You catch the driver’s eye, and a nod from him can fix your day. Just the tiniest tilt: you’re seen. You hop on, tap your card with ceremony, and claim a good seat. You feel part of the route. That nod is your ticket.
Shared
A microblog of life, passing thoughts, and quick notes.
Shared is a microblog of life as it happens: short posts, passing thoughts, quick notes. I keep it simple. Some pieces are quirky; that’s fine. They’re mine. Unedited, mostly. Updated often with everyday observations that are clear, brief, and to the point. Enjoy, or not!
-
The Driver’s Blessing
-
One-Trip Heroics
You load every bag onto your fingers like a stubborn octopus. Keys between teeth, door with the awkward lock, ankles threatened by milk. One trip, triumphant, slightly numb. You strut in, convinced of your efficient heroics. But then, reality gives you a playful nudge: the loo roll is still in the boot, your victory hilariously undone by oversight. It seems even heroes miss a detail or two.
-
Ironed-Air Autumn
The first cold morning smells crisp, like shirts just taken off the ironing board. Pavements look neater, colours stand out, and your breath skims the air. Somewhere between the folds of autumn, a tiny nod from the world brushes against you, much like the pressed-linen air—soft and familiar. A bus driver’s nod, a dachshund’s gentle trot in a cosy jumper, these little moments remind you that you’re part of a quiet, shared rhythm. As you zip your jacket, that sense of pressed-linen air returns, making you feel quietly reset as your hands remind you that you never find gloves until November.
-
The Empty Bus Stop at Dawn
There’s an uncanny calm in waiting at a bus stop before dawn. Thin air hangs. The street is drowsy. A solitary lamppost hums. A fox darts across the road. For once, time pauses, almost courteous. Just then: a distant hiss, the soft but deliberate approach of the bus engine from far away. The first hint of light stretches over the horizon, painting the sky with the faintest blush of lavender. It’s a subtle reminder that habit, not haste, drives the world, and occasionally, it forgets to resume. As the bus pulls away, the lamppost’s hum returns, a quiet resonance that lingers, leaving a gentle echo in the morning’s stillness.
-
The Perils of Online Shopping at Midnight
It’s entertaining right up until six identical lampshades arrive at your door, proving how easily one can be lured by the promise that one item can fulfil every need. The cardboard you’re buried in becomes a quiet monument to confusion and guilt—evidence of ‘Sir Purchase-a-lot,’ that midnight algorithm that always outsmarts you.
-
Rain on Pavement
The sound is oddly soothing—constant, rhythmic. It taps. It taps. A gentle cadence that lulls the mind, unhurried. The steady rain blurs old days and idle intentions, yet forgives such lapses. It taps, patient; its rhythm reassures, promising you can always try again.
-
Wind Chimes at 2am
At midnight, they’re charming. By two, they’re a test of character; each clang is a drill to your eardrum that unearths expletives you didn’t know you had. The breeze fiddles, the chimes nag, and fresh patience is tested one clink at a time as you imagine swiping them into a black hole. You plan a DIY involving a string, a firm knot, and possibly a very tall tree on the other side of town. As dawn arrives and it almost sounds pretty again, you wonder if anyone would notice if the chimes mysteriously disappeared.
-
The Stolen Chip
You ‘just try one’, and it tastes better than your entire meal. You pretend to compare textures like a food critic while scouting for a second raid. The look across the table says, ‘Don’t even think about it.’ You smile, chew, and accept your small, salty victory.
-
Fogged Glasses, Instant Panic
There’s a special kind of chaos when rain hits your lenses and you go from functioning adult to pirate, minus the patch. You wipe with a sleeve, smear it worse, then try the corner of your T-shirt. Bus due, kerb somewhere, dignity missing in action. You blink, guess, and shuffle on. Sight finally returns, one stop late.
-
The Forgotten Mug
It starts with a sip. Then a thought. Then a spiral of all you meant to tackle—the unfinished tasks that linger in your mind. By the time you return, the coffee will be cold, faintly bitter. You reheat. You vow to finish—but forget again. Some loops run in circles, always starting with a sip.
-
Night-Time Kitchen Company
Past midnight, the kitchen isn’t quiet at all: soft clicks, a gentle thrum, pipes clearing their throat. The fridge hums a lullaby, adding its own melody to the night. You open the fridge for cold light and peace. It closes; the house exhales—midnight company, making even silence feel shared.
-
Bin Day Photo Finish
There’s a sweet rush in catching the lorry at the end of the road: lid flapping, wheels rattling, you with the sprint of a modest legend. The crew clocks you, gives the tiniest nod, and the bin goes up like a trophy. You saunter back, trying not to pant and thinking. This counts as cardio, right? Champion of rubbish, by a second.
-
Bin Day Ballet
Just past six, half-dressed, I lug bins down the drive, clumsy and hurried, signalling the reluctant start of the week. The neighbour offers polite indifference as wheels thunder and lids slam. A hush follows, calm after chaos. There’s no applause—just the dependable kettle waiting to begin the real routine.
-
Wrong Recipient, New Identity
You press ‘send’, spot the name, and feel your soul bolt. You script an apology, daydream about relocating to a cave. You settle for ‘Oops, wrong chat’—then promise yourself: next message, you triple-check and live to text again.
-
Neighbours’ Hedge Wars
It began with a courteous trim. Years ago, during a long summer, both families had laughed together over a shared lemonade beneath the very hedge that now marks their battleground. Then came the tape measure, mutters, and sharp remarks about “property lines.” Now, gardening feels like a skirmish. The hedge has withstood barbed insults, smiles edged by tension, and one set of shears wielded like a sabre. This feud is driven by more than perceptions of neatness or ownership; the hedge discreetly divides private worlds, sheltering old grudges—a silent monument to boundaries built and breaches remembered.
-
A Walk Without a Destination
You claim you’re just stretching your legs, but it’s more. The streets don’t lead anywhere in particular, inviting you to notice fresh cracks, old graffiti, and how your thoughts slow to match your steps. As you walk, a specific insight appears: a vivid memory of tracing childhood constellations. This stays with you, reshaping the walk as a purposeful journey through memories and new ideas.
-
Dog in a Jumper
You meet a dachshund in knitwear, unsure if it’s cosy or cross. It trots with intent, sleeves near puddles, owner beaming. You nod at both as if this is standard. Maybe it is. The dog’s warmer than you, anyway.
-
The Post That Never Came
You check the window. Then the clock. Then the door—as if that summons it. Tracking says it’s coming, but it’s really your hope you’re tracking. Waiting becomes a quiet loneliness, knowing what you expect may never arrive.
-
A Cup of Tea and Nothing Else
Sometimes, the only thing worth doing is sitting with a perfectly steeped mug. No screens, no chores, no restless planning. Just the comfort of warmth between your hands and the rare luxury of granting yourself a pause. Odd how scheduling that feels impossible. Maybe stillness isn’t forbidden—we’re just learning to permit it.
-
Finding an Old Ticket Stub
I pulled a four-year-old bus ticket from my coat and was back on my granddaughter’s first ride. No top deck adventure, downstairs only, the steps were bad enough, and worse with a two-year-old. Rain freckles on the window, her nose to the glass, a small hand guarding the bell. The driver clocked the nerves, gave a kind nod, and we rumbled through town at pram speed. The stub goes back in the pocket, and the timetable stays in memory.
-
WordPress Wrestling
A five-minute WordPress tweak took off and consumed my afternoon, but the fix clicked, and the site returned to life as if nothing had happened. A plugin conflict was found, the cache was cleared, permalinks were refreshed, and notes were scribbled for my future self. It’s not elegant, but it works. I’ll file it under ‘Hard-won lessons I’ll forget by Tuesday’.
-
Rain Logic
The forecast promised ‘light showers’; the sky staged a whole opera, and I still hung the washing because hope is stubborn in this country. Pegs on, line sagging, trousers flapping like a weak flag. Ten minutes later, the rain eased, as if bored. I checked a sleeve and called it ‘nearly dry’. If it’s wearable by tea, that counts as science.
-
Headache Diplomacy
My brain convened a percussion section behind my eyes. It demanded concessions, so even making tea became a project plan with milestones. Lights down, water up, quiet steps, no sudden moves. I parked the loud jobs and did the gentler ones, one shuffle at a time. By evening, we had a ceasefire, pending weather and sleep.
-
Footprints on the Path
On the chalk path near Petersfield, I saw an elderly couple hand in hand, and wondered how many quiet miles their feet have kept together. Hedgerows rattled, a robin watched, and their steps matched like a slow waltz. Scuffed soles, steady pace, no rush, no phones. I let them pass and counted backwards through my own walks. They kept walking; I kept counting.
-
The Great Sock Disappearance
One sock goes in. Two tumble out—never a matching pair. The washing machine’s appetite for socks is unmatched, a silent enigma. Somewhere, a universe of stray socks exists, living unworn. I wish they’d send a postcard. Once, in a moment of impulsive creativity, I paired polka dots with pinstripes and wore them to work, convinced I was starting a trend. Imagine my embarrassment when my quirky boss chuckled and asked if I dressed in the dark. Now, every trip past the laundry is a reminder: fashion risks untried become regrets.
-
Folklore Rabbit Holes
I opened one tab to check a simple myth and surfaced three hours later with seventeen legends, a tangle of maps, and forty-seven open tabs. Selkies nodded to ash trees; trickster hares waved from footnotes. The story I wanted is now a chorus. I’ll write one clean paragraph and let the rest wait their turn.
-
The Barista’s Nod
There’s a quiet pleasure in walking into the local coffee shop and having your order start without a word, as if the day already knows your name. A nod from behind the counter, a cup placed, the till beeps, and a loyalty card gains a neat stamp. No speech, no fuss, just proof that someone noticed. Five seconds of being known, then back to the rush.
-
Inbox Archaeology
I unearthed an email thread from 2021, replied like a time traveller, and now I’m waiting for a startled ping from someone who thought I’d vanished. The subject line still says ‘Quick question,’ the attachment still claims to be ‘final_final,’ and my apology reads like a museum label. If they answer, I’ll pretend the wormhole was planned. If they don’t, the artefact returns to storage.
-
The Tyranny of the Self-Checkout
The self-checkout speaks like a disappointed supply teacher, and the line ‘unexpected item in the bagging area’ could test the patience of even the most saintly person. I freeze mid-scan, wave a loyalty card like a truce flag, and await the flashing beacon of judgement. An assistant appears, presses a secret blessing, and the machine forgives me for my fruit. I leave with groceries and a tiny bruise to my dignity.
-
A Ghost in the Algorithm
My streaming app keeps suggesting I play the same film on repeat, as if it remembers for me and won’t let the habit fade. The thumbnail lands like a nudge: the scene we always quoted, the line that once made everything feel lighter. I hover over ‘Play’, then move on. I don’t delete it; I want that doorway to stay where I can find it.
-
Stair Workout Truce
Five minutes up and down the stairs felt like a peace talk between legs and lungs; both complained, neither won, and I ended up surprisingly alive. I set a timer, gripped the handrail, and counted steps like a stubborn metronome. Thuds, breath, thuds. No glory, just a bit of heat in the calves and less fog in the head. A truce has been declared until tomorrow, with terms under review.
-
The Unsent Email
I wrote a long, tidy email full of the truths I’ve avoided for years, read it through twice, then highlighted the whole thing and pressed delete. The heat drained in the writing. What mattered stayed behind: a clearer chest, quieter shoulders, fewer rehearsed arguments. No outbox drama, no ping, just relief. Sometimes the send button isn’t part of the medicine.
-
Tech Gremlin
I ‘fixed’ a plugin by turning it off and on again; hero status unconfirmed, but the page loads and no one needs to know how thin the miracle was. I cleared the cache, whispered ‘please’, and promised not to update anything mid-afternoon. Notes for future me: write the steps down, pretend they were deliberate, and never click ‘experimental’ on a live site.
-
Bookshop Detour
I went in for a birthday gift and walked out with three books and a vague plan to become a better person by Tuesday. A staff-pick sticker winked, a tote I didn’t need appeared at the till, and the receipt tried to fold itself in shame. The gift remains theoretical. I’ll wrap one of the books if pressed, then borrow it back ‘for research’.
-
City Nil, Grandpa One
City was a no-go: none of the passwords worked, and thirty minutes persuading the girls to pack a room full of toys meant we nearly missed the film. I missed part of it while making their tea. No football, half a film, two fed girls. On balance, a result.
-
City on a Tablet, Granpa on the Sofa
I’ve supported Man City for fifty-eight years, maybe more. I haven’t got Sky this season, but today I can watch on my son-in-law’s tablet while the girls put on a film. Volume low, subtitles on (me, not them). I’ll sit between blankets and crumbs, one eye on the score, the other on their cartoon plot. At sixty-three, I’ll take it: the girls first, City second.
-
Sunday Lunch in Waterlooville
I cooked Sunday lunch yesterday so we could eat it today while I look after my granddaughters, while their mum and dad are off to McFly and Busted in London. Roast reheated, plates cleared, bedtime stories queued. I’m staying over in Waterlooville, and it feels more like a sleepover than babysitting.
-
I used to love sports
I used to love sports, but now I only watch them occasionally. Today, England Women beat France in the World Cup semi-final, dragging me to the edge of my seat and back again. Yes, no, yes, no, then elation. No rituals or routines, just tension doing its work. It reminded me of the Lionesses. If only the men showed the same steel.
-
First Drop-off, Week One Done
Maisie’s first day at infant school coincided with my first post on Shared. The morning was calm: both girls went to their classrooms without fuss. Back home, I went to write it up and realised I’d left my power lead. Luckily, my tablet has enough battery to see me through today.