Tag Archives: humour

Put the Bloody Suitcase Down: Let Go, Find Peace, Live Free

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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.

Don’t waste it carrying yesterday into tomorrow.

Stay safe,

Bc

Strong Enough to Fight, Wise Enough not to

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What does it mean to be a good person?

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.

Not perfect. Not without conflict.

Just a little kinder.

And honestly? I’d settle for that.

Stay safe,

BC

Howard Jones, a Paintbrush, and Mrs Bob’s Missing Selfie

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Last Friday, I had the good fortune to photograph the legendary singer songwriter Howard Jones at a fundraiser at St Mary’s Church in my hometown. The event was in aid of The Jamming Station, a local organisation doing some wonderful work with youth music.

Howard was being painted live by the hugely talented Sherree Valentine-Daines, with the finished painting later going under the hammer alongside some other rather interesting lots, with Martin Roberts.

I had a lovely time, met some lovely people, and got some shots I’m really pleased with. I also managed to give the floor at St Mary’s a fairly thorough workout in the process. Sorry about that!

And, of course, I couldn’t resist a cheeky selfie with Howard Jones. Mrs Bob is a big fan, and as she couldn’t make it along, I thought I’d better return home with some photographic evidence. It’s the least I could do, really.

Stay safe Bc

Sherree Valantine-Daines
Howard Jones & S V-D
Half time
Howard Jones
Howard Jones
Martin Roberts
The finished portrait

The Car Stopped, I didn’t.

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The accident was three seconds long.

Three seconds.

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.

(c)BobChristian

GPS Is Great… Until It Isn’t

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What’s the most underrated life skill?

For me, it’s map reading.

And before you start saying, “But Bob, we have GPS…”

Yes.

I have satnav on my phone too.

And it’s bloody brilliant.

Until your phone battery dies.

Or your GPS stops working.

Then suddenly you’re standing in the middle of nowhere with absolutely no idea where you are, or how the hell you’re getting from there to where you need to be.

Map reading is one of those skills the Army taught me that has stayed useful long after I left.

And actually, I’d put basic first aid right alongside it.

Neither skill is particularly glamorous.

Neither is something you think about every day.

But when you need them…

You really, really need them.

So perhaps these are two skills we should all learn.

Because technology is wonderful.

But sometimes knowing how to read a map and patch someone up is worth a hell of a lot more than having 5% battery left.

Stay safe,

BC

The Ancient Art of Not Being a Dick.

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What’s a personal mantra or philosophy you live by?

Mine is pretty simple.

Don’t be a dick.

That’s it.

No ancient scrolls. No twelve-step spiritual journey. No bloke on a mountain handing me a mysterious answer.

Just… don’t be a dick.

Try to be kind.

Think before you speak.

Remember that everyone else is fighting battles you probably know nothing about.

And if someone annoys you, take a breath before deciding to make their day worse.

There’s probably a tiny bit of Buddhism hiding in there somewhere.

Be mindful. Let shit go. Cause less suffering where you can.

I’m not claiming enlightenment.

I still get annoyed. I still swear. I’m still occasionally a monumental dick myself.

But I’m working on it.

And perhaps that’s the point.

We don’t have to be perfect.

Just try to leave people feeling a little better rather than a little worse for having crossed your path.

Seems like a decent way to wander through this life.

Don’t be a dick.

Simple.

Stay safe,

Bc

Sunday Snaps

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Crystal ball photography
Narnia night sky
Totnes Pride open mic
Pharos islands
Bob in action

This last picture is a special one. It was sent to me by a fellow photographer and Pride volunteer. It’s nice to see things from the outside.

So I’d like to ask you to send me one of your favourite pictures and why it’s special to

BobChristianpoetry@gmail.com

I’d like to share it on my guest slot on Sunday snaps

Stay safe

Bc

The Accidental Photographer Strikes Again

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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.

So I’d better get on with it.

Stay safe,

BC

The Children We Taught to Disappear

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Somewhere in America,

History is clearing its throat,

And nobody wants to hear the cough.

Somewhere in America,

A little girl is folding herself

Into the smallest version of survival.

Learning that silence can weigh less than a scream.

She is hiding.

Not because children play hide and seek.

But because grown people play God.

Because hate sharpened its teeth,

Put on a flag,

And called itself patriotic.

She writes.

Not because she dreams of being famous.

But because it’s cheaper than a gravestone.

Because every sentence whispers:

“If I disappear, don’t let my words disappear too.”

And somewhere, right here,

We walk past brick walls;

Past headlines;

Past each other;

Thinking that monsters wear uniforms from history books.

But monsters evolve.

They trade boots for boardrooms.

Slurs for slogans.

Chains for algorithms.

And suddenly prejudice sounds… Polite.

Tell me… How many attics are we building today?

How many children are shrinking themselves

To fit inside cupboards… borders… classrooms…

Their own skins?

How many diaries are being written

Because speaking aloud

Still feels too dangerous?

This isn’t just about one girl.

It’s about every heartbeat

That’s forced to apologise for existing.

It’s about every page

That had to become a witness 

Because people refused to be one. 

So don’t tell me “That was back then”.

History doesn’t repeat because it forgets…

It repeats because we do. 

And somewhere in America,

There’s still a child 

Waiting for grown-ups 

To prove they are adults.

So read the diary. 

Please. 

Read the silence. 

Read the spaces between the words,

Where fear learned to breathe. 

Then close the book. 

Not to end the story, 

But to make damned sure

That we never hand another child a pen 

When all they needed was a world

That didn’t ask them to hide.

(C)BobChristian

The One Who Let Me Grow

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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.

I Ducking love you

Stay safe,

Bc