THE WILL TO RETURN: TRADING TWO WHEELS FOR THE BUS

fter three weeks of forced rest following my accident, I had determined that getting back to work had to happen, even if I was nowhere near 100%. Making the leap back to routine was less a sprint and more of a tentative hobble. On Thursday (27th), my bike—still out of action after the RTC—was replaced. I traded two wheels for a slightly daunting ride on public transport.

ULLR'S ICY GRIP: FROM SORE TO SWORDS

he temperature is dropping swiftly, and the frosty fingers of Ullr are touching every corner of our land. It’s exactly the kind of cold evening I love—but I find myself tragically trapped indoors by injury. I miss that simple ritual: wrapping up warm, grabbing my dog, and heading out into the dark, chilly night. This feeling of confinement is a powerful reminder that our journey through this cold and dark time of year is only just beginning.

DOWN IN A SPLIT SECOND: THE CRASH

n Wednesday 5th November, I left work on my bike to ride home. Some had expressed concern about the potential for issues, with youths known for throwing fireworks, but I wasn't deterred—this wasn't my first rodeo. So, at 10 pm, I rode into the night.

THE CURSE OF THE CYCLING STEREOTYPE

very November's arrival signals a few things, chief among them the start of the festive season preparations. At work, this translates into two key activities: planning the annual team party (since we're decentralised, every team manages their own event) and, perhaps more notoriously, navigating the annual Secret Santa. For me, this usually means an inevitable delivery of beard products or yet another cycling mug. Is that really all there is to me?

TELEVISION: SUBSTANCE OVER SPECTACLE

​eality television simply isn’t my thing. I’ve perfected the cynical eye-roll whenever anyone mentions a new series set in a villa or a cast member from the Essex gang. My viewing loyalty is reserved for compelling narratives: gritty dramas, classic comedies, or—best of all—the witty, quick-fire brilliance of a comedy panel show or a clever sci-fi escape. These are the only programmes that truly earn a dedicated spot on my schedule. I seek substance, not spectacle.

BETWEEN THE ANCESTORS AND THE ELVES

lfablót, Samhain, Calan Gaeaf, Pooky Night or even plain old Hallowe'en, whatever you call this festival—if you celebrate it, what exactly is your practice? This festival means different things to different people; there's no right or wrong way to observe it, it’s whatever you feel is right.

TWO FUNERALS AND ANOTHER FUNERAL

nowledge of this truth doesn't make it any easier: the older you get, the more funerals you inevitably attend. For my wife, Morticia, this year has brought more than her fair share of these sad occasions. The loss is keenly felt; when family and friends move on to the next stage of their existence, it is inherently difficult and takes a collective toll. We will, quite simply, miss them and the irreplaceable void they leave in our lives.

TEACHING US TO SUCK EGGS

y career has involved countless training courses, with their utility varying wildly between the truly beneficial and the utterly pointless. What has become a consistent and peculiar trend, however, is the escalating requirement for mandatory retraining on the entirety of our role. Just two years ago, this mandate required three days away from daily business; now, I find myself committed to a five-day programme.

SOUL REPLENISHMENT AND A STORMY FAREWELL

aluably, our time here, however finite, proved perfect. The mission of relaxation was a success, only slightly undermined by a foolish, self-inflicted work distraction that slipped past my rule of communication blackout. The week delivered so much joy that the heartache of leaving was hard, as always, but every moment was utterly worth it. The sudden, blustery turn in the weather at the week's close perfectly reflected our feelings, yet with every ending comes the beautiful certainty of another trip—and we are already planning for next year.

THIRD POSTCARD FROM THE CEI

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ritics might suggest a third visit to the same quiet harbour town in one calendar year is predictable, but to me, this unprecedented return to New Quay/Cei Newydd is less about habit and more about pure necessity. I take all the stick for my unwavering loyalty, letting the judgement wash over me entirely because the deep connection I share with Cymru, and this specific stretch of the Ceredigion coast, is where my heart truly lives.