​For as long as I can remember I have wanted a dog. Not a sorry excuse for a dog that could be mistaken for a rat, but a proper dog: One that I could wrestle with, play with, and then have climb up next to me on the sofa for a cuddle; One that would be strong enough to protect my family, but gentle enough to let children play with him; One that I could take for a walk and then have him curl up under my desk when I work.

There’s a story involving year 8 and my parents which I could go into, but near on 20 years later, it’s still a sore point… And 9 years into marriage (ish…) I have petitioned Suzanne (let’s use that word instead of moaning or begging…) to the point where I have a firm promise of “Maybe one day” I can get a dog. I’m thinking I’ve only got another 12 years of “petitioning” to go…

But what many people don’t know is that I already have my own dog...

Part one, of what I'm sure will be thousands of confessions of bad habits I have... And why this one is making me think about worship.

This one isn't about my inability to regularly update my website, nor my consistency with producing coherent thoughts or words. It's not one of those deeply personal issues to do with toilet seats or nail biting. This one is all about books.

Even then I'm going to have to narrow it down, otherwise we'll be here all day. I'm not here just to confess my tendency to turn down corners of pages instead of reaching for a bookmark, nor my habit of buying books based on recommendations knowing full well that my "to read" list is more than long enough, nor my tendency to start umpteen books at once.

This one is about my inability to finish a book...

Chapter three of my fictional work.

Chapter one and chapter two are available to read if you need to catch up

Chapter two of my trying my hand at fiction...

This is assuming you've read "Dystopia: 'Day One...'"

Here's a little something I've started.
I'm not sure it's really my thing, but I decided to try my hand at fiction.
Over the next few weeks I'll upload the opening chapters of a dystopian piece I've started.

Be gentle with me!

The premise:

It's a first-person diary account of a man who becomes obsessed with the notion that he is the central character of a story he doesn't know the plot to. He is fixated with dystopian fantasies and reads himself into the plot. The diary starts as therapy following his release from an asylum, as he is believed to be recovering.
​

My first instrument is the drums. I've been playing for nearly 20 years I reckon, and while there's room for improvement, I'm  not bad even if I do say so myself.
The thing is, I know my strengths. I know that my style and my playing isn't cut out for the big stages and the big crowds. I can pull it off briefly, but sooner or later I'd get caught out for what I am... And I think what I am is a small-room worship drummer.
The key, I've always been taught and stand by to this day, to being a good worship drummer is to know what to play, to know when to play, to feel the room and to sense what is going on.
You could apply it to any musical instrument really.

People get old.
Assuming that they are healthy, they can go on for a while.
But it's not the number you reach that determines the value of your life, rather it's the number you reach.

I'm a youth worker. It's my job to work with young people. More than that I believe it to be my calling. And normally I think I'm pretty good at it... Except I don't think I'm made for all youth work, not all youth work is the same, and not all youth workers have the same strengths.

The real secret though is this:

Today was an induction day to the District along with all the other newbies, and the Chair of the District kicked off the day with a reflection on the following story from the New Testament (The Message version, Matthew 9-10):