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Lately, I’ve been having conversations with my father about the state of the world. He’s 85 now, and if you ask him, things have never felt quite this bad. The world feels unstable. The health system is under pressure. Nothing seems to work the way it used to. And somewhere in all of that sits a quiet sadness — maybe even a bit of despair — about where we’ve ended up.

He says, “It used to be better.”

But I’m not so sure.

My dad was born during the Second World War. Not long after that came rationing in the 1950s — years when food and basic necessities were still tightly controlled. The 1960s brought the Cuban Missile Crisis, when people genuinely believed nuclear war could break out at any moment. The 1970s gave us oil shocks, rolling blackouts, strikes, inflation, and the three-day week. The 1980s? Let’s not pretend Thatcher and Reagan were universally calming influences, and that’s before you even factor in the Cold War or the AIDS crisis.

At no point in that timeline does the phrase “a peaceful, worry-free world” really fit.

So where does this idea come from — that there was once a golden age when things were simpler, calmer, and somehow better?

I think part of it is memory. We don’t remember the world as it was; we remember ourselves in it. When you’re young, healthy, working, raising a family, and full of purpose, the future feels open — even if the headlines are grim. The worries are there, but they sit in the background. With age, that balance flips. The world feels louder, faster, and less forgiving, while your own ability to adapt quietly shrinks.

Another part is how we consume news now. Once upon a time, bad news arrived once a day — maybe in the evening paper or on the nightly bulletin. Now it’s relentless. Twenty-four-hour news cycles. Social media. Algorithms that reward outrage and fear. We’re not just informed anymore; we’re immersed. The world hasn’t suddenly become more dangerous — we’re just never allowed to stop staring at its problems.

And to be fair, some things really have changed. Institutions that once felt solid now feel fragile. Health services are stretched. Trust in leadership feels thinner. These aren’t imagined concerns. But they’re also not unique to this moment in history — every generation has watched its systems wobble and wondered if this was the beginning of the end.

The truth is, every era feels like a crisis while you’re living in it. History only looks orderly in hindsight.

Maybe the most honest way to put it is this: there was never a time when the world didn’t need worrying about. There were just times when we had more energy, more optimism, and fewer aches reminding us of our own limits.

I don’t think my father is wrong for feeling the way he does. After 85 years of constant change, conflict, and uncertainty, it would be strange not to feel worn down by it all. Sometimes what sounds like pessimism is really just fatigue — the tiredness that comes from having seen too much, lost too much, and still being expected to keep up.

When he says the world used to be better, I don’t argue anymore. I just listen. Because maybe what he really means is that he felt better then — and that’s something no headline, statistic, or historical comparison can ever quite disprove.

And maybe that’s the lesson in all of it: the world has always been a bit of a mess. We just carry it differently as the years pile up.

Six weeks into retirement, and what do I think of it so far? Well… as usual, things haven’t gone exactly to plan. But there’s no real point in stressing about that. Stress won’t improve anything, and it has a habit of making things worse if you let it.

Debbie is doing well, and that’s the main thing. What’s become clear, though, is that nothing can be rushed. Because of that, my transition into retirement hasn’t looked quite the way I imagined it might. That said, not being at work has meant I’ve been able to be around, to help where I can, and to simply be present. In many ways, that’s been a blessing.

The support from family has been incredible. It’s moments like this that remind you that we did a pretty good job raising our sons. They and their families have stepped up without hesitation, offering practcle help and kindness whenever it’s been needed. That’s something you don’t take lightly.

So for now, I’ll reserve judgement on retirement itself. There’s no rush to label it. We’ll sit tight, stay patient, and let things unfold in their own time.

The real question is this: somewhere between making endless cups of tea and doing the washing, I’m not sure what’s more depressing — watching Trump’s latest antics on YouTube, or watching everyone else out there happily doing their own big lap.

The excitement in the air is palpable. What a privilege it is to spend Christmas with grandchildren—a second chance to relive all those special Christmases with your own children.

At the same time, it’s right to reflect on family we cannot be with due to distance, and those who made our own childhood Christmases so special but are no longer with us. It feels like the perfect moment to wish you and yours a peaceful Christmas and an extraordinary New Year.

God bless you.

My grandson Lincoln (fifth from the left) received his runners-up medal for the second year in a row. I wasn’t there to see the final itself, but I did make it to the semi-final — a tense family showdown where Lincoln’s team faced off against his cousin Alex’s team. It was one of those odd sporting occasions where the grandparents were cheering for both the winners and the losers at the very same time. Proud of them all. 💛

So, Friday came and went, and the weekend has been… well, pretty normal — if you count living in your front garden as normal. In theory, tomorrow morning should be the moment when things start to feel a little strange. The alarm not buzzing, the familiar pull towards work not having it’s usual effect. But if I’m honest, I’ve got such a busy schedule lined up that I don’t think I’ll have much time to miss the routine of heading off to work.

It’s a funny thing, leaving a place after such a long time. There are always those who won’t miss you — and who are quite happy for you to know it — and then there are those who you assume won’t miss you, but somehow that still stings a little when it becomes clear. Human nature, I suppose.

Then there are the closest colleagues. The ones who don’t say too much, not because they don’t care, but because saying too much might open the door to a few tears. No words are really needed there — there’s a shared understanding that sits quietly between you.

Most moving of all, though, are the moments you never saw coming. The people you didn’t realise you’d had any impact on, who take the time to say thank you, and who show genuine sadness that you’re moving on. Those conversations linger. They remind you that, in ways both big and small, your time mattered.

And that, more than anything, feels like a good way to close one chapter and begin the next.

One week to go. Friday the 12th December will be my last day at CurtainWorld, and it still feels a little surreal to write that down. Last night was the company’s 2025 Christmas Party — my final one — and it brought home the reality of this transition in a way that nothing else has.

I’ve spent so much time lately looking ahead, preparing for the future Debbie and I are carving out for ourselves, that I hadn’t really paused to think about what I’m stepping away from. I have no doubt that leaving is the right decision for us, especially with everything happening early next year, but standing there with the whole team together… well, it does make you take stock.

The speeches, the good wishes, the laughs shared with people I’ve worked alongside for years — it all reminded me how big a chunk of life a workplace becomes. It’s not just a job; it’s routines, friendships, stories, and a chapter that quietly shapes you while you’re busy getting on with things. As this final week begins,

I’m grateful. Grateful for the years, the people, the memories — and grateful to be stepping into this next phase of life with confidence, purpose, and a sense of calm. An era ends, yes, but a new one is already waiting just on the other side of Friday.

This afternoon most of the family — grandchildren included — headed out to Ellenbrook for a Christmas concert performed by the Hills Symphony Orchestra. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen them, and certainly not the first time they’ve impressed me. In fact, the very first concert I attended absolutely blew me away; the quality, passion and sheer dedication of the musicians was unforgettable. Every performance since has been just as captivating.

But today felt a little different. With the festive music, the costumes, and that unmistakable December excitement in the air, I found myself especially moved. Sitting before us was an enthusiastic mix of mothers, grandmothers, fathers, grandfathers, sons and daughters — people from every walk of life — gathered not for fame, fortune or accolades, but for the simple love of making music together.

Half an hour earlier, the venue was just an empty room. Then in walked this group of talented, creative people, and suddenly the space transformed. As they began to play, the sound was incredible. And when the final note faded, we were left once again with an empty room, as if the whole experience had been a wonderful dream.

Watching this unlikely collection of individuals, united by nothing more than passion and community, was impressive enough. But when I closed my eyes and let the music take over, I was transported somewhere else entirely — another world — and I liked it.

As Christmas edges closer, so does retirement — and with it, a whole new way of living. For years, we’ve talked about taking off around Australia, and now it’s finally within reach. But before the adventure begins, there’s a strange mix of excitement, relief, and a hint of disbelief that this chapter of life is about to close. Here’s where my head’s at right now…

People keep telling me I should be reluctant to retire. “You’ll miss work,” they say. “You’ll get bored,” or “You’ll struggle without the routine.”

Work is becoming a challenge — not just the hours, but the constant treadmill of expectations and pressure. It’s not that I dislike working; it’s just that I’ve reached the point where I want to be working for me — doing things that feed the soul instead of the time sheet.

For now, circumstances have nudged us into van life a little earlier than planned. We’ll be living in the van until Christmas, when I finally hang up my work boots for good. Then, come January, we’ll roll out properly — no deadlines, no rush, just the open road ahead.

So, when people say I should be hesitant to retire, I smile and nod — but inside, I’m already gone. I’m ready to leave the grind behind, hitch up the van, and roll into the next chapter.

It’s strange how life works. You spend decades imagining retirement as a time of calm, freedom, and the chance to do exactly what you want. And yet, as the moment approaches, I find myself busier than ever. Somehow, the countdown to freedom has become a rush against time.

The house, for example, seems to demand attention on every corner. Renovations that once felt like small projects now feel like mountains to climb before we leave. Every decision carries weight, every task seems urgent. In trying to prepare for a life of leisure, I’ve realized that preparing can be its own kind of stress.

Work, too, has taken on a new dimension. Staying focused, staying relevant, keeping up with changes — it all feels harder than it used to. I notice how easily my attention drifts, how much effort it takes to maintain the pace I once managed with ease. And I wonder, as the days shorten, how to leave on my own terms, feeling fulfilled and confident, rather than worn out.

Through all of this, I am learning an important lesson: that slowing down is not giving up. That stepping back, letting go of the pressure to perfect every detail, and allowing myself to breathe is part of preparing — not for retirement, but for life beyond work.

The big lap of Australia is waiting, and the freedom I imagined is already beginning. But I’m starting to understand that the true joy will come not from racing to the start line, or finishing every task before the first mile, but from embracing the journey itself — and carrying a calmer, steadier mind into the adventures ahead.

When we set out to buy a new car, the agreement was pretty straightforward: I could choose any car I wanted (within budget), and Debbie would pick the colour. Fair enough.

Now, let me be clear—I don’t hate the colour she picked. But let’s just say if it were up to me, I’d have gone with something a bit more forgiving. You know… white or grey. Practical, low-maintenance, doesn’t show every smudge, scratch, or enthusiastic grandchild’s cleaning effort.

But nope. Sunstone Orange Mica it is.

To be fair, it does look great. Eye-catching, vibrant, unique. And according to two separate people in the car industry, also a colour that’s very prone to fading if not properly looked after. Their advice? Regular waxing to keep it looking showroom-fresh.

No worries. Since it’s “our” car, we split the duties: I handle the exterior, and Debbie takes care of the interior. Deal.

Now, waxing a car in Australia isn’t a task you just do. You’ve got to plan around the weather. Waxing a hot car in full sun? Nope. Doesn’t work. So you’re up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday, before the sun really gets going. Except, of course, the weekend I’d planned for it turned out to be a rare rainy morning. Typical. I pushed it back a week, and when the stars finally aligned, I put in two and a half hours of hard graft. The result? The car looked better than when we drove it out of the dealership (on the outside, anyway).

Cue the next week. Windy. And in Western Australia, windy means dust and sand everywhere. I got home from work to a cheerful update: “The grandchildren washed the car!”

Oh no.

Internally, I cringed. Had they rinsed the car first? Or was the dust just scrubbed straight into the paintwork? I had visions of sponges being dropped on the driveway and then enthusiastically rubbed along the car’s panels by a very keen six-year-old. But hey, they’re the grandkids—they’re allowed to commit small acts of automotive violence.

Still, I was feeling slightly anxious. So I wandered inside to Wayne’s Bar for a well-earned cleansing ale. That’s when I saw it. The bucket. The bucket. The one I’d used to mix concrete for the bar footings a couple of weeks ago. It had been over 40 degrees that day, and I’d only given it the world’s fastest rinse. Sitting proudly inside this cement-dusted bucket? My car-washing sponge and chamois.

I nearly choked on my beer.

“Deb… what bucket did you use to wash the car?”

I shouldn’t have asked. According to her, nothing was wrong. And if something was wrong? Well, that was clearly my fault for tidying the garage. Apparently, she couldn’t find her bucket. (It was right by the door, by the way.)

So I gave up. I was fuming on the inside but knew I was wasting my breath. I haven’t even dared take a close look at the paintwork yet. I’m just… not ready.

Is it me? Did I overreact??