It’s the season I wait for. Spring is fine, full of promise, if a little loud about summer coming. But autumn is steady. The rush has passed, the air cools, and I can dress the way I want instead of for the heat. The Uniqlo soufflé knits come out of storage.

I think of autumn like visiting a place after the tourists have gone. Life slows down, and the quieter details show themselves. My grandmother used to take me to the seaside off-season mostly to Southend. If the weather turned, the crowds would vanish. Those days always felt better than the sunny ones. You could hear the sea, notice what the tide brought in, walk the beach without interruption.

That’s what autumn is for me. While everything else picks back up, I get to see the season itself.

I’ve been thinking about how to use this space.

A lot of what ends up in my journal never makes it here. Some ideas feel too small for a full post, or maybe too narrow to stand alone. I’m going to try keeping a weekly log for free subscribers—a place to collect what’s been on my mind. Then, if something seems worth more time, I’ll do a longer piece for paid subscribers.

The log will come together out of small notes I write each day. By the weekend, it should take shape.

That feels like a good balance. The lighter ideas get shared instead of sitting in a notebook, and the bigger ones get the space they need. We’ll see how it works.

This week I discovered I was a big fan of a Robert Redford.

The news of his passing reached me in an unexpected place, during a first aid course. Our trainer, a former film studies teacher, received the message and announced it to us. That evening I put on Three Days of the Condor. It’s a film I’ve always listed among my favourites, though I’ve only watched it twice. I think that’s because I don’t want to wear it out. Some things feel better when they stay a little rare.

A few nights later I began All the President’s Men. At one point I paused on a scene (below) that caught me. A rotary phone coil, piles of books, a lamp throwing gold across the room. The furniture, the clutter, the light—ordinary things, but different from how they would look today. I found myself more interested in these details than in the dialogue in particular the newsroom filled with typewriters, the casual lighting of a cigarette and the rhythm of an older workflow.

Something that stuck with me this week is the rise of ads on social media disguised as podcast conversations. They use a scripted question-and-answer style, giving the impression that the person speaking is an expert, when in fact it’s just an ad. It’s not far from the old toothpaste commercials where an actor put on a white coat or a product gained authority by adding “Dr.” to the label.

What bothers me is how deliberately misleading it feels. I’ve noticed popular creators taking part in these ads, as though their presence is enough to lend credibility. Podcasts have become a space where subject experts can share knowledge and lived experience so to see the format repurposed as marketing feels exploitative.

There’s a difference between this and the TV ads we grew up with. Testimonial-style adverts were common, but they were always separated from the programme you were watching. You knew when the content stopped and the advertising began. With these podcast-style ads, the boundary isn’t as clear. On TikTok especially, where people scroll quickly, you could miss the tiny “ad” label in the corner altogether.

I was disappointed to see one of my favourite creators appear in a baked bean campaign using this format.

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A few months ago on a Sunday, I was in a branch of McDonald’s with my daughter. We had gotten most of our order but were still waiting on a McFlurry. After about five minutes, I went back to the waiting area I could see the McFlurry sitting on the table where orders ready to go to customers were kept. I waited to be called for it, but the staff were occupied with an unhappy customer.

He was behaving belligerently. There was something wrong with his coffee, and he was filming the staff - presumably for TikTok - while narrating what they were or weren’t doing to his satisfaction. This went on for a good 10 or 15 minutes. You could ask why I didn’t say anything. Well, I’ve learned better than to insert myself into these situations. Although he was being extremely rude, he wasn’t being violent which is where I personally draw the line. I’ve worked in retail in many different jobs. He wasn’t a customer I was unfamiliar with.

The woman serving him was not intimidated. She was ignoring him, continuing to get other orders ready, and muttering things to herself like, “I was supposed to go to church today.” Every time she came close to the counter, he shoved the camera in her face and kept narrating things like “Poor customer service.”

When I finally went to retrieve my daughter’s McFlurry, I looked at the woman and said, “Thank you, and I hope you have a much better rest of your day.” She smiled and said thank you back.

The man heard this and immediately deflated a little. His arrogant confidence had come from the silence of the surrounding customers. He had assumed that, by not speaking up, we all agreed with him. Maybe the staff thought that too. But after that brief exchange, he quietened down maybe because he realised that we weren’t silent in agreement with him but silent in dismissal of him.

I’m not sharing this story to brag. I didn’t want the employee to think I was in agreement with him. I hadn’t expected the impact that small moment would have or the realisation it would bring. Once he had deflated, I saw a man who clearly has no fulfilment in his life. He was arguing about a coffee in McDonald’s at 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning. Maybe no one takes him seriously, so he resorts to bullying people who aren’t in a position to argue back. I’ve seen enough of these types of people in both my working and personal life to notice the pattern.

It reminded me that silence is powerful. The woman getting harassed on the train, surrounded by a wall of silence. You might think you’re just not getting involved, but actually, you’re empowering the perpetrator. In their mind, your silence means agreement or fear. It tells them that what they’re doing is fine. That they’re entitled to do it.

I was reminded of something I did at school over 25 years ago. A classmate was being openly bullied in our form room during lunchtime. The bully was part of a larger inner circle in the school and was generally not a very nice person. That day, she shoved the dirty bristle end of a sweeping broom into the face of a classmate who was trying to eat. It made me so angry. I wanted to speak up, but doing so would have meant becoming a target myself. So I did what I could: I wrote an anonymous letter to our year head.

Less than 20 minutes later, the bully was summoned over the tannoy. We didn’t see her for the rest of the week, and for the rest of the year she ate her lunch elsewhere.

Our silence enables the perpetrator and reinforces the idea that no one cares about the victim either. But once that silence is broken, the balance of power shifts. The perpetrator deflates. The victim inflates.

Silence empowers. We just have to decide who we want to hand that power to.

We are now into week four of my kitchen remodel, and I am seriously feeling the withdrawal. I haven’t so much as sliced a garlic clove in a month. I ran out of kimchi weeks ago, and the fact that I can’t just make more is, frankly, unbearable.

We’ve been surviving on ready meals (M&S ones are the best, FYI) and an ever-rotating selection of food deliveries. At this point, I should probably add the delivery drivers to our family WhatsApp group. But I can’t take it much longer.

Cooking from scratch is more than just a preference for me—it’s a necessity. I want to know exactly what’s in the food I make for my family, but beyond that, it’s the process itself that I miss. The quiet rhythm of chopping, the slow transformation of ingredients, the satisfaction of fermenting my own kimchi, knowing that in a few weeks, it will be tangy and complex in just the right way. Cooking is one of the few things that can ground me, and without it, I feel untethered.

This whole experience has made me realise just how much my surroundings affect me. The old kitchen, in its state of disrepair, was a source of frustration—I hadn’t fully understood how much until now. The improvements we’ve made are already making a difference, even though I haven’t fully moved back in yet. The space feels lighter, more intentional. It’s funny how a physical change can shift something internally too.

I long to cook again. I crave the simple pleasure of preparing a meal with my own hands. The first thing I’ll make? Probably kimchi. Or maybe just something as simple as garlic sizzling in a pan—The aroma I have missed the most….

After finishing university last year, I’ve spent a long time job searching. It was exhausting. To put some much effort into applications, preparing for interviews only to not hear back and not be successful in the interview. While this is often very disheartening for everyone, I find it particularly hard as a neurodivergent as I only have enough dopamine for each attempt and with the stream of rejection or radio silence, the amount of dopamine slowly diminishes.

To take a break, I used a 30-day free trial on Skillshare and searched for line drawing, a natural extension of my nail art skills. I wanted to learn a new skill that was solely to enjoy and hyperfocus on without the pressure of doing it for a purpose.

I found that it was easy to hyperfocus on and see instant results, it is easy to do anywhere. I found myself often popping some pens and my mini sketchbook in my bag when going out. Especially good for spending the afternoon in the playground.

I started this in autumn ‘24 when the leaves are such beautiful colours and would often find myself looking for opportunities to take photos of pages in my sketchbook.

I started with abstract images but soon shifted to botanical line art, which I’ve always loved. I found a lesson on drawing wreaths and was hooked. I also love mushrooms and fungi, so I incorporated them into my work and enjoyed it even more.

Despite taking this up solely to enjoy doing it I did find myself imagining being hired to draw the wreaths on shop windows. That would be an awesome little side hustle to do now and then!

If you want to try Skillshare, take advantage of their 30-day free trial—you never know where it might lead you.

Skillshare referral link here

This is something I’m trying to teach my daughter and, at the same time, something I’m working hard to condition within myself. I picture my goals as the horizon—vast, inevitable, waiting for me. The small obstacles along the way are just pebbles and litter on the path.

When you walk toward something beautiful—a sunset over the ocean, the destination you’ve set for yourself—you might stumble. A jagged stone, a discarded drink can. It’s frustrating, maybe even painful, but are you going to stop, turn around, and fixate on it? Will you spend precious time scolding the can, shouting at the stone, berating yourself for not seeing it sooner? If you do, you risk losing sight of the very thing you were moving toward. You might veer off course entirely.

This is the mindset I try to apply to my goals, and I find it incredibly helpful.

Take this newsletter. I hesitated to promote it on my social media. I imagined the people I know who might cringe, who might be dismissive. The thought of their judgment held me back. But I recently set a goal: 1,000 subscribers. When I applied the horizon analogy, everything shifted. Those people I was so self-conscious about became nothing more than pebbles in the sand, and my 1,000 subscribers became the horizon.

Suddenly, I felt empowered to share. Across my social media, I have around 300 followers, and the people I worried about? Maybe 10 of them. Was I really going to let 10 people outweigh the opportunity in front of me?

This is the conditioning of 30+ years that I am undoing. It’s not easy, but I am getting there. Eyes on the horizon.

Always.

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The Marketability Over Talent Problem

I recently watched an interview with a songwriter who helped create Rihanna’s SOS and was surprised to learn that the song is mostly made up of 80s song titles. That moment of revelation clicked something into place for me: music doesn’t bring me joy the way it used to because it doesn’t feel like it’s being made with the same artistry anymore.

I don’t care for award shows either, because most of the artists I don’t even recognise. And I think that’s because today’s music industry prioritises looks and marketability over raw musical talent. How well will this artist's face look on a perfume bottle or a clothing line?

Take Sabrina Carpenter, for instance. I’m not saying she isn’t talented—clearly, she is—but I wonder how many equally, if not more, talented artists never get a chance simply because they don’t fit a certain marketable image. The industry used to call this the ‘X factor’ long before the TV show of the same name. I remember reading an old interview with Victoria Beckham where she admitted that she wasn’t the most talented at her Spice Girls audition, but she had ‘it’—a quality that made her commercially viable in ways that others at the audition weren’t.

Now, with social media and digital marketing, artists don’t even need exceptional vocal ability—autotune and ghost singers (like Ashanti or Christina Milian filling in vocals for bigger stars) can cover that. The real money isn’t in the music itself anymore, but in the brand, the lifestyle, and the products attached to these carefully curated personas.

The Music Industry Feels More Like a Marketing Machine

I guess I’ve grown skeptical of modern music in the same way I’ve become skeptical of fast fashion. I don’t want to spend time falling in love with an artist, thinking they’re a genuine, skilled musician, only to later realize they’re the equivalent of a Shein dress—cheaply made, mass-produced, and designed solely for profit.

I miss the grit of the music industry before it became this polished, overproduced spectacle. Artists today are almost mythological, placed on a Mount Olympus of superstars, where the bigger the pedestal, the more we idolize them. It feels orchestrated, as though music itself is just a byproduct of their larger brand machine, rather than the reason they became famous in the first place.

It’s hard to tell which artists are genuine and which ones are industry plants—manufactured products designed to generate money rather than meaningful art.

Searching for Authenticity

Lately, I’ve been going out of my way to find music that feels real again. I scroll through Spotify searching for artists I’ve never heard of, curating playlists that feel untouched by the industry’s manufactured gloss. One of my favorite discoveries is a Parisian jazz café playlist—filled with musicians I’ve never heard of but whose music instantly transports me to a different time and place. I also find myself drawn to ambient music and lesser-known indie artists, anything that doesn’t sound like it was designed in a marketing boardroom.

And yes, I still go back to my ‘old music’—which really isn’t that old. It’s 70s to early 2020s, but mostly from artists who were established before this industry shift toward pure marketability over craft.

Getting Off the Train

I suppose my point is this: I want to step away from this modern music industry machine. I want to find music that is gritty, raw, less-than-perfect, and not overproduced. I want to listen to artists who make music because they love it, not because it’s the next profitable venture in their influencer pipeline.

I don’t think music has lost its magic entirely—but I do think you have to dig a little deeper to find it these days.

I loved how it didn’t demand my attention the way most sci-fi does. No explosions, no high-stakes drama, no frantic pacing. Just soft, meditative storytelling that gave me space to actually sit with what was happening. I could notice the small things—the way the light hit a room, the pauses in conversation, the quiet hum of machines in the background. I wasn’t overwhelmed, which meant I could really absorb it.

I took my time watching it. I didn’t rush from one episode to the next. I let each one settle before moving on, savouring the experience rather than speeding through it. I wish I did this more often with the things I love. There’s something special about allowing yourself time to think about what you’ve just experienced before moving onto the next thing.

And the soundtrack—I still listen to it now. There’s something about its ambient, melancholic tone that feels like a warm embrace. It’s the kind of music that lingers, weaving itself into moments of my day, resurfacing at odd times when I least expect it. I love when music does that, when it becomes more than just background noise and instead feels like an extension of my own thoughts.

Visually, too, the show was stunning. The muted, mid-century-inspired colour palette gave everything a timeless, almost surreal quality. It reminded me of faded photograph

s. It felt nostalgic, even though I had no direct connection to the world it was depicting. The set design was impeccable, every detail intentional, every space lived-in.

The cast was perfect—Jonathan Pryce, Rebecca Hall, and so many others bringing such a quiet intensity to their roles. Their performances felt real, like they belonged in that world, rather than just acting within it.

More than anything, Tales from the Loop left me with something rare: a kind of quiet awe. It wasn’t a show that made my heart race—it was one that made me reflect. It made me think about time, memory, and human connection in a way I hadn’t before.

I don’t know if I’ll ever find another show that quite captures this feeling. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe part of the magic of it is that it exists in this singular way, unable to be replicated. But I do know this: I’ll keep coming back to it, in my mind, in my music, in the way I try to slow down and really take things in.

And that, I think, is the mark of something truly special.

TFTL is currently available on Amazon Prime

I decided to splash out on a gorgeous composition book and fountain pen from Choosing Keeping opting for an A4 size instead of the usual A5 size. I have loved this shop for so long, they are quite expensive so I waited until I had some birthday/ christmas money first. I opted for larger size as i had no previous experience of using this size for this purpose and any involuntary conditioning I had from writing in A5 would hopefully not transfer over.

It is wonderful. I don’t set a writing schedule - this is surefire way to wreck a hobby for me and i enjoy it too much to do that-. I write when I feel like it which has been twice in one day or twice in a fortnight and whatever in-between. I like the writing by hand aspect of it too. It’s not so easy to fix mistakes so it encourages your mind to find the best way to communicate your thoughts.

I started writing in October 2024 and my book is almost half full. I write about the effects that events or happenings have on how I feel and philosophical theories mainly. It really helps with discovering why i feel a particular way about something. As I write, my mind is constantly analysing - it actually feels more like I am taking minutes of mind voice!

Often I have found that the mindset I have when I start writing will completely change when I have finished writing. Actually, this is often the reason I will sit down to write; something someone has done or said will have upset me incredibly, writing about it helps me see from the perspective of a bystander or the person that has upset me and it will change how I feel about it.

This shift in how I approach journaling has made all the difference. Instead of trying to craft something polished and profound, I now let my thoughts flow naturally, and in doing so, I’ve found clarity in places I never expected. My journal isn’t a manuscript—it’s a conversation with myself, a record of evolving perspectives, and a space where I untangle my emotions in real time. It’s strange to think that something as simple as changing the format—both physically and mentally—was what finally made it stick. But here I am, pages filling up, thoughts unfolding, and for the first time, truly enjoying the process.

I may share some excerpts on PTD in the future….

After learning I have ADHD—and possibly autism—I’ve been noticing all the little ways I forced myself to conform without even realising it. The routines I stuck to because they were “normal.” The things I thought I liked but never actually did. Even down to the clothes I wear—turns out, I can’t stand bright colours or busy patterns near my face, but I never gave myself permission to notice.

So now, I’m unlearning. Paying attention. Figuring out what actually works for me instead of what I thought was supposed to. Pardon the Dust is where I share what I find—small discoveries that make life in a neurotypical world a little easier, thoughts I used to suppress because I assumed they were wrong. They never were. I just wasn’t surrounded by the right people.

Since I started this process, everything has changed for the better. But like any kind of remodelling, there’s a mess before things start to take shape. That’s where the name comes from—this space, like me, is a work in progress.

If any of this resonates, you might be doing some unlearning, too. Welcome.