I guess you'd call it a blog

Alacrity Johnson was a man that understood the world and his place in it. Specifically, he understood that overlooking the scurrying ants of Alderway from a 12th-storey office was decidedly more pleasant than being part of the colony. He gazed at the crowds absently, a stray thought wondering why anyone would choose labour and laughable wages over a successful career. Lack of ambition and late toilet training, probably.  “Earmark that for the new book will you, Egg?” Mr Johnson’s assistant was Miss Caitlyn Gregg, distinguished magna cum laude graduate of Alderway’s most prestigious school. With a mind like whetted steel and a stare that could make continents sprint, one might expect her to find the chronic mispronunciation of her name as Quailing Egg to be offensive or demeaning.  But she simply nodded her head with the kind of robotic sagacity that could only come from working with Alacrity Johnson.  “Of course, sir. If you could just repeat that out loud?”  Among...

I think most of us expect progress to come in huge, sweeping waves. And sometimes it does.  But in most cases, for most things, those waves are more like ripples on the surface. Small. Subtle. But there .  So it is with mental health.  When you've been stressed and anxious for a long time, and the main stressor is removed, you might expect to feel an instant release. A euphoric blast of anti-stress!  I haven't found that. But what I have found is that the signs of mental health progress are there. You just need to know what you're looking for. For me, that improvement is far less about how I feel  than what I do .  Stress leads to a lot of symptoms. Among them tiredness, anxiety, bloating, sore muscles, lack of enthusiasm - and so on. It is a fallacy that those things could ever just up sticks and disappear overnight. You can feel those things for a long time after the cause, that main stressor, is gone.  But what you do , that's different.  A sma...

Or... Space Guns Go Boom Boom: A spaghetti space western starring forgettable characters and lazy contrivance.  Old Man's War starts off strong with sincere, amusing characterisation. It deploys humour without the exclamation points and sincerity that's quiet and real. I believe John loved his wife profoundly, and misses her terribly, but that eight years have passed and the feelings are deep but no longer raw. That he has quiet scars on his soul.  The author doesn't ever try and say "My heart ached at the loss, every day, like an earthquake levelling Japan" but instead makes simple, real observations: "I miss my wife. It’s easier to miss her at a cemetery, where she’s never been anything but dead, than to miss her in all the places where she was alive." That's beautiful. It's showing, not telling, and what endears me immediately to the main character.  I also believe in John's age. It's a first-person view of a 75-year-old and I believe ...

I had this client when I was self-employed. Greek guy. Unbelievably successful - revered, even - but also intense and dramatic. But here’s the thing: I never did the work. Sly and devilish, I’d get AI to do the work for me, whatever it was. Eventually, I f*cked up and got caught. His anger was righteous, like a bolt of lightning. But he was cunning too. The fury contained within the gathering clouds. He invited me round for a drink and, safe in my intellectual superiority, I accepted. Well bugger that for a laugh. He led me to the basement, where his deranged brother lived. Weird guy. Loved sticks. Anyway the brother, he was a wild one. He sat me down at his computer - ostensibly for help with a copy problem - and when I was distracted, cuffed me to the seat. He said I could leave as soon as I’d finished writing the copy. It was one landing page. So, freaked as I was, I knew it wouldn’t last long. But these Greeks - they’re sly too. I sent the first version. Reply: sharp...

The lights dim and the chorus of excited chatter is extinguished. I nestle into my chair. Rapt. A character strolls on stage and I burst into a wide, excited smile. Before a word is spoken, or a note is played, I’m humming with anticipation. … The cast bows and I’m on my feet, smacking my palms together and cheering until I’m hoarse. I feel moved. More, I feel something deep in my chest - a powerful, pulsating energy.  I feel  inspired . … It was the second time I’d seen Hamilton. And as I stood waiting for the bus home — gripping  cash because my phone was dead — I got thinking. About how I felt all the same sensations last time, too. Pride, shock, cringe, joy and sadness. The rest.  I thought about how, across all art, there are very few things that bring me that intense, lingering inspiration. A great musical theatre performance is certainly one of them. I considered some others: The novel I tear open at first light, on the bus, at lunch, and late at ...