What’s one habit that has improved your life the most?
f I had to choose just one habit, it would be meditation.
Not because it gives me all the answers, but because it helps me stop fighting battles that only exist in my own mind.
For a long time, I held onto anger. I replayed conversations, revisited old hurts, and carried resentment far longer than I probably should have. I thought holding on somehow made me stronger or somehow proved I was right.
It didn’t.
It only hurt me.
The people or situations I was angry about often carried on with their lives while I carried the weight. Looking back, it seems like such a waste of energy.
Meditation changed that.
It didn’t erase the past. It simply taught me to observe my thoughts without becoming trapped by them. It reminded me that I always have a choice: hold on or let go.
Most of the time, letting go is the better option.
Not because what happened doesn’t matter, but because my peace matters more.
These days, I still get frustrated. I’m only human. But I no longer give anger a permanent home. I acknowledge it, learn what I can from it, and move forward .
That small daily practice has made me calmer, more patient, and far more present.
Funny really. I started meditating to quiet my mind.
What I discovered was that the greatest benefit wasn’t learning how to be still.
It was learning what was never worth carrying in the first place.
Stay Safe
Bc
Ps here’s a scribble I wrote on this subject some time ago
What’s a chapter of your life you’d title “The Hard Years” — and what got you through it?
If you’ve read my books or been following this blog for a while, you’ll probably know the answer before you’ve finished the question.
Roughly twenty years ago.
That was the chapter.
It was the point where it honestly felt like life had looked at me and thought, “Go on then… let’s see how much this bloke can actually take.”
I was on the verge of homelessness.
I was fighting to have a relationship with my daughters.
My PTSD was running riot.
I was autistic but had absolutely no idea at the time.
And my mental health?
Well… “shot to shit” is probably the most accurate medical diagnosis I can give you.
Let’s unpack that.
After a relationship ended, I found myself with nowhere to live. My family couldn’t help, so I ended up sleeping on the sofa of an old wrestling mate. It wasn’t glamorous, but it beat sleeping rough again.
Eventually she moved in with her boyfriend and we came up with what seemed, at the time, like a sensible solution.
I’d stay in her little council house and carry on paying the rent.
Yes.
I know.
Subletting.
Not exactly legal.
But when your choices are breaking the rules or sleeping rough, morality suddenly becomes a luxury.
While all that was going on, my daughters’ mum had started making contact as difficult as humanly possible.
I’d turn up to collect the girls.
“Oh… we’ve gone out.”
“They’re not here.”
“They don’t want to come.”
The excuses changed.
The result didn’t.
Letters from my solicitor about parental responsibility went unanswered.
Phone calls rarely got through.
And when they did, the girls were apparently never available.
It was only last year that I found out some of the things they’d been told about me growing up.
One of them was that I’d wanted my youngest aborted before she was born.
I hadn’t.
But lies have a habit of hanging around long after the people telling them have moved on.
Looking back now, I understand why I was falling apart.
Back then I just thought I was broken.
Everything piled on top of everything else.
The housing.
The court stuff.
Missing my girls.
The PTSD.
Trying to make sense of a brain that worked differently without knowing why.
So I did what a lot of blokes do when they’re drowning.
I reached for anything that promised five minutes of peace.
Drink.
Drugs.
Self-harm.
None of it fixed anything.
It just delayed having to feel it.
Then came the moment that genuinely broke me.
The council discovered I was living in the house.
I was told that if I cleared about £400 of rent arrears I could take over the tenancy.
I worked every bit of overtime I could.
Paid every penny.
Walked into the meeting convinced I’d finally caught a break.
Instead, I was told I had four weeks to move out.
When I reminded them about what I’d been promised, I was told I’d have to bid on the property along with everyone else.
I’d basically paid someone else’s rent arrears for nothing.
That one hurt.
For the next month I bid on every property I could.
Nothing.
That’s when I hit rock bottom.
I tried (for the first time) to end my life.
I woke up in hospital the following day to two police officers asking why I’d done it and telling me how selfish I’d been for upsetting everyone.
Different times.
Thankfully we’ve moved on a bit since then.
Recovery wasn’t some magical Disney montage.
It took years.
Hospital admissions.
Medication.
Counselling.
Learning how to exist without constantly wanting to disappear.
Then, during one of my final stays in hospital, a member of staff suggested I start writing down how I felt.
I nearly laughed.
Writing a diary?
Really?
I’d grown up believing men dealt with problems by getting on with them.
You certainly didn’t write about your feelings.
Still…
I’d tried almost everything else.
What was one more roll of the dice?
Those first pages weren’t poetry.
They were just chaos.
Anger.
Fear.
Grief.
Questions I didn’t know how to answer.
Slowly, without me really noticing, those pages started changing.
Sentences became verses.
Verses became poems.
Poems became something that made sense of everything that didn’t.
People often ask me what saved my life.
It wasn’t poetry.
Not at first.
Poetry came later.
What saved me was finally giving myself permission to be honest.
The poetry simply gave that honesty somewhere to live.
Without those notebooks there probably wouldn’t have been books.
There wouldn’t have been performances.
There wouldn’t have been conversations with complete strangers who’ve quietly said, “I thought I was the only one.”
There probably wouldn’t be this blog.
So what got me through The Hard Years?
My daughters.
Even when I couldn’t see them, they gave me something to keep fighting for.
Pure bloody-minded stubbornness.
I’ve never liked being told I can’t do something.
And somewhere deep down, underneath everything else, there was still a tiny voice saying,
“Don’t let this be how your story ends.”
Turns out that little voice was right.
Life isn’t perfect now.
It never will be.
But I’ve learned that the hardest chapters aren’t always the end of the book.
Sometimes they’re just the part that explains why the rest of the story matters.
He got so much right that it’s almost unsettling to read today.
The genius of 1984 wasn’t really Big Brother. It wasn’t Room 101, the Thought Police, or even Winston Smith.
It was Orwell’s understanding that power doesn’t just control people.
It controls reality.
Back then, that meant burning books, rewriting newspapers, and dropping inconvenient facts into the Memory Hole.
Today?
I’m not convinced anyone would even bother.
Why erase history when you can simply personalise it?
Imagine an Orwell sequel set in the present day.
Every citizen has a different version of yesterday.
Not because the government rewrote it overnight, but because an algorithm quietly decided which version would keep you engaged.
Your neighbour remembers an event differently because their feed told a different story.
Your parents saw another version.
Your children never saw it at all.
History wouldn’t disappear.
It would fragment.
Truth would become localised.
Debatable.
Optional.
And that’s far more dangerous than censorship.
Because it’s difficult to fight lies when everyone is convinced they’re looking at the facts.
Big Brother would have changed too.
In Orwell’s world, oppression wore a face.
There were posters.
Slogans.
A dictator watching from every wall.
Today’s version wouldn’t need any of that.
Big Brother wouldn’t be a man.
It wouldn’t even be a government.
It would be a seamless partnership between corporations, artificial intelligence and state interests, quietly learning everything about us while insisting it’s all for our convenience.
No boots stamping on faces.
Just terms and conditions we never read.
No compulsory telescreens bolted to our walls.
We’d happily carry them ourselves.
We already do.
Tiny glowing rectangles that know where we are, what we’ve bought, who we talk to, how fast our heart beats, what keeps us awake at three in the morning, and which adverts are most likely to make us click “Buy Now.”
And we’d queue overnight to upgrade them.
The Thought Police wouldn’t arrest you for thinking the wrong thing.
They’d predict what you were likely to think before you knew yourself.
They’d know when you were lonely.
When you were angry.
When you were vulnerable.
Not to protect you.
To market to you.
To influence you.
To gently nudge your decisions until they felt like your own.
The cleverest form of control has never been force.
It’s persuasion disguised as freedom.
That’s what makes Orwell’s world feel less like fiction every year.
The scary part isn’t that 1984 might need a sequel.
It’s that, if Orwell were alive today, he might simply rename it…
If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
For anyone who knows me, you’ll know I come alive when the temperature drops. Give me crisp air, snow-covered landscapes and somewhere I need a proper coat, and I’m a happy man. You can keep the tropical beaches—I start looking for somewhere cooler.
So if I had to choose somewhere to live, it would come down to two places: Norway or Iceland.
Norway will always have a special place in my heart because it was the first adventure Mrs Bob and I took together.
Norway where it all began
It wasn’t just any holiday either.
We found ourselves sailing through the Norwegian Sea during a total solar eclipse. Watching totality from the deck of a ship is one of those moments that reminds you just how spectacular our universe really is. It’s impossible to describe unless you’ve experienced it.
As incredible as that was, it still wasn’t the highlight.
Later, inside the Arctic Circle, we sat for hours simply watching the Northern Lights dance across the sky. No phones. No distractions. Just nature putting on one of the greatest shows on Earth.
Those are the memories that stay with you forever.
An added bonus? Mrs Bob can almost speak the lingo, which would certainly make settling in a lot easier than relying on my Yorkshire charm and enthusiastic hand gestures.
Then there’s Iceland.
Every time I read something new about the country, I find another reason to admire it.
For starters, they’ve mastered something most countries are still trying to figure out: making use of the natural resources they already have.
Geothermal water is pumped directly into homes, providing heating in one of the coldest climates on Earth. Even better, many pavements and sidewalks are heated too, meaning winter doesn’t automatically equal icy paths and broken hips.
Now that’s using common sense.
But what really stands out isn’t the technology.
It’s the attitude.
Following the financial crash in 2008, Iceland took a very different approach from many other countries. Rather than simply rescuing the financial system and moving on, several senior banking figures faced criminal investigations and prosecutions. Whether you agree with every decision or not, it showed a willingness to ask difficult questions about accountability instead of pretending nothing had happened.
Then there’s one of my favourite stories.
In the northern town of Akureyri, after the financial crisis had hit morale, the council fitted heart-shaped filters over the red traffic lights. Instead of glowing red circles, drivers were greeted by glowing red hearts.
It sounds like such a small gesture.
But sometimes small gestures matter the most.
The hearts were there to remind people what was really important and, hopefully, give someone a reason to smile during difficult times.
I love that.
So… Which One?
If you forced me to pick today, I’d probably still struggle.
Norway gave Mrs Bob and me memories we’ll never forget.
Iceland continually impresses me with its ingenuity, resilience and ability to think differently.
Maybe that’s why the answer isn’t really about the country.
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.
