strength to hold it themselves.

And sometimes it’s simply refusing to give up on someone who has already given up on themselves.

Mrs Bob has done all of those things.

And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay her for that.

Although, knowing her, she’d probably tell me that’s not how love works anyway.

Looking back now, I can see just how much of my life has been shaped by the people who showed me kindness at precisely the moments I needed it most. A book handed to me at the right time changed the direction of my thinking. Writing eventually gave me a way of processing the things I couldn’t say out loud. And the people around me helped me discover that asking for help isn’t weakness.

But Mrs Bob?

She was there for the whole bloody adventure.

The good bits.

The bad bits.

The messy bits.

And all the bits in between.

She didn’t fall in love with some finished product.

She loved the work in progress.

And maybe that’s one of the greatest acts of kindness one human being can give another.

To look at someone and say:

“I see you.”

“I know you’re struggling.”

“I know you don’t believe in yourself right now.”

“But I do.”

So, what’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me?

It’s not something someone bought me.

It’s not somewhere someone took me.

It’s not even something someone said.

It’s this:

Mrs Bob chose to love me, and she fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself.

And every day I get to wake up beside her is a reminder that sometimes the greatest kindness in the world is simply refusing to walk away.

For that, Mrs Bob, I will be forever grateful.

Stay safe,

Bc

House Full of Old Cats

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If the salary was the same, what job would you be doing right now and why?

This one didn’t take me long to answer.

I’d probably be working with animals.

There was a brief moment where I considered saying giraffes, because I absolutely love giraffes.

There’s something wonderfully ridiculous about them.

They’re basically proof that nature occasionally just makes things up as it goes along.

But then I thought about it properly.

And there was really only one answer.

Cats.

Definitely cats.

More specifically, I think I’d like to run a foster home for elderly and terminally ill cats that are currently in rescue centres.

Because there’s something about the idea that really gets me.

Imagine being an older cat.

You’ve already spent much of your life being someone’s companion. Maybe you’ve known a warm home, a comfortable sofa and someone who loved you.

Then, for whatever reason, you find yourself in a rescue centre.

Surrounded by unfamiliar smells.

Strange noises.

Other cats.

People coming and going.

And perhaps, because you’re old or poorly, nobody chooses you.

Everyone wants the kitten.

The young cat.

The one with years of life ahead of them.

And I understand that.

I really do.

But those older cats still have something to give.

They still have love.

They still have personalities.

They still deserve a warm lap, a comfortable bed and someone to tell them that they are a very good cat approximately seventeen times a day.

So, if money wasn’t the deciding factor, I think that’s where I’d want to be.

I’d have a house full of elderly and terminally ill cats.

There’d probably be blankets everywhere.

Cosy beds in every room.

Furniture specifically chosen according to feline requirements, obviously.

And enough scratching posts to make the place look like a particularly eccentric furniture shop.

And cats.

Lots and lots of cats.

The giraffes might have to wait.

Because what I’d really want to give those cats is something that every living creature deserves.

Comfort.

Not necessarily more time.

Sometimes we simply can’t give them that.

But we can make the time they have left better.

If a cat has only weeks or months left, I’d rather those weeks or months were spent somewhere warm and safe, surrounded by affection, than sitting in a cage because nobody wanted an old or poorly cat.

And perhaps that’s what appeals to me most about the idea.

You wouldn’t be saving every cat.

You couldn’t.

Nobody can.

But you could make a difference to this one.

And then the next one.

And the next.

Sometimes we get so caught up worrying about whether we can change the whole world that we forget we can make one tiny corner of it better.

For one person.

And if I could spend my working day doing that?

Honestly, I think I’d consider myself incredibly lucky.

There’s that saying:

“Find a job you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.”

I’m not sure that’s entirely true.

I suspect cleaning litter trays for twelve elderly cats would occasionally feel very much like work.

But if the reward was knowing that, for however long they had left, those cats were warm, comfortable, loved and safe…

I think I’d cope with the litter trays.

After all, what better way could there be to spend a life than making another life a little bit better?

Even if that life happens to shed fur on absolutely everything.

Stay safe,

BC

Phone Snaps to Proper Photography

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Share a hobby you’ve picked up recently — what got you into it?

Photography.

Now, before anyone gets excited, I should probably clarify something.

I’ve described myself as a poet for quite a few years now.

And, increasingly, I’ve started describing myself as a photographer too.

But photography?

Until relatively recently, it was just something I did with my phone.

That’s it.

No fancy camera.

No collection of lenses.

No camera bag weighing more than the average toddler.

Just me, my phone, and the occasional, “Ooh, that looks nice.”

I’d be on holiday and see the photographers wandering around with all their kit.

Camera hanging around their neck.

Bag over their shoulder.

Various lenses.

Tripods.

Enough equipment to suggest they were either photographing the Grand Canyon or preparing for a small military operation.

Meanwhile, I’d pull my phone out of my pocket.

Click.

Done.

And, to be fair, I was happy enough with that.

I’ve always enjoyed taking photographs. Nature, birds, beaches, random things that catch my eye.

People had occasionally told me I had “an eye” for photography.

I never really knew what that meant.

I still don’t completely.

I’ve never studied photography properly. I don’t pretend to know all the technical terminology, and there was a time when things like focal lengths, apertures and shutter speeds might as well have been written in ancient Greek.

Then I turned 50.

And decided that apparently I was going to buy myself a proper camera.

Enter the Pentax K-x.

A camera that, even when I bought it, was hardly the latest bit of technology.

12.4 megapixels.

Which, compared with today’s cameras, sounds positively prehistoric.

But I loved it.

Suddenly, photography wasn’t just about pointing my phone at something and pressing the button.

There were settings.

There were choices.

There was experimentation.

And, perhaps most importantly, there were lenses.

Oh my word.

The lenses.

You start with one and think, That’s enough.

Then you discover another lens.

Then another.

Then you convince yourself that this particular lens is absolutely essential because apparently you cannot photograph a bird properly without it.

Before you know it, you’ve gone from:

“I take pictures with my phone.”

to:

“Hang on, which lens am I taking today?”

And somewhere along the way, something changed.

Photography stopped being something I occasionally did.

It became something I wanted to learn.

Something I wanted to get better at.

Something I looked forward to.

I started noticing things differently.

The light.

The weather.

Birds sitting in places they probably shouldn’t be.

The way the sea changes from one day to the next.

A moment that might only last a second.

And that’s probably the biggest difference.

When you’ve got a camera with you, you start looking.

Really looking.

I’ve found myself standing somewhere I’d walked past a hundred times and suddenly seeing something I’d never properly noticed before.

That fascinates me.

Because perhaps photography isn’t really about the camera.

Perhaps it’s about paying attention.

The camera is just the excuse.

These days, I’m still learning.

I still take photographs that make me think, Well, that didn’t quite work.

And occasionally I take one that makes me stop and think, Bloody hell, I actually did that.

Those are the moments that keep me coming back.

Photography has become another creative outlet alongside my poetry.

With poetry, I use words to capture a thought, a feeling, a moment.

With photography, I use an image.

Different tools.

Same basic idea.

Tell a story.

Capture something.

Make someone stop for a second and look.

So yes, I suppose I’ve picked up a new hobby.

Although, knowing me, calling it a hobby is probably underselling it now.

It’s become a passion.

Another string to my bow.

And somewhere along the way, the bloke who used to watch photographers carrying all that expensive-looking kit around while happily using his phone has become one of the people carrying the bloody kit.

Funny how life works, isn’t it?

Still…

I’m taking the camera.

I’m leaving the tripod at home.

I’m not completely mad.

Yet.

Stay safe

Bc

Ps….

Here’s last night’s Sturgeon Moon

Sturgeon Moon (2026)

I Promise, Grandad

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If you could relive one day from your past, which day would it be and why?

That’s easy.

There wouldn’t be a second thought.

I’d go back to the last day I saw my maternal grandfather, in hospital.

Not my wedding day.

Not the birth of my children.

Not some great adventure or holiday.

That day.

Because sometimes the moments that matter most don’t look particularly important while you’re living them.

My grandad was one of the most important men in my life.

When my biological father walked out the night before Mother’s Day, I was not even ten years old. Whatever role a father is supposed to play, I was suddenly missing it.

My grandad filled some of that space.

He taught me what being a decent man meant.

Not through grand speeches or profound wisdom, but through the little things.

Work hard.

Be honest.

Take pride in yourself.

Help people regardless of their background or beliefs.

Be a gentleman.

Most importantly, be someone others can rely on.

He was a retired firefighter, a gardener, an artist, a sign-writer and a handyman. He was happiest pottering around in his shed or greenhouse, surrounded by tools, plants, bits of wood and whatever else he had decided might come in useful one day.

I’ve often joked that my love of sheds is probably hereditary.

I suspect it is.

Anyway, back to that day.

I finally managed to visit him in hospital.

I took him a paper and a few things, and we spent some time together.

Nothing particularly remarkable happened.

There was no dramatic conversation.

No warning that this would be the last time.

Eventually, it was time for me to leave.

And as I was going, he asked me:

“You will come and see me again won’t you son?”

I turned around and said:

“Yes, I promise.”

Those were the last words he ever said to me.

And for years, that sentence haunted me.

Because I didn’t know it was goodbye.

I went away believing I had another visit coming.

Another conversation.

Another opportunity.

Another chance to tell him what he meant to me.

Then came the guilt.

The horrible, irrational little voice that kept asking whether I should have stayed longer.

Whether I should have said more.

Whether I should have known.

For a long time, that guilt ate away at me.

Until I was told something that changed how I remembered that day.

Later that same day, my grandad had called my mum.

He told her how pleased he was that I had taken the time to visit him.

He told her how proud he was.

And suddenly, that memory changed.

Because I had spent years looking at that final visit through my own eyes.

I remembered leaving.

I remembered his question.

I remembered my promise.

But I hadn’t known what happened afterwards.

I hadn’t known that, once I’d gone, he’d picked up the phone and told my mum that my visit had meant something to him.

That matters.

More than I can explain.

So yes, if I could relive one day from my past, I’d go back there.

But I wouldn’t change what happened.

I wouldn’t try to prevent the inevitable.

I wouldn’t even want some magical extra week or month with him.

I’d simply stay a little longer.

I’d sit beside his bed.

I’d tell him how much I loved him.

I’d thank him.

For the lessons.

For the example.

For being there when I needed a male role model.

For teaching me that being a man isn’t about being tough, silent or emotionless.

It’s about being decent.

I’d tell him that so much of what he taught me stayed with me.

I’d tell him that I still think about him.

I’d probably tell him about the shed:

I was so influenced by him that I eventually took his name professionally.

The Christian in Bob W Christian is a little piece of him that I carry with me.

Every time I write something.

Every time I put my name to a poem.

Every time someone reads something I’ve created.

A little bit of Walter S Christian is still there.

So perhaps I don’t really need to relive that day after all.

Because although I can’t go back and change those final moments, I can still honour them.

I can remember the man.

I can carry forward the lessons.

And I can try to be the sort of man he would have been proud of.

Funny thing, memory.

So when you love someone, tell them.

When you’re grateful, say thank you.

And if you get the chance to spend another ten minutes with someone who matters…

Take the ten minutes.

You never know just how valuable they might become.

Stay safe,

Bc

The Company We Keep

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Who do you spend the most time with?

I’ve noticed that the older I get, the smaller my circle becomes.

During the working day, I spend most of my time with two other people. We’re a close-knit team and, after enough hours together, you end up knowing each other’s habits, quirks, and coffee requirements better than you probably should. 

Outside of work, it’s mostly Mrs Bob and our cat Tiddles (which, for legal reasons and feline dignity, is not actually her name).

Truthfully, I’m not a particularly social creature.

I don’t go out much unless it’s lodge night, Saturday coffee morning, or I’ve wandered off somewhere with a camera looking for birds that refuse to sit still long enough to be photographed. 

And I’m perfectly content with that.

So, who do I spend the most time with?

The people who matter.

Because if I’m choosing to spend lots of time with you when nobody is paying either of us to be there, then you’re probably someone rather special to me.

And these days, that feels like time well spent.

Stay safe,

Bc.