Say something

There was a point last week where I was sat with Firefox, Atom and Github open for the first time in forever, messing around with includes and code commits and felt the strangest wave of happiness coursing through.

Without waffling about ‘materiality’, there’s a quiet satisfaction that comes from being closer to code and craft and that gradual process of refining, ironing out idiosyncrasies and making a thing just a tiny bit better. Ethan Marcotte says it best: ‘let a website be a worry stone’.

Also via Ethan, a playback of Jeremy Keith’s recent appearance at CSS Day in Amsterdam (YouTube | Transcript), doing the sort of reflective, but hope-filled ‘where we came from’ and ‘where we’re headed’ that he so excels at. I’ve missed that sort of talk, those sort of events, it’s thrilling seeing people coming together in spaces like this again.

In Jeremy’s talk he touches on design principles, a favourite topic of his and mine, which included this great line:

Because the hard part about design principles, isn’t saying what you value. The hard part about design principles is saying we value one thing over another.

James Boardwell wrote about the place these sort of principles and that kind of thinking have had in shaping the work he and his team have been doing at Ministry of Justice.

James’ piece reminded me how much I learned from him at Co-op and how talented the group of people that helped form Co-op Digital were. I’m so glad I was able to appreciate it at the time, and not just looking back. A pretty special time.

I’ve spent way too much time in the last year thinking and rethinking the relationship I want to have with Google.

From going all-in to grudging surrender to positive hostility, that Google account isn’t going away. But I can limit how much of my life goes through Google’s services. It helps that, more and more, Google’s core services, once ground breaking, are really not great?

So, I’ve doubled down again on Fastmail and other privacy-first services and I’m feeling a little more at peace at how I engage with the internet than I was.

Fastmail doesn’t shout about this much, but I think one of its most compelling features that it enables you to manage Google mail and calendars from inside Fastmail — even sending from Gmail if that’s what you need it to do. Non-judgemental user needs.

I watched more Glastonbury on TV this year than I’ve ever done. Although I’d carefully planned all the stuff I wanted to see, calendar entries and all, it was the bits I stumbled upon that I got most from.

Despite it being an occasionally baffling experience on iPlayer — especially on Apple TV — three days of Glastonbury coverage is such a privilege to have. Long live the BBC.

Confidence Man and Self Esteem were new discoveries and instant favourites; loved Wolf Alice for just being loud and urgent; and Nubya Garcia — supported by another favourite Joe Armon-Jones — gently coaxing a hungover Sunday crowd. My only wish was that the TV coverage had extended to include Emma-Jean Thackray’s set too.

31 December 2020

I thought about that a lot

I was lucky to be invited by Amy McNichol to contribute to her inspired collection, I thought about that a lot, a kind of advent calendar of pieces reflecting on lockdown and what this oddest of years has meant to us.

My piece was about Birmingham. Sort of.

‘Learning to live in – and with – Birmingham has in part been about constructing my own map of the city. Not the city as it is being imagined by Birmingham’s planners but the parts that have come to have meaning for me. I’ve been open to discovering and experimenting, to slowing down and being surprised.’

Here’s the full piece: In 2020, I thought a lot about how to come to terms with Birmingham (and with myself)

I loved so many of the pieces I read. It’s a really varied collection, from the jokey to the profound. It was endlessly surprising and rewarding. Here are a few favourites:

Thank you Amy!

26 October 2020

Kevin McCarra

I’ve been surprised at how affected I’ve been by the death of Kevin McCarra at just 62 but I shouldn’t.

McCarra was the football writer my heart wanted to be. A fellow Glaswegian Southsider, whose career from Glasgow to London mirrored my own consuming obsession with the game and move down south.

Alzheimers had long since taken his byline away from the back page but his writing was filled with unusual kindness, generosity and humour — an introvert with a unique voice.

I saw him once, in Stoke Newington’s solitary ‘Celtic pub’ predictably. We were both there to witness Celtic miss out on a title on the final day. I was a little star struck to see him, he spotted that I'd recognised him and smiled, and not a word was spoken. I wish I’d told him then just how much his writing had shaped my experience of football, and of being a Scot in London.

07 July 2020

7/7

It's 15 years since 7/7. I'm writing this as much as an act of remembering as remembrance.

In 2005, I was living in Dalston in Hackney, working for a design agency in Soho. On 7 July at 08:45, I was getting off a 149 bus at Liverpool Street, about to get the Central Line to Tottenham Court Road.

I became aware that something was wrong on descending the stairs at Bishopgate and reaching the station concourse at Liverpool Street.

Alarms started sounding — not unusual — but then from behind me, ten or more policemen sprinted past. They looked young and scared. And then the shutters came down.

More alarms, measured announcements to exit the station. No panic, it's London.

Later we'd learn that a bomb had exploded on a train travelling from Liverpool Street to Aldgate, killing 7 people.

I remember walking outside, finding signal, calling the agency to explain that something big seemed to be happening, that there were no underground services, and I was going to be late, really late.

I don't recall how I eventually made it to Soho. By bus, I assume.

By the time I got there, the Tavistock Square bomb had gone off 2 miles north, destroying the upper deck of the number 30 bus, killing 13. 4 bombers with 4 bombs, 52 people dead.

At work on Frith Street, every monitor was showing news websites, desk phones and mobiles ringing with staffers calling in to say they couldn't find a way in to work. There was no work. The radio was on. We switched between websites — 'have you seen?' — as news and rumour unevenly spread between them, the internet connection struggling with our constant refreshing. We were waiting for more bombs.

By early afternoon the decision was made to send everyone home. We walked the studio space making sure people were ok, that they had a plan for how to get home. Voices were soft and low, faces blank, some tears too.

Back outside, there were no buses. It was sunny enough that I carried my jacket. The roads were mostly empty, nearby sirens turned heads, the pavements busy with people all headed in one direction: home.

Soho Square, Oxford Street, Theobolds Road, Old Street, Kingsland Road.

Over an hour later, I was 100 yards away from home when I next saw a bus, heading north. Downstairs it was crammed to capacity, but upstairs it was empty.

28 December 2019

Running high

This morning I ran my 138th and final run of the year, signing off with a Parkrun, an appropriately life-affirming way to finish up alongside several hundred others in the damp December cold of South Birmingham.

Along canal paths and pavements, through parks and suburban streets, I’ve run 544 miles this year, over twice my previous best. In a weird year, it’s been a constant positive; as much mental as physical health-giving. I've stayed free of injury, learned a bit more about what my body can do and what my mind needs.

One of the things I’ve come to treasure with running is its accessibility. That what counts as ‘running’ to me can be completely different to what counts as ‘running’ to you, and equally valid. Short/long, fast/slow, uphill/flat, social/solitary. It all counts. Running isn’t bound by rules in the same way as other sports. It’s just what you need it to be.

I’ve spent all year composing and deleting tweets, feeling ever less confident contributing to social media. Strava is the exception. For all its faults, it’s the least performative, most supportive network I have. And I’ve loved charting my own progress but even more quietly cheering on the efforts of others.

For now, it's time for a few days rest, and to figure out how to run 2020.

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