Something for the Weekend W9
There is, apparently, a genuine trade in mummified human heads — bought and sold quietly online, no safety guidance, sent by the same postal service that loses your parcels.
The Old Grey Thinker
Reporting back from the extra years nobody prepared us for. Free guides and daily essays about the second act, when life's still going but the instructions have vanished.For when you need to know you're not alone.No gurus. No hustle. Tea. Obviously.
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My Granddaughter Asked Me What a Final Salary Pension Was. I Didn't Have a Good Answer.
Poppy is eleven, and she has recently discovered that adults do not, in fact, know everything, which is a discovery I remember making myself at roughly the same age, about my own father, standing in a garage holding a fan belt like it owed him money.
I Spent Forty Minutes Convincing a Robot I Was a Human Being
I Spent Forty Minutes Convincing a Robot I Was a Human Being
They Sent Me a Form to Prove I Wasn't Dead.
I Very Nearly Wasn't, By the Time I Finished It.
When Did You Last Let Yourself Be Genuinely Bad at Something, on Purpose?
I want it on record that I did not want to enter the horticultural show.
Fourteen Years I Investigated Marine Disasters.
Not One of Them Was Actually Sudden.
A Short and Slightly Awkward Request
There’s no graceful way to do this, so I’ll do it quickly and we can both move on.
Four Forms. Four Different Answers to the Same Question.
Not One of Them Wrong Exactly
Something for the Weekend, Issue 8
Three hundred years ago, cartographers kept drawing an island that didn’t exist, in the exact same spot, because nobody could be bothered to sail out and check.
There's a Notebook by the Kettle Now. It's Been Taking Notes on My Brain for a Fortnight.
There’s a notebook by the kettle now — cheap, spiral-bound, the sort you’d use for a shopping list — except this one has spent the last fortnight logging every time my brain either lost something it should have kept, or found something faster than it had any right to.
There's Always a Parking Space on a Tuesday. It Took Me a Year to Trust It.
Half past nine on a Tuesday morning, and the car park outside the supermarket is two-thirds empty.
I Miss Being Witnessed, Not Being Employed
I caught myself narrating my own gardening out loud last Tuesday.