Random burblings since 1999
Whether you celebrate, or not.
Are with family, or not.
To those who have difficult relationships with your family, those who are struggling, give yourself permission just to survive this week. Be kind to yourself.
It’s just another day after all. Or not.
I hope this festive day finds you well, or well enough.
I woke that Saturday morning before my alarm, had I set one, would’ve rang. I lay in bed for a moment. I can still remember that feeling of the bed being perfectly warm, not too hot, not too cold, and no matter which way I moved I was instantly comfortable. I fought the easy desire to go back to sleep as, whilst I had no plans, I did want to make the most of this particular day.
Having no plans was a strange thing for me.
In short order, once I was old enough, I moved from my parents house to my girlfriends flat, we got married, we moved several times, we separated and got back together again, and then we got divorced. I moved into my own flat (my very own for the first time!) and fell straight into another relationship, that became relationships until one day I realised why I wasn’t happy. Not because of the people in those relationships but because of me, I wanted to be alone.
And so, some weeks later I woke up in bed. Alone, no relationship, just me.
I had deliberately left the day free although I’m not sure why. That does make it sound like I’d planned the day to be empty which is, obviously, a plan in an of itself but that wasn’t my intent, rather I’d aimed to allow myself to have a day that unfolded before me in whatever pattern it decided. I hadn’t checked the weather, hadn’t thought about where I could go, what I would do.
So it was inevitable, I guess, that I took myself on a coffee walk.
Typically I try and limit myself to 4 coffees a day max, and try not to drink any caffeine after about 4pm so I have at least a chance of sleep, but I also had no plans on the following Sunday so, caution to the wind (how very rock n roll of me!) I decided I’d just work my way along one of the busier roads in the West End of Glasgow and stop for coffee as and when I saw a place I liked the look of!
Abstaining from coffee at home was the first hurdle – how automatically we fall into our routines, I pulled a mug from the cupboard and had started to fill the kettle before I realised what I was doing – so after a quick bite to eat I grabbed a jacket, my headphones, and set off.
The first stop was a place called Meadow Road. Little did I know that, a few years later, I would move much closer to it and it would become a favourite of my (now wife) girlfriend and I, so much so that I still drop in when I can to chat to Billy about whatever nonsense has happened since I last managed to visit.
After that it was a wander along past Space (tiny place but great coffee), then up Byres Road to a coffee shop that isn’t there anymore (and which I only dived into because the rain has started) before heading to TInderbox and then up towards Great Western Road to Papercup before heading home.
I wandered in and out of shops as my mood deemed fit, I meandered here, I diverted myself there, and largely just set a rough course of destination based on the next coffee house.
I had no time in mind, I had no reason to rush, nothing to get home for, no-one checking in on me to see what I was up to, it was remarkably freeing. I can remember sitting with my final coffee in the Botanic Gardens, finding a dry enough bench to pause and enjoy the fresh early autumn weather.
It wasn’t the last time I spent such aimless time with myself but it was the first in almost my entire adult life. Not because I was single, but because I’d chosen to allow myself to do it.
It was something that stuck with me, even if I didn’t apply it as often as I should’ve, that sense of allowing myself space to just be, to be present, to be open, to let my thoughts meander. It was the beginning of my own realisation that I was a bit lost. That I’d spent so long being there for other people, so long planning, setting goals, and compromising myself within relationships (not a bad thing but still a thing), that I had no idea who I really was and what I really wanted.
A few weeks later I started counselling with a view of ‘getting some help’. I told my family and friends, confirming that I didn’t feel depressed I just felt a bit stuck. It was the best thing I ever did for myself, and it still resonates to this day, still helps me understand my own actions and emotions, still helps me process life in a way that doesn’t sit as heavily on me as it used to.
It was just a day drinking coffee, walking familiar streets between rain showers.
But I don’t think I’d have been able to get through the past year or so without having taken that walk all those years ago, without realising that some days don’t have to be about anything other than existing, breathing one breathe after another. I find myself returning more and more to that feeling these past few years, putting aside anything else and experiencing the now; a walk in Mugdock with Becca and the dogs, a lazy rainy morning spent with Jack, and even the odd times I find myself staring out the window in a daydream.
Growing up my bedroom looked out at the Braehead roundabout, a couple of streets removed, but I’d sit at my desk and ignore my homework and watch the cars driving down the hill. I did this so often that I soon knew the car models just by their headlights. It’s something I’ve always done, had a little daydream but as I got older I started to training myself out of it, entering adulthood with important things on my mind and no time to daydream.
Thinking back to that day, walking along the streets of Glasgow, peer into shop windows, avoiding fellow pedestrians, shallow puddles from the last shower, I can still recall the way my mind wandered. Daydreaming, with no plan ahead of me.
We should all daydream a little more I think, all spend a bit more time NOT worrying about things that will still be there to worry us, NOT dwelling on darker thoughts but giving in to frivolity and whatever life puts in front of us at that moment.
A dandelion in the crack of a pavement, a sudden downpour leaving you soaked to the bone, life will always try and keep you in the present, maybe we should let it.
The dusty, decrepit past slides out of view as a brighter, fresher, more inviting future beckons you over the horizon. So is the story the New Year likes to tell, a narrative that talks of new beginnings, better versions of yourself,
I know, it’s just the earth moving around the sun, but that doesn’t stop the long held notion of a year coming to an end, and a new one stretching out in front of us. Old versus new, with all the implications that those words hold.
It’s safe to say it hasn’t been the best year, especially as my brain insists on (rightfully) pulling the last few months of 2024 into the same period of time.
A recap then, before I move onto happier thoughts; October 2024 we had to put our girl dog down, November 2024 my Mum died unexpectedly, her funeral that December put a darker shade on Christmas last year (other events too but that was the main one), in February of this year my younger sister died, and in June my best friend’s husband died after a long battle with cancer.
Of course there were highlights and wonderful memories as well but it was hard to shake my grief and it felt like a constant presence hovering behind me for most of the year, thankfully it didn’t spoil things but did at times leave a bittersweet taste; I sat alone on the sand dunes on Mull, watching yet another stunning sunset develop, realising I wouldn’t be able to share the beauty with my sister, or my Mum and Dad.
I have cried often this past year. Sometimes unexpectedly, sometimes silently, sometimes with that raw, painful, intensity that I haven’t experienced at any other time. I know grief isn’t time bound, but it does ease as time passes.
Looking back, what struck me most was the love and support I’ve had from so many people. I am not one who goes looking for it but having my closest friends reaching out to me, checking in on me and Becca, made me realise how lucky I am. I knew all this of course, but it’s easy to take these things for granted, swept up in the week to week activities and catchups and updates, where it’s easier to chat about everyday things than delve into darker emotional times.
They brought light into my life when I needed it most, laughter when required, and a quiet acceptance of how I was – whilst I don’t think my attitude and nature was all that different, I’m sure the changes in me were evident to those who know me well – I would not have gotten through this past year without them, without Becca, without Jack.
And if ever there was bright shining star to keep me focussed on the future and all the joy, love, and happiness it will bring, it’s my wonderful wife and beautiful son.
I was out a gig recently, my first in a year, and I was discussing previous gig that my friend Andi and I had attended together, so many great nights and, for a while, I was almost at a gig (or more) every month. Naturally that has tapered off since the birth of my son, as I want to be present for him and Becca, I want to be a good husband, a loving father, and it struck me last night how much I missed them, missed the bedtime routine with Jack, missed just hanging out with them.
They both make me happy, content, and I feel so much love for them that it’s all I really need. I am not going to predict if next year will be good or bad, but I am looking forward to another year of making memories for Jack, of watching him flourish and grow, and of supporting Becca as she’s start another journey herself into a new career.
I am very lucky, very privileged to be able to look forward to 2026 with one key thing in my mind.
Hope.
It can be hard at this time of year (I know I’ve a mix of excitement and dread building as we barrel towards Christmas) so if anyone here needs an ear, a moan, a distraction, please reach out. If not to me, there are charities who will support you.
📞 24/7 / Immediate Support
* Samaritans – emotional support any time you need to talk
📍 116 123 (freephone, 24/7/365)
Email: jo@samaritans.org
(Also a Welsh Language line: 0808 164 0123, 7 pm–11 pm)
* SHOUT – 24/7 crisis text support (if you prefer texting)
📍 Text “SHOUT” to 85258 for free, confidential text support.
📞 Charity Phone Lines (Support, Listening & Signposting)
* Mind – national mental health charity offering support, information & signposting
📍 0300 102 1234 (support line, Mon–Fri, 9 am–6 pm)
* SANEline – emotional support and information
📍 0300 304 7000 (daily, usually late afternoon–evening)
* CALM (Campaign Against Living Miserably) – support for anyone feeling down or suicidal
📍 0800 58 58 58 (daily, 5 pm–midnight) including webchat support.
🧑🎓 Support for Young People
* The Mix – mental health support for under 25s
📍 0808 808 4994 (freeline; open daily with varied hours)
Text support via the same Shout/85258 mechanism tailored for youth.
* Childline – for anyone under 19
📍 0800 1111 (free, 24/7) with online chat counsellors.
* Papyrus (HOPElineUK) – suicide prevention for young people and those worried about them
📍 0800 068 4141 (daily, 9 am–midnight)
📌 Additional Useful Support Lines
* Switchboard LGBT+ Support – listening and information
📍 0800 0119 100 (call/text/email)
I’ve done it again. Made plans with myself to do two things, both of which have been bubbling along in my head for a few months now, both of which will take a fair amount of prep work, but it feels like the right time to do them.
Not in an ‘ohh it’s almost the end of the year I’d better get this shit done’ kinda way, more an acceptance that both tasks will take some months to complete, and planning for that accordingly.
It started when Apple released their Journal app.
It started after another round of trying to find an easier/nicer way to blog.
I’ve used Day One since 2011. Not everyday, far from it, but there are still ~2000 entries in there. Some of them are meaningful to me, dealing with deeper thoughts and emotions, some are a little performative (hindsight eh!) in terms of trying different styles of journalling (3 Things that went well today… etc), and some which, as I’ve started looking back at them, make no sense to me whatsoever but must’ve felt important enough at the time to write down?
Yes I’m slowly reviewing these, month at a time, and moving (copy/paste) them from Day One to Apple Journal.
My long term aim is to ditch Day One. I don’t use many of its extra features, it’s always been more private note/diary than personal improvement tool, so Apple Journal meets my needs, plus having it baked into the Apple ecosystem means that I can easily capture days that include photos I’ve taken.
Yes, there are some improvements that Apple could add (an Import feature would be useful right now!), but it’s good enough for me.
My blog has always been text focussed. I’ve posted a few photos here and there but mostly used Flickr for that, and now Instagram but I don’t really do photography any more, just take snapshots of my life so it’s not as important to me as it was back when I had time/money/desire to treat photography as a hobby.
I started my blog in 1999 with hand written HTML code but the focus was always on the words. I had (and still have) no real direction for it, it’s just thoughts and life commentary, my public diary if you will.
Looking back over the early years there is a LOT of posts which make no sense, or have zero value today (links to websites that no longer exist, one line commentary on something I can’t even remember now, etc) and so I’m starting to cull those from my current blog, with a view to slimming it down to only things I want to keep.
Once I’ve done that I will start looking at moving it from hosted WordPress to somewhere else that is simpler, cheaper, and has fewer hoops to jump through. Bear is where I’m leaning at present but that’s not set in stone and as it’ll be several months before I get to that stage, I’ll reassess then.
It’s no coincidence that these are the two digital tasks I’ve chosen to undertake given my recent post about Legacy and the things we leave behind us. Inheriting the digital photos and files from my Dad’s PC is something I haven’t even considered yet either and, to be honest, I’m not sure I will beyond a cursor look.
It does feel odd though, in today’s technology climate where storage isn’t really an issue if you have the money. And I’m not doing any of this to save money, more to try and keep my digital life less cluttered. Many years ago I took the same approach with my physical belongings too, and I’m taking the same approach digitally. If it has some value to me, keep it, if it doesn’t, delete it.
It’s an ongoing process I know, I only need look as far as my wardrobe for proof that while I’m pretty good at decluttering, I’m not great at stopping it build up again. It’s a cycle, a rinse and repeat that I could avoid if I were more mindful as I went along, something I’m hoping I will apply digitally moving forward too and, looking at this blog and the types of posts I’ve published over the past few years I think I’ve got the hang of…
As ever though, time will tell. I may well be posting about this topic again (again) in a few years time.
Looking back over the past year, the most tiring part, physically and emotionally, was clearing out my Mum’s flat. Whilst Mum and Dad had done a LOT of clearing out before they downsized, it doesn’t take long to build up more stuff, more detritus. Even after my Dad passed and Mum spent months slowly working her way through his office and belongings, there was still a mountain of belongings to sort through, to donate, to recycle, to keep, to trash.
It was hard work, sorting through it all, making decisions of what to keep – most of which boiled down to diaries, letters and photos – and all the time wondering how this diminishing pile of collected items could possibly have defined their lives. So many memories boiled down to so few things.
Of course, it didn’t, the items we buy and own don’t actually hold that power precisely because they are transient, yet it made me think about the eulogies I wrote for both my parents, the lives they led, the ideals and morals they upheld, the ethics they felt bound by, and I can see for both of them one thing that was already dawning on me.
I am their legacy. My son is their legacy. My nieces are their legacy.
It’s a daunting thought.
OK, let’s bust out a definition:
“A legacy is a lasting gift passed from one person or generation to another, encompassing not just material possessions but also the experiences, achievements, and values that define a person’s life. It reflects the impact an individual has had on others and the world around them, including their actions, beliefs, and contributions.”
In my younger years I heard talk of legacy and left it aside, presuming it was only for the people in the world who were making a difference, who could move mountains if they wished, they leaders of my time be they local and immediate, or world renowned and distant. The latter is where most of us spend our time looking of course; I can remember the hope that filled the world when Obama was elected (and the despair that we are all feeling at the current incumbent of that office).
We look to sporting heroes, movie stars, pop sensations and place them on a pedestal, assuring their legacies through records, achievements, and popularity.
But how do we judge those closer to home, how do we judge ourselves?
What is my legacy, is it really my son? Is it really that simple.
And obviously when I say simple, I mean mind-boggling, terrifyingly, thrillingly, complex.
Thinking back on the plethora of my parents stuff I had to sort through, I am keen to keep my meaningful belongings to a minimum and if at all possible offer some signposts on things that may/could/should be taken forward.
There are some physical items that hold meaning for me, I have kept the large wooden barometer that used to hang in my Grandparents house in Rutherglen; a large 3 story home with a long entrance hall, that dog-legged round the foot of the staircase. It used to hang near the front door, next to the coats tand, itself an antique with a large warped mirror and intricate carvings atop multiple large folding hooks for coats and hats, and upon leaving the house you’d stop here and tap the barometer to ensure you knew which way the weather was heading. I was in and out of that house every weekend (and more) for 18 years, and it’s one of the most vivid memories I have, one that floods my senses whenever I see the barometer now (currently in a cupboard, sadly).
But this item, which holds so many rich memories for me, will likely mean nothing to my son. We don’t have it hanging near the front door (and in any case we use the back door almost exclusively). Should we hang it somewhere? Would that allow him to attach his own memories and add to the legacy the barometer already holds? Is that how it works, with memories being piled up on memories to give an enhanced level of gravitas to a physical object?
Is that really how a legacy can be created and maintained?
When my Dad passed, as I mentioned in his eulogy, the overarching sentiment was that he was a good man. It gave me great solace at the time and, even without the usual lens afforded to such comments (does anyone really speak ill of the recently dead?), I knew it to be true.
Yet I now find myself wondering how that came to be? A life lived with good humour, with generosity and kindness, those things I can see and, if I’m honest, take some comfort from as I hope that I am living my life in a similar manner, although perhaps without the outreach my Dad had as a teacher, a performer, as well as his involvement in the local Rotary and Burns Clubs. He was known to many and all held him in the same regard. If that isn’t a legacy, what is?
My Mum was similarly viewed and for similar reasons. Known to many as a teacher, her involvement in the local Inner Wheel gave her a wonderful outlet for her natural tendencies to organise and put others first. Mum was all about the small things, a wee minding (a small gift), a thank you note posted; she kept a stock of cards covering all the major life occasions in a drawer ‘just in case’.
I come from good stock, of that I am both sure and very aware of, my upbringing was a good one full of many privileges. That in itself should be apparent because, let’s be honest, it’s really only those with a comfortable life without many challenges, whose days are easy and for whom achievements are that little closer than others – I don’t have to deal with racism or sexism, my gender isn’t questioned, and I am able bodied – that have lots of energy and time to consider what impression we are leaving behind and how, indeed should it even be considered, my legacy will be noted.
And yet some people, regardless of privilege or status, in times regardless of the lack of either, will forge a legacy without even considering it, purely through their determination alone.
I have no grand hopes or thoughts in this regard, I am not exceptional in any way, I will not be remembered in history books. It is only the smallest percentage of any population who are remembered in this way and fewer still who transcend the idea of legacy altogether and become legend. I have written on this before, I am, and am happy to remain, master of nothing but knowledgeable of much.
That said, there is the small matter of honour and ego. If my son is my legacy – and therefore my grandparents legacy, and their parents before and so on down through the lineage – am I doing a good enough job in giving him the skills, tools, and emotional capability to have a chance of understanding his own place in the world whilst flourishing within it? Is it even fair to consider the idea of the passing of my legacy to him? I know the slow rise of the burden that the idea of legacy can hold will start to approach him as he grows older, just as it seems to be doing with me, so who am I to add to it?
I’ve had this blog for a long long time. It’s been through three changes of platform – hand crafted HTML to Blogger to WordPress – some changes of focus, including splitting out my professional (technical communications) posts, and the fiction posts, into their own blogs with their own domains (long since lapsed and the content merged back into this blog), and so many layout and template changes I’ve lost count.
My approach to blogging has changed throughout the years as well; from the early, short sharp silly/pointless posts – the joy of Blogger was the immediacy – through to my current more focussed posts. I’ve hosted blog meets in London and Edinburgh, been in newspaper articles, have a quote in the Essential Blogging book by Cory Doctorow, and on and on it goes. I still have the first domain name I used for my blog – www.snowgoon.co.uk – too. If my blog isn’t part of my legacy, what is?
And then there is the tens of thousands of digital artefacts to consider; photos, documents, diary entries, notes, and emails. What do they say about me as a collective? What do they contribute to how I am viewed when I’m no longer here? I should curate, delete and get prepared as, of all the items of my legacy, these seem the most achievable to tackle, or perhaps just the most under my immediate control.
I’m not sure. I’m not sure how much of my parent’s legacy I actually carry, if any at all. Perhaps instead it is just another thing, an item on the pile, that needs to be dealt with somehow. Maybe in time it will fade into the trash heap of life, or maybe it will be carried with me, captured in some physical item or another.
Regardless, there is the small, and shrinking, matter of my own immediate legacy. What am I leaving behind? What will people speak of when I am turned to ash?
And here I will stop for fear of starting to try and write my own eulogy and that is a step too far. Suffice to say that I know I will leave behind far too much lego, an old barometer, and hopefully a view of someone who was kind and thoughtful to all despite his flaws.