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Honesty is the best policy

In my twenties and thirties I had a phrase—I suppose these days I might have called it a mantra—which I kept to myself, but always tried to live by: Honesty is a good policy, but tact is a better one. It was really a reminder to be a nice guy. Be kind. In the long run it's better to be kind than right, right? Maybe that's true when it comes to your dealings with other people, but when it comes to yourself it is wrong... dead wrong. If you want to improve you really have to be honest with yourself. You have to admit what you suck at, and what you're doing wrong; what you keep doing wrong. You don't need to do it constantly, you don't need to dwell on it. But regularly, preferably once a day or once a week—try both and choose the one that works for you without dragging yourself down—you need to be brutally honest with yourself, think about what's not working, and figure out what you need to change to move forwards and improve, and to get bolder as you g...
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Abby Normal

The title of this post is a reference to the wonderful 1974 movie Young Frankenstein, directed by Mel Books and starring Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle. I don't want to be a young monster—or an old one—but I would like visible abs. When I was a boy I was skinny enough, but too much of a weakling. As an adult they have been hidden by a layer of fat. When my father retired he bought a new car. His entire working life, every car he owned was second hand. Financially it made sense. He acknowledged that, but just once in his life, he said, he wanted to own a car that no one else had. It was a pride thing. Or perhaps a bucket list thing. And that's how I feel about my abs. Just once, I would like to run onto a beach with a visible six-pack. I'd even take a four-pack. I don't think an eight-pack would be attainable and, well, a two-pack would hardly be worth the effort. Then after my literal day in the sun, I can have a celebratory drink and meal and keep up with the e...
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Browsing your life away

I can spend an entire evening scrolling through Facebook. Hell—who am I kidding?—I can spend an entire day! Although I'm less hooked on YouTube, I can waste an inordinate amount of time there too. But how do I feel afterwards, crawling into bed sometime between 11:30 p.m. and well after midnight having replied, having lied, "Okay Bunny, I'll be up soon!" to my wife when she called down at 10:00 p.m. that she was going to bed? Utterly dreadful, that's how. Switching off the bedside light and shutting my eyes, knowing—as late as it already is—that it may take another half an hour before the flashes darting between my eyelids and throbbing brain finally stop, I feel utterly stupid. Another evening has been wasted; already I have started to change into morning-me, the regretful Hyde to the evening-me's Jekyll who thought... well, who didn't really think at all. So why do I do it to myself? Partly it's because social media is purposely designed ...
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