On Friday, with a rare day off, I took the opportunity to spend a little time in the garden. I soaked a handful of mealworms before scattering them across the front lawn and topping up the feeders at the bottom of the garden.
It didn’t take long for word to spread through the local bird community.
Over the weekend, I was fortunate enough to have the camera close at hand as a steady stream of familiar faces—and a few welcome surprises—called in to take advantage of the easy meal. There’s always something special about watching wild birds go about their daily lives, especially when they seem completely at ease, and it’s a privilege to capture a few of those fleeting moments through the lens.
These are just some of the visitors that brightened the garden over the weekend.
What’s a lesson you’ve learned recently that shifted your perspective?
I’ve realised recently that it’s far easier to give up on someone than it is to find a way back to them.
Walking away is easy.
Rebuilding a bridge? That’s the difficult bit.
A little while ago I had a serious falling out with a family member. They’d been rude, self-obsessed and, to make matters worse, £75 disappeared from my bank account. It would have been a lot more had the bank not stepped in. Whether they took it themselves or knowingly allowed someone else to, the trust I’d placed in them vanished overnight.
I confronted them.
They reacted.
I reacted.
Two adults behaving like stubborn children, storming off in opposite directions, both convinced we were in the right.
Now, before anyone starts polishing my halo, let me be perfectly clear.
I’m no saint.
I shouldn’t have flown off the handle. I was angry, hurt and betrayed, and those emotions rarely produce our best work. Looking back, I probably should have left it alone for a couple of weeks, let the smoke clear and the dust settle, then reached out with a simple question.
“Fancy getting the tools out and rebuilding this bridge?”
Maybe the answer would still have been no.
Maybe nothing would have changed.
But at least I’d have known I’d tried.
Life has a habit of reminding us that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. I’ve promised people I’d see them again, only for life to have other plans. Those are the moments that stay with you, and I’d hate to repeat that mistake because pride got the final say.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Some relationships are genuinely toxic, and walking away is absolutely the right thing to do. This isn’t about putting up with abuse or pretending betrayal doesn’t hurt.
It’s about recognising that not every argument deserves a permanent ending.
Sometimes people make terrible decisions.
Sometimes we say things we wish we hadn’t.
Sometimes we’re both waiting for the other person to make the first move.
The lesson I’ve learned is that forgiveness and reconciliation aren’t signs of weakness. They’re often far harder than anger.
So if you’re in the middle of a row with someone you genuinely care about, perhaps let the dust settle before deciding the bridge needs demolishing.
Because when the emotions have cooled, it’s worth asking yourself one simple question.
In the cold light of day, is this really worth losing someone over?
A good night’s sleep is incredibly important, and I’m sure you’re already aware of many of the benefits. Quality sleep helps bolster your immune system, protects your cardiovascular health, balances the hormones that regulate hunger, and makes it easier to maintain a healthy weight. Mentally, it’s just as important. Sleep consolidates memories, clears waste products from the brain, and improves emotional resilience, helping to reduce stress and anxiety.
So, how do I improve my sleep?
Like many autistic people, I love a good routine, and in this case, I think it has definitely worked in my favour.
About ten or fifteen minutes before I want to go to sleep, I stop whatever I’m watching or doing and put on some calming meditation music. I actually have one particular track on YouTube that I’ve been using for years. Those few minutes allow me to unwind and mentally let go of the day’s frustrations, confrontations and negative thoughts before I even get into bed.
Once I’m feeling more relaxed, I’ll climb into bed and read a few pages from my latest QI Book of Facts. Reading something enjoyable—but not too stimulating—helps signal to my brain that it’s time to switch off.
When it’s finally time to sleep, I ask my smart speaker to play white noise. Personally, I find the sound of heavy rain works best for me. It helps block out background noise and creates a familiar environment that my brain now associates with sleep.
I’ve followed this routine for many years. Is it perfect? No.
I still occasionally wake up screaming or experience night terrors, but I can honestly say that sticking to this routine has reduced both the frequency and severity of those episodes by around 85%. That’s been life-changing for me.
Will this exact routine work for everyone? Probably not. But it’s certainly worth experimenting until you find something that suits you. Sleep isn’t one-size-fits-all, and sometimes the smallest changes make the biggest difference.
The other thing I’ve found incredibly beneficial—and the science backs this up—is keeping a regular sleep schedule.
Going to bed and waking up at roughly the same time every day helps regulate your body’s natural circadian rhythm. Research has shown that consistent sleep patterns can significantly reduce the risk of depression compared with irregular sleeping habits. In fact, maintaining a regular routine is often just as important as getting the recommended seven to nine hours of sleep each night.
For me, good sleep doesn’t happen by accident. It’s something I prepare for.
A simple routine, a calm mind, a good book, the sound of rain, and a consistent bedtime have all helped me sleep better than I ever used to. If you’re struggling with sleep, don’t be afraid to try different approaches until you find your own routine.
Sometimes, the best night’s sleep starts long before your head hits the pillow.
What do you love now, that you hated when you were younger?
This one is surprisingly easy to answer.
When I was younger, weekends were for going out. Loud music, crowded clubs, late nights, and the belief that if you weren’t out doing something, you were somehow missing out.
These days?
You’ll find me happily doing the exact opposite.
Give me a quiet Friday evening in the garden with Mrs Bob, listening to the birds settling down for the night instead of someone shouting over music that’s three decibels short of causing structural damage.
Give me an early night and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep over crawling into bed just as the sun is thinking about getting up.
Give me staying in over clubbing every single time.
Perhaps the biggest surprise of all is that I’ve learned to appreciate my own company. As an autistic bloke, a veteran, and now a proudly grumpy fifty-year-old hermit, I’ve finally realised that peace isn’t something you find in the middle of a crowd.
Sometimes it’s found in silence.
Sometimes it’s found with a mug of coffee, a good book, or simply watching the garden grow.
And more often than not, it’s found sitting beside Mrs Bob, neither of us saying very much, because after all these years we’ve discovered that the best conversations don’t always need words.
It’s funny how the things we once avoided become the very things we treasure.
Maybe that’s not getting old.
Maybe that’s simply learning what happiness actually looks like.
What’s a time you followed your gut and it turned out to be exactly right?
People often say you should trust your instincts, but if we’re honest, that’s much easier said than done.
Logic has a habit of barging into the conversation, armed with spreadsheets, pros and cons, and a long list of reasons why doing something completely mad is… well… completely mad.
Fourteen years ago, I found myself standing at one of those crossroads.
I’d met Mrs Bob and, after we’d been talking for a while, the conversation turned to something that, on paper, seemed utterly bonkers. I would sell up, leave my engineering career at Rolls-Royce Aerospace, and move 250 miles away to the beautifully strange little town of Totnes.
Think about that for a moment.
A secure job. Family close by. Friends I’d known for years. A familiar life.
And I’d be giving it all up for a woman I’d only recently met.
If I’d listened purely to my head, I’d probably still be sat there making lists of reasons why it couldn’t possibly work.
But there was something else.
A quiet feeling deep down that simply said, this matters.
Not because it made logical sense.
Not because there were guarantees.
Just because it felt like the beginning of something incredibly special.
So I took the leap.
Looking back now, fourteen years later, I can honestly say my gut got it absolutely right.
Totnes has become home. I’ve become part of the local community, met some wonderful people, discovered opportunities I could never have imagined, and built a life with Mrs Bob that has been richer than I ever expected.
Of course, following your instincts doesn’t always mean everything is easy. There have been challenges, unexpected turns and moments where we’ve wondered what comes next. That’s just life.
But I’ve never once looked back and wished I’d stayed where I was, simply because it felt safer.
Sometimes your gut isn’t asking you to ignore common sense. It’s asking you to recognise something your heart has spotted long before your brain catches up.
Not every leap works out.
But every now and then, your instincts quietly whisper the truth before the evidence arrives.
Every morning before the sun stretches itself across my window, before my coffee tastes like anything but bitter, happiness hides.
She’s crouched behind the blinds, folded into the corner of yesterday’s pillow, laughing quietly at me as if I don’t know how to look for her.
I try.
I try like I know her favorite hiding spots, like I know the exact way she breathes when she’s shy, like I can coax her out with half-empty mugs and songs that smell like home.
But she moves.
Slips under the fridge, slides into the cracks of my bathroom tiles, hides in the sound of my keys clattering like she’s daring me to follow.
So I do.
I follow.
And sometimes, just sometimes, she peeks out like a shy smile from a stranger in a crowded street.
For that moment, my chest remembers what it’s like to be full, and I swear I hear the echo of her saying,
you found me again.
Then she disappears.
And I swear I’ll find her tomorrow.
Because happiness isn’t something that knocks politely.
It is a professional hide-and-seek champion, undefeated for as long as I’ve known her.
And me?
I am the kid counting with my eyes closed, hands over my face, promising the dark that I’m still playing.
What’s a piece of media (book, movie, song) that changed how you see the world?
This is a very tough choice, truth be told.
There’s obviously The Watchmen, my first ever graphic novel, which started a lifelong love affair with comic books that’s still going strong today.
Then there’s String Theory for Dummies, the book that accidentally sparked a conversation with what is now Mrs Bob.
Both of those deserve posts of their own, and I’m fairly sure I’ve rambled about them before.
But if I had to choose the one piece of media that genuinely changed the direction of my life, it would be…
Wicca: A Guide for the Solitary Practitioner by Scott Cunningham.
This book came into my life at exactly the right moment.
At the time, my life was an absolute mess. I was going through a particularly nasty breakup, carrying around a lot of anger, hurt and resentment. Looking back, I also realise I was an autistic man who hadn’t yet been diagnosed, trying to make sense of emotions I simply didn’t have the tools to process.
Then someone showed me kindness.
A witch, who had once found comfort in the very same book herself, passed it on to me.
It wasn’t a book about casting spells that changed me.
It was a book about responsibility.
About balance.
About understanding that every action has consequences.
The lesson that has stayed with me happened shortly afterwards.
My ex broke into my home, took a lot of our belongings and trashed much of what she left behind.
The old me would probably have jumped in the car, driven straight over there and made the whole situation infinitely worse.
Instead, something clicked.
For the first time, I understood that anger wouldn’t repair my home.
It wouldn’t replace what had been stolen.
It wouldn’t heal what had happened.
All it would do was make me ill, and give the people who had hurt me the satisfaction of knowing they’d got exactly the reaction they wanted.
Walking away wasn’t weakness.
It was peace.
That one lesson changed everything.
It led me to read more about Wicca, which in turn eventually led me towards Mahāyāna Buddhism. Although they’re very different paths, both encouraged me to slow down, look inward and understand that my mental and physical wellbeing are deeply interconnected.
Those philosophies helped me become a calmer person.
A happier husband.
A better father.
A better grandfather.
They’ve also influenced the way I write, the way I see people, and the compassion I try to show others.
Without that one book…
Without the kindness of the woman who first placed it into my hands…
I honestly don’t know where I’d be.
There’s every chance I’d have let my anger make decisions for me.
And when anger starts making your decisions, the ending is rarely a good one.
Sometimes the books that change your life aren’t the bestselling novels or the classics everyone studies at school.
Today is Father’s Day here in the UK, and I’d like to use my little corner of the internet to give a huge shout-out to a man who is technically my stepfather.
Although, after nearly forty years of being there, I think we can safely dispense with the “step” part.
Because here’s the thing.
Anyone can create a life and become a dad.
But it takes a different kind of man to step into a child’s life and choose to stay. To take on the responsibility, the worry, the sacrifices, the school runs, the advice, the support, and all the other things that come with raising children who aren’t biologically your own.
That takes character.
It takes commitment.
And it takes love.
The older I get, the more I realise that fatherhood isn’t defined by DNA. It’s defined by presence. By consistency. By being the person who turns up, day after day, year after year, regardless of whether anyone notices or says thank you.
My stepfather did exactly that.
Not only did he help raise me, but he also became the only grandad my own children have ever known. He’s been there through the milestones, the celebrations, the challenges and the ordinary moments that, when you look back, turn out to be the ones that mattered most.
The truth is that parenting can often feel like a thankless job. You invest your time, energy and heart into other people and rarely stop to count the cost. Most of the time you simply get on with it because that’s what love does.
So today, I want to say thank you.
Thank you for sticking around.
Thank you for stepping up.
Thank you for treating me as your own.
And thank you for showing my children what a grandfather looks like.
Father’s Day should be about celebrating the men who choose to be present, whether they are fathers, stepfathers, grandfathers, foster parents or father figures. The title matters far less than the impact.
And finally, a quick nod to all the fur parents out there too. The dog walkers, the cat feeders, the sofa sharers and the treat dispensers. I see you.
Happy Father’s Day to all those who show up, stick around and make a difference.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 