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.
What is something you wish you could tell your 20-year-old self?
If I could tell my 20-year-old self one thing, it would be this: keep going. Life feels confusing, overwhelming, and at times completely impossible right now, but things do get better.
The struggles you’re facing aren’t because you’re broken, weak, or failing. The truth is, it’s not schizophrenia or bipolar disorder at all — it’s autism, and understanding that will eventually make so much of your life make sense.
So stick at it. One day you’ll look back and realise you survived far more than you ever thought you could.
There’s a strange thing that happens as you get older.
You spend most of your youth trying desperately to become your own person — carving out your own identity, your own voice, your own little corner of the world.
You swear blind you’ll never become your parents, never pick up the odd habits of your grandparents, never start saying things like:
“Don’t leave that light on, it’s like Blackpool illuminations in here.”
And then one day…
You catch yourself doing exactly that.
For me, it happened in the shed.
Now, if you’ve read my ramblings before, you’ll know there’s always a shed somewhere in the story. Like some recurring side character that quietly steals the scene. But sheds aren’t really about wood and nails and rusty hinges, are they?
Not really.
They’re memory boxes.
Little sanctuaries built out of timber, silence, and inherited habits.
When I was younger, both my grandads had sheds — though, much like the men themselves, they were completely different worlds.
My maternal grandad, Walter was a retired firefighter and gentleman of the old school variety, had a shed that smelled of compost, damp wood, and honest work. Plant pots stacked everywhere. Garden canes leaning in corners. Twine, tools, and jars full of screws that “might come in useful one day.”
There was always an old bit of carpet on the floor.
Always a greenhouse nearby. Always tomatoes growing somewhere.
His shed wasn’t tidy by modern standards, but it made sense in the way only a working man’s shed can. Every object had a purpose. Every scratch and stain told a story.
And him?
He was happiest there.
Not because it was an escape from life — but because it was life.
Then there was my paternal grandfather Sydney — a former Rolls Royce engineer with the larger-than-life personality and a shed that felt more like a workshop for some eccentric inventor. Freezers, tools, cables, bits of machinery, shelves packed with things no child understood but instinctively believed were important.
He approached life like an engineer and a comedian trapped in the same body.
One minute he’d be discussing something technical enough to launch a rocket, and the next he’d be making ridiculous noises or blowing raspberries just to make us laugh.
And somehow, despite being worlds apart, both men found peace in exactly the same place.
A shed. A chair. Something to tinker with. A bit of quiet.
Funny, that.
Now I’m older — older than I ever imagined myself becoming when I was young and invincible — I’ve realised I’m becoming a strange hybrid of both of them.
I’ll spend one afternoon carefully organising tools and muttering about “doing the job properly,” then the next I’m wandering around annoying Mrs Bob with terrible jokes and sound effects like a man who’s escaped supervised care.
I catch myself polishing shoes properly. Taking pride in appearance. Pottering in the garden. Sitting in the shed just listening to the rain on the roof.
And honestly?
I don’t mind it one bit.
Because the older I get, the more I realise inheritance isn’t always money, property, or genetics.
Sometimes inheritance is smaller than that.
It’s habits.
Expressions.
Ways of sitting quietly with yourself.
The understanding that peace can sometimes be found with a mug of coffee in a shed while the world carries on without you for half an hour.
My own shed these days is a mixture of both men.
There’s the practical side — tools, chargers, bits of wood I refuse to throw away because they might become useful in approximately seventeen years time.
Then there’s the softer side.
A chair. A rug. A notebook. A place to write scribbles that occasionally become poetry.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not Pinterest-worthy. And it certainly wouldn’t survive one of those minimalist home makeover shows.
But it’s mine.
And somewhere in its walls live echoes of both the men who helped shape me.
The firefighter with soil on his hands and kindness in his heart.
And the engineer with a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of humour.
Maybe becoming your grandparents isn’t something to fear after all.
Maybe, if you’re lucky, it’s something to be grateful for.
Because one day you realise the people you loved never really leave.
They remain in the small things.
In the way you make tea. In the way you speak. In the habits you never consciously chose.
Or in the way you smile quietly to yourself while sitting in a shed on a warm afternoon, completely at peace for the first time all week.
Sure, I love comic books. I love photography. And I’m definitely passionate about Mrs Bob—but that’s a story for another day.
The thing that truly sets my soul on fire is poetry and mental health awareness.
At first glance, they might seem like two completely different worlds. One is art. The other is survival.
But for me, they’re inseparable.
Because poetry helped save my life.
More than twenty years ago, I wasn’t the happy, well-adjusted bloke many people know today. In truth, I was a mess. My mental health was spiralling dangerously out of control. I was drinking heavily, drowning emotions I didn’t understand, and convincing myself that I had to carry every burden alone.
Like many men of my generation, I believed I had to “man up.”
Keep quiet.
Stay strong.
Don’t talk about it.
But silence can be a dangerous thing.
There were times when the darkness became so overwhelming that I tried to end my life. More than once.
Eventually, after waking up in the resuscitation room of my local hospital following one particularly close call, something shifted inside me. Looking back now, I realise it was a crossroads.
I could continue pretending everything was fine until it killed me.
Or I could ask for help.
I chose help.
Not because I was brave.
Not because I suddenly had all the answers.
But because I looked at my two young children and realised I couldn’t leave them growing up without a father.
For the first time in my life, I stopped trying to fight alone.
One of the professionals helping me suggested I start writing down my thoughts and emotions. The idea was simple: get the chaos out of my head and onto paper so I could begin to understand it.
At first, I filled notebook after notebook with late-night scribbles. Thoughts. Fears. Anger. Pain. Hope. Anything that was bouncing around inside my head.
Then something unexpected happened.
As I read back through those pages, I started arranging some of the words into verses. The emotions were still raw and chaotic, but now they had rhythm and shape.
It wasn’t poetry as I know it today.
It was closer to rap lyrics.
But it was the beginning.
The real turning point came when I wrote a piece for a family member’s naming ceremony. Afterwards, people kept asking me where I’d found the poem.
When I told them I’d written it myself, they seemed genuinely surprised.
And so was I.
For the first time, I allowed myself to think:
Maybe I’m a poet.
Over the following two decades, I spent countless hours learning, practising, refining and developing my craft. Every poem taught me something new—not just about writing, but about myself.
In the early days, poetry was my pressure valve.
A way of releasing everything that threatened to consume me.
My work was dark.
Unflinching.
Sometimes uncomfortable.
I wrote about depression, self-harm, suicide and the realities of living with poor mental health. Topics many people preferred not to talk about.
But those conversations mattered.
They still do.
Today, my writing covers a wider range of subjects. There’s more light alongside the darkness. More hope alongside the pain.
Yet mental health remains close to my heart.
Particularly men’s mental health.
I’ve been inspired by some incredible slam poets and advocates who have used their voices to challenge the outdated belief that men should suffer in silence. The idea that being strong means never showing vulnerability. The lie that asking for help is weakness.
Because it isn’t.
Real strength is speaking up.
Real strength is reaching out.
Real strength is staying.
The truth is that there are countless blokes out there who are fighting battles nobody else can see. Men who smile on the outside while struggling desperately on the inside. Men who believe they’re alone.
They’re not.
And that’s why I keep writing.
Because somewhere, someone might be reading these words and recognising a piece of themselves.
Someone who feels exhausted.
Someone who feels trapped.
Someone who is standing closer to the edge than anyone realises.
If my poetry, my story, or my words can make just one person pause for a moment and choose to talk to someone—anyone—instead of suffering alone, then every difficult chapter of my journey has been worthwhile.
Because poetry didn’t just give me a voice.
It gave me a future.
And if sharing that future helps someone else find theirs, then I’ll keep writing for as long as I have words left to write.
What are the most important things needed to live a good life?
People spend a lot of time chasing the secret to a good life.
More money.
A bigger house.
A better job.
More followers.
More stuff.
Yet the older I get, the more I realise that most of those things are optional.
The foundations of a good life are surprisingly simple.
First, you need a solid moral compass.
Not somebody else’s.
Your own.
A set of values that helps you recognise the difference between right and wrong, especially when nobody is watching. Life becomes a lot easier when your decisions are guided by principles instead of convenience.
The second thing is a good heart.
Good intentions matter.
Treat people with kindness.
Show compassion when you can.
Help where you’re able.
The world already has enough people looking out only for themselves. It never seems to have enough people genuinely trying to leave things a little better than they found them.
Will you always get it right?
No.
None of us do.
We’re human. We make mistakes. We stumble. We learn.
What matters is that you keep trying.
A good life isn’t built on perfection.
It’s built on character.
A solid moral compass.
A good heart.
And the willingness to keep moving forward when life gets messy.
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 