For the better part of four decades, I’ve put my thoughts in many different places. Some of these thoughts have thankfully disappeared into the ether and some of them are rotting away in digital graveyards like Facebook and twitter. As the internet becomes more of an inhospitable place, I’ve been keen to keep my thoughts all in one place, on a platform I have as much control over as possible. I’ll still probably share on instagram and I may fire off the odd post on bluesky, but I’m going to compile them all here, too. Not because I think they’re worthy of preservation, but just so I don’t feel so digitally schizophrenic, so I don’t accidentally lose my thoughts when an account closes or a new billionaire buys up a platform, so my thoughts won’t get buried by an algorithm because I didn’t share it with a 30 second clip of a song that I’ve never heard all the way through.
Sometimes these thoughts will be accompanies by photos. Sometimes they will be long and sometimes short. Often times they will be very stupid. I have tagged the thoughts using a system that makes sense to me and ultimately I am unconcerned as to whether or not it makes sense to you, but I think it’s pretty self-explanatory. For now, there is an option to comment on my thoughts, though I will not allow anything I deem annoying or unkind to remain published. It’s my party, I can do what I want.
on a sunday
An enormous I-don’t-think-so-honey to the person who drove past around 13:00 blaring Mariah’s All I Want for Christmas is You whilst I sat reading in the sun on my balcony. Cut it out. It’s far too early for that.
I mean this so seriously, England desperately needs a November holiday like Thanksgiving to give people:
a) hope
b) but also a more appropriate start date for the Christmas szn.
Labour, if you’re looking to do something popular for once, why don’t you give us a BH in November?! We’re all deprived on sunlight and running ragged by the middle of the month, and it would be such a boon to morale.
One of the reasons Brits are so miserable by mid-November is that they love to be heat martyrs, each of them playing a smug game of chicken against everyone else to see who will be the first to turn the heat on. They will happily boast that they haven’t touched the thermostat yet, even when their windows are etched in lacy frost and they endlessly wax poetic about how much they love their heated blanket. Whilst it is true that heating one’s home is unnecessarily expensive in this country and it’s genuinely appalling that so many people can’t afford to keep their home at a safe and comfortable temperature, I implore those who can to please stop moaning and just turn on your fucking heat. It will make your life so much happier, I promise. (I’ve consistently had my heat on for weeks and while my mental health isn’t anything to shout about right now, my body temperature is very comfortable, my houseplants are thriving, and my laundry is drying beautifully.)
There is no relief sweeter than the end of a washing machine spin cycle. I didn’t even realise I was clenching my jaw, but now that it’s over and I’ve relaxed, all my teeth feel loose.
Something that is very puzzling about cat ownership is that it’s almost impossible to find information about how/why long-haired cats have different kinds of nails to short-haired cats. I can see with mine own eyes that they are different in terms of shape and materiality, so why is this so difficult to find information about on the world wide web?!
Fungi foray
Much like beauty, if you really look for it, fungus is everywhere.
Ed and I took a guided walk organised by the Southborough Society to explore the funtastical world of fungi that, when you really look, is everywhere around us. It was a nice way to start a Saturday morning and mushroom hunting, in particular, is always a great way to forget about the bullshit that fills our lives and focus the mind on seeing. The goal wasn’t to forage (as is my usual goal when mushrooming) but rather to open ourselves to the wonder of the natural world. Or that’s what I took away from it, anyway.
Though I’m far from an expert on fungi or the expansive world of mushrooms, I’m keen to learn more and am always interested in research that suggests that these types of organisms might help us to heal our bodies, minds, and environments. Though the news is filled with stories of ecological degradation and destruction, there are some hopeful stories out there - like this one:
“Scientists are increasingly looking at microorganisms, such as fungi and bacteria, to help tackle some of the most pressing challenges of the modern age, including the rising tide of plastic pollution. According to the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP), 400 million tonnes of plastic waste is produced annually, with a steep increase in levels of plastic pollution since the 1970s… To date, 436 species of fungi and bacteria have been found to degrade plastic and Kew scientists and partners believe their latest findings could lead to the development of efficient enzymes designed to biologically degrade plastic waste.”
It’s such a bummer that the billionaires of the world are more focused on water-guzzling data centres than plastic-eating fungi, that the average person is more likely to fill their brain with ai slop than eat a lion’s mane mushroom, but there are glimmers of hope, and though I would have loved to see more young people represented on our fungi foray yesterday, it’s encouraging that a group of 12-15 people showed up on a Saturday morning to really look around and learn a thing or two about something that might just be the key to our sustained survival on this dying planet.
meatballs for .99p
I had a very jolly evening in a wine bar with some friends last night (we had the best creamy and oh-so-goopy goat’s cheese!) so I needed a second breakfast at around 11:30. Doing the shopping hungry is always a bit of a risk, but today I lucked out; the new butcher shop in town sells meatballs for .99p. Though I don’t actually know the going rate for a single meatball, this feels like incredible value and I bought two on a whim whilst buying sausages for our supper. Across the street in the greengrocer, I lucked into finding some spaghetti squash, which is something that I always think you must buy when you see it as you never know when you’ll find it again. A plan largely driven by my stomach was beginning to form, and I also bought a bunch of basil and some beautiful cheery tomatoes.
When I got back home, I popped the meatballs and a handful of tomatoes onto a roasting tray and then into the oven. I chopped a stem full of basil leaves into ribbons and put them in a bowl with salt and pepper and a good glug of olive oil. As I waited for the oven to do its thing, I cut a piece of bread and put it in the toaster. Then I waited. Impatiently. Hungrily. When the tomatoes started to collapse I plucked them out of the oven with some tongs and then switched the oven onto grill, to give my balls a bit of crisp. I mixed the tomatoes into the basil and let their hot juice soak into the greens. Et voila, sauce. When the meatballs formed a nice brown crust on top, I placed them in the bowl with my sauce, grated some parmesan on top, and then buttered my toast, which I used primarily as an edible spoon. It was everything I hoped it to be.
David spent £3.59 at McDonald’s this morning on his slightly-hungover breakfast. Whilst I have no way of being 100% sure, at .99p/meatball, I think my little mid-morning indulgence came in cheaper than that, and I know for a fact that it was tastier and more delightful. Perhaps I should keep a dozen meatballs in the freezer for other mornings when the gnawing need for a second breakfast just won’t quit.
hungerford in autumn
A few snapshots from our trip to Hungerford this past weekend. Though I still maintain the habit of carrying my camera with me most places, I’ve been absolutely rubbish at taking photos for myself these past few years. But I’m trying to train my eye to get back into the habit of seeing.
I’m slowly working my way through Braiding Sweetgrass, taking my time with every chapter to absorb the wisdom and lessons. In it, Robin Wall Kimmerer recounts how she revitalised the pond behind her house in upstate NY, explains how much graft and care she took in nurturing the habitat back to life. “Everybody lives downstream,” she writes, “the water net connects us all.”
It’s incredible to think about how much work goes into making sure all these spaces that we share are ecologically balanced, safe for wildlife and humans alike, and protected. We’re very lucky here in the UK to have so much of our countryside open and accessible, and I’m thankful to everyone upstream who makes sure that these spaces stay healthy and sacred.
Going away with friends
It’s so fun, going away with friends. Sharing a kitchen and finding out which of these absolute heathens puts knives in the dishwasher, learning who falls asleep during every movie, who’s always suggesting we all play a game, who seems to have a catlike aversion to showering (me, I am the last one). It’s fun to see your friends in pyjamas, to find out what jobs they volunteer to do, to learn how much ribbing they can take before their morning coffee.
We spent the weekend in Hungerford at a friend’s brother’s house. It was my favourite kind of British home* - absolutely full of treasure, but nothing was precious. A house whose rhythms are set by the two cats, two dogs, and lizard who all live there and need regular feeding and care. Welcoming and well-loved, but with some bits that truly make a house your home - broken door handles that need to be turned just so, dusty base boards, those piles of papers that could absolutely go in the bin but someone thinks there might be something important in there! so they’re kept, just in case, in a neat stack on the piano. A home that is teeming with life, where nobody has to be too careful, where anyone can flop on the sofa or help themselves to whatever’s in the fridge or take a quick snooze in the sunny conservatory without fear of rebuke.
Our friend’s brother’s house backed onto the marshes - as I believe they’re called - that run through the town and oh, how I loved to be near the water! Clear and clean, a small river flows through the marshes towards the River Kennet, with a canal punctuated with locks another hundred yards along. Boys off school during half term were fishing in the shallow water, scientists were dragging nets through the riverbed and counting bugs, canal boats were moored up alongside the bank with plumes of smoke cheerily filling the air with the smell of warm autumn fire. Though I like where I live very much, I miss the streams, ponds and lakes of my childhood in the Midwest, and even though I never got my feet wet, stepping out to walk along the river in Hungerford was cleansing.
* I feel like Bridget’s family home in Bridget Jones Mad About the Boy does a great job of bringing this exact type of British home to the screen.
No, pt I
Sat next to a Norwegian man on a bus today who was raw-dogging a naked booster toilet seat around with him. I know it’s probably for his rosy-cheeked Norwegian child but genuinely, should it not be in a bag or something? I don’t know what’s worse, bum germs on the bus or bus germs on the bum, but either way it’s a no from me.
empty paper cups
Unfortunately the paper to-go cup acting in the first episode of the new season of Slow Horses is very bad. Why, why?!, can actors not act with an empty cup? Why, and I am genuinely asking, can we not put a little water in the paper cups so they have some weight to them, so the actors handle them not as a three-dimensional piece of paper but as a vessel for actual liquid that human beings drink? Why are we still, in the year of our lord 2025, when Andy Serkis can cover himself in dots and be turned into the most realistic monsters against which even bad actors convincingly act, are we still waving paper cups around like they are batons? If this is a liquid problem, could we not weight the cups with rocks? Could we not create a special cup insert that mimics the feeling of holding an actually filled cup? We must get our greatest minds working on this.
a new leaf
I love it when the room is quiet and then cwack!, you hear it, the sound of a thin sheath splitting and a new leaf begins to unfurl. If you listen closely you can hear it stretch, small but resolute and cracking like vertebrae, slowly, slowly. A breeze from outside comes through from under the door like a whisper and the whole plant flutters, delicate as an eyelid, blink-and-you-miss-it. Lola watches a spider creep up the long neck of the monstera and we all hold our breath; the sun is kissing the new green leaf and the cat’s eyes are narrow and her tail is thwacking the floor and I’m rapt, tapped into a universe in which I am godzilla, peering into rooms in which I’ll never fit.