Tag Archives: nostalgia

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)

Remember Remember

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What’s a cultural tradition from your country that you love?

There are certain things from childhood that, for whatever reason, stay with you.

For me, one of those things has to be Bonfire Night.

The Fifth of November.

Cold November air.

The smell of woodsmoke.

Fireworks going off somewhere in the distance.

And, inevitably, some bloke standing far too close to the bonfire while somebody’s mum shouts:

“MOVE BACK!”

Of course, when you’re a kid, you don’t see a giant pile of burning wood as a potential health and safety incident waiting to happen.

You see an adventure.

You see something bloody enormous.

And probably wonder how close you can get before your eyebrows become an optional extra.

Then there was the Guy.

We’d make one from whatever old clothes we could find, stuffing them with newspaper, rags, or basically anything that was vaguely flammable and not currently being used.

It didn’t have to be particularly good.

Actually, thinking back, some of them were probably less “Guy Fawkes” and more “slightly suspicious bloke who’s been found in a hedge.”

But that didn’t matter.

We’d proudly put our creation on top of the bonfire and stand back, waiting for the flames to do their thing.

And then came the fireworks.

Now, modern fireworks are spectacular.

Absolutely bloody enormous.

But there was something magical about those childhood displays.

The first rocket disappearing into the darkness.

That moment of anticipation.

Then—

BOOM!

A shower of colour exploding across the sky.

Golden sparks.

Red.

Green.

Blue.

And for a few seconds, the whole night seemed to come alive.

Maybe they really were better back then.

Or maybe that’s just what childhood does.

It takes ordinary things and makes them enormous.

Then, of course, there was the food.

And I’m not talking about fancy street food, artisan burgers or anything else that somebody has decided needs to be served on a wooden board.

Give me a jacket potato cooked in the embers of a bonfire.

That was food.

You’d wait.

And wait.

And probably wait considerably longer than you had the patience for.

Eventually you’d pull it out, brush away the ash, unwrap the foil, split it open and add a ridiculous amount of butter.

Simple.

Cheap.

Perfect.

Funny how food seems to taste better when there’s a memory attached to it.

That potato wasn’t just a potato.

It was part of the evening.

Part of standing outside in the cold.

Part of waiting around with family and friends.

Part of being a kid.

And, if you were lucky, somebody had remembered the hot chocolate.

Happy days.

Now what’s my rambling got to do with cultural traditions..?

There’s actually a fascinating bit of history behind all of it

Bonfire Night commemorates 5 November 1605, when Guy Fawkes was discovered guarding barrels of gunpowder beneath the Houses of Parliament as part of what we now call, the Gunpowder Plot.

Although here’s something I didn’t know until relatively recently. The person being burned on the bonfire wasn’t always Guy Fawkes.

Apparently, in the seventeenth century, the Pope was often the unfortunate chap being thrown onto the flames.

Which seems a little harsh.

Eventually, Guy Fawkes became the familiar figure associated with Bonfire Night. Mainly because Parliament met in January 1606 and passed the Thanksgiving Act. This made services and sermons commemorating the plot a regular annual feature each 5 November.

Except at St Peter’s School in York, where they never have never burnt an effigy as Guy Fawkes was a student there.

And I suppose that’s one of the interesting things about traditions.

They change.

They evolve.

They get passed down from one generation to another, with each generation adding its own little bit to the story.

Stay safe

Bc

Old Sci-Fi, New Memories

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What’s a book, movie, or TV show that you wish you could experience again for the first time?


That’s actually an easy one for me because it’s both a book and a TV show, so it’s two birds with one stone.

Without a doubt, it would be The Red Dwarf Omnibus, which contains the novels Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers and Better Than Life.

These were fantastic books and, of course, they led to one of my all-time favourite TV series, Red Dwarf. If you’ve somehow never come across it, it’s the story of Dave Lister, the last human alive, travelling through space with a hologram, a creature that evolved from a cat, and a rather sarcastic computer. It sounds ridiculous when you describe it like that, but it worked brilliantly.

The books expanded on the universe in ways the TV show couldn’t and gave much more background to the characters. I remember being completely absorbed by them and wishing there was more when I’d finished.

The TV series itself brings back some great memories too.

When new episodes were being broadcast, I’d often head over to a friend’s house in the village on a Friday evening. We’d spend a few hours listening to music, chatting about whatever was important to teenagers at the time, and generally hanging out before settling down to watch the latest episode of Red Dwarf on the BBC. Afterwards I’d jump on my bike and cycle home, usually replaying the best bits of the episode in my head all the way back.

Those were good times.

As an interesting side note, many years later I actually got the chance to meet and interview two members of the Red Dwarf cast at a local Comic-Con event. It’s always nice when people connected with something you enjoyed growing up turn out to be as friendly and entertaining in person as you’d hoped.

Myself with Kryten (Robert Llewelyn)

Talking about revisiting old favourites, I did actually manage something similar recently.

When I was younger, I vaguely remembered a science-fiction series that I absolutely loved, but over the years the details became increasingly hazy. Partly that’s just age catching up with me, but a traumatic brain injury when I was 30 certainly didn’t help matters.

The series was called The Invaders and followed architect David Vincent, who accidentally discovers that aliens have infiltrated Earth and are quietly trying to take over the planet.

For a late-1960s television series, I remembered the effects being fantastic. The aliens looked completely human but had no heartbeat, didn’t bleed, and when killed would glow bright red before disappearing into nothingness. Conveniently for them, that made proving their existence rather difficult.

As luck would have it, Mrs Bob bought me the complete box set.

Invaders box set

I’ve recently finished watching the first series and have thoroughly enjoyed it. Yes, some of the action scenes are very much of their time. A quick judo chop to the neck sends the bad guy unconscious, much like classic Star Trek, and some of the fight choreography won’t trouble modern stunt coordinators. But that’s part of the charm.

What’s been fascinating is that I have virtually no memory of seeing it the first time around, so in many ways I really have been able to experience it almost as if it were new again.

And that’s probably why I’d choose Red Dwarf if I could wipe one story from my memory and enjoy it all over again for the first time.

Although having said that, rediscovering The Invaders has come pretty close.

Stay safe 

Bc