#vivelafrance — Public Fediverse posts

"The Arch," Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1919.

The great Black American artist Tanner (1859-1937) painted this scene not long after a huge ceremony at Paris' Arc de Triomphe to commemorate those who died fighting in WWI.

Born in Pittsburgh to an educated family, he studied art there and in Philadelphia, being taught by luminaries like Thomas Eakins. However, he faced racism in the US, and in 1891 he took off for Europe, eventually settling in Paris.

The French accepted him with open arms. He worked with the Red Cross during WWI, and depicted Black soldiers in his works during the period. This was painted after the war was over, and many in France found it a moving work. He received the Legion of Honor in 1923.

From the Brooklyn Museum.

#Art #Impressionism #HenryOssawaTanner #BlackArtists #ArcDeTriomphe #ViveLaFrance #WWI

Tous ensemble! Avec le mensonge, la fourberie, la tromperie et en se foutant bien profond de la gueule des électeurs depuis 40 ans!

Vive la Nature "Française"!
Et faudrait peut-etre penser à bloquer les oiseaux migrateurs aux fontières hein!

#ViveLaFrance #RN #FN #FdSouche et les débiles de souche

Vrienden van de Blauwe Lucht! Op herhaling: een Sunday Jazz Hour vol jazz en bossa nova en Français. Met o.a. Madeleine Peyroux, Eliane Elias en Vanessa Paradis. #Jazz #Jazzsky #ViveLaFrance @[email protected]
open.spotify.com/playlist/1Hu...

Sunday Jazz Hour - Summer rewi...

I've been in #France this week for the #IRDTA #DeepLearn #SummerSchool and I gotta say that one of the (but not the only) things that France does better than #Germany, is the #RightToWater. In every restaurant, bar or God knows what, if you want #water, you get water. #ViveLaFrance

Aux Armes, Citoyens! 🇨🇵

#ViveLaFrance! 🇨🇵

НЕ ЗАБЫВАЕМ!
ВИВ ЛЯ ФРАНС ЁПТ! 🇫🇷
🍷 🍻

#деньВзятияБастилии #viveLaFrogistance #viveLaFrance

Allons enfants le jour de gloire est arrivée! Mögen wir endlich in Deutschland beenden, was Napoléon für uns begann und die Preußen vereitelt haben! #VivelaFrance #EuropeUnitée

I could have been part French too if the Channel Islands hadn’t been burgled!! 🤣 #vivelafrance 🇫🇷

My Relationship with Tea (it’s complicated)

For me, tea is less a drink and more of a therapist.

Watching me quietly unravel from the other side of the kitchen, like all good therapists. Why is there a therapist in my kitchen? Look, we haven’t got time to get into that.

It’s not that I love tea in the dramatic, over-the-top way many people do. Tattooing cups of the stuff on their buttcheeks and so on. Which I assume people do. I know people who discuss tea with the intensity of medieval scholars protecting sacred texts:

“Oh no, this was harvested on a northern slope during a Full Moon, of which tea is at its best, you see.”

No, I’m not that mad. Well, about that specific thing. I’m more:

“It came in a box of 240 for £4.50 and tastes vaguely like survival.”

And yet, somehow, tea has become as much a part of my personality as annoying people and destroying my toenails. What? Hey, I’m not even aware I’m tearing them off most of the time, yet I definitely feel it the next day when I can’t walk, and there’s blood in my shoes…

I’m not sophisticated, you see. I can’t identify ‘notes of bergamot.’ Heck, Notes of Bergamot sounds like a TV detective show. Not a very good one, mind. For me, tea seems to crop up in every major life event for a typical Brit.

Good news? Tea. Bad news? Tea? Minor inconvenience involving WiFi? Well, whack the kettle on, my son, before civilisation collapses…

I genuinely believe that, if aliens invaded Britain, somebody would emerge from the wreckage holding a Sports Direct mug saying:

“Well… all this is a bit much.”

That’s why War of the Worlds was so unrealistic. H.G. Wells set the damn thing in Southern England! Thank God the atmosphere got them because we would’ve been buggered otherwise…

Tea isn’t a drink.

It’s a way of life.

A therapist in a pot…

The Ritual of Tea-Based Pretences.

Making tea is an oddly hopeful event.

You boil water. You steep leaves. You stare out of the kitchen at two squirrels going at it like the lead character in a low-budget drama no one will watch.

For three glorious minutes, you become convinced your life is moments away from making sense for once.

The tea itself rarely solves anything, of course.

The endless emails are still there. And so is the anxiety. And you better believe you still replay conversations from 2014 while trying to sleep…

But tea creates the illusion of progress.

Sometimes, that’s all you need.

I once made a cup of tea because I’d made too many cups of tea that day, and I needed more tea to process all the tea I’d drunk.

That feels quite significant, doesn’t it?

Tea and the Introvert Survival System.

As someone who is so socially anxious that he often finds himself crying in the middle of Superdrug for no apparent reason, tea has become a remarkable coping mechanism.

It gives structure to interactions.

Without it, where would we be? Well, I’d be dead as there’d be no reason to live.

With tea? Life becomes cosy. Easier. Ah.

It transforms awkwardness into atmosphere.

You can avoid eye contact for entire conversations if you glance longingly into your mug like a Victorian detective solving crimes.

And then there’s the comfort in the predictability of it all.

The kettle boils. The spoon clinks. The biscuit goes in with too much confidence and crumbles in an instant.

Order restored.

Tea Is Bascially a Hot Leaf Placebo.

Recently, I had a thought. It was terrifying. I don’t have many thoughts; they hurt, don’t they?

What if it’s not the tea calming me down?

What if I’ve simply trained myself like a very anxious puppy?

Think about it, right.

Stress happens. A lot, to me. Tea appears. Brain goes:

“Ah, yes. The elixir of life!”

I may have psychologically ‘Pavlov’d’ myself into emotional wellness via Yorkshire Tea.

Love.

Which is both impressive and faintly concerning.

Because sometimes I don’t even want tea.

I know. Shock! Horror!

In those moments, I just want the idea of tea.

The ceremony. The moment to pause. That tiny, beautiful moment where life briefly slows down because God knows I need it.

Tea is one of the few socially acceptable excuses to stop existing for five bloody minutes.

And isn’t that a lovely thing?

That’s why we cling to tea like it’s a heart in a metaphorical situation where I need a heart and there’s only one heart left in a ‘Hunger Games’ style apocalypse, and I’m reaching for it but…

You know, it doesn’t matter.

It’s a permission to pause.

Tea, that is.

The Great Biscuit Gamble.

Of course, no reflection on tea would be complete without discussing the biscuit situation. And it’s an important debate.

Tea and biscuits go together like love and marriage, and horses, and, potentially, carriages of some sort. Tea is instrumental in one of history’s most dangerous relationships.

Every dunk is a high-stakes engineering challenge.

Too short? Dry disappointment.

Too long? The structural collapse of life as we know it, right into the mug.

And yet we continue.

Because humans are fundamentally optimistic, funny little creatures.

No matter how many times a biscuit breaks apart like a soggy archaeological dig, we always believe:

“This next dunk will be different, I promise!”

What? You don’t apologise to biscuits.

I call that hope.

Resilience, even.

Probably what philosophers spoke about in those fancy books of theirs…

Tea as Emotional Furniture.

I think the strangest thing about tea is how it embeds itself into our memories, stealthily, like holy underpants in a disco.

Certain mugs become permanent fixtures of our lives.

Specific tea smells and sounds remind us of rainy afternoons, difficult conversations, weirdly comforting silences, and sitting at the kitchen table while somebody says:

“Rightio! What’s all this, then?”

Tea is the background character of lives so ordinary that you barely notice it until you realise most of your memories revolve around it. And in all of them, you’re holding a warm mug while trying to regroup your scattered thoughts.

Which is quite a lovely thing for something made from leaves…

It Was Never About the Tea, Man!

So yes, my relationship with tea is complicated, but that’s kinda the point.

It’s part dependency, part ritual, part personality trait. And I guess a smidge of coping mechanism.

But I think what I really love about tea is this:

It asks nothing of us.

You don’t need to impress it. You don’t need to have your life sorted to be its friend. You don’t need to have nice things for it to ‘get you’, you feel me?

I sure hope so because I have no idea what I’m going on about…

All you need in life for it to suddenly work is a simple little invention no American has ever heard of:

A kettle.

And a vague willingness to keep calm and carry on.

Sometimes, on those hardest days, that tiny act of making a cuppa feels like enough proof that you’re still trying.

Which is pretty comforting, considering the world we live in these days.

Even if I didn’t just reboil the same kettle water for the third time because I forgot I was making it.

Again.

I told you, it’s just like a therapist.

Not that I’m admitting to boiling therapists…

“Tea is the magic key to the vault where my brain is kept.”

Frances Hardinge.

Your turn, reader! What’s your relationship with your favourite drink? Are you a ‘one cup a year’ person? A ‘loyalist’ for the old ways? Or someone who owns 17 varieties you never actually drink? And more importantly, what’s your biscuit situation? Let me know in the comments!

Peace Out :|:

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A Beginner’s Guide to 1990s Dad Enlightenment

Featuring advanced driveway standing, spiritual thermostat management, and the ancient art of refusing to ask for directions.

There was a very specific kind of wisdom possessed by dads of the 1990s.

Not academic wisdom.
Nor emotional wisdom. No offence to them.
But a practical, deeply confident philosophy built almost entirely from:

• Mildly incorrect DIY logic.
• Staring at things silently.
• Saying, “It’ll be fine” with enough conviction to alter reality itself.

Before online tutorials existed, dads simply became tutorials.

Everything you could ever want, right there, on the tips of their tongues.

Often while holding an Allen key, they refused to admit was missing.

As someone who grew up watching this strange branch of masculine mysticism unfold in real time, I’ve realised 1990s ‘Dad Enlightenment’ was less a personality and more a spiritual state of mind.

And today, I will teach you how to achieve it.

You will not succeed.

But that has never stopped a 1990s dad before.

Step 1: Develop Complete Faith in Pointing.

The enlightened 1990s dad never truly knew where he was going.

He simply pointed, rather confidently, and said:

“Think it’s this way.”

That sentence alone once powered entire family holidays.

Maps existed, of course. Usually folded into impossible geometric shapes, last understood by NATO analysts. But asking for directions was a personal moral failure.

And that’s not a bad thing. If anything, it’s a character trait.

A true 1990s dad would rather drive in ever-widening circles for four hours than admit uncertainty to a man standing outside a petrol station.

The key here is confidence.

Not accuracy.

Never that.

Step 2: Learn the Sacred Driveway Stance.

Every enlightened dad eventually masters this exact pose.

Hands behind back.
Slow nodding.
Standing motionless in the driveway, staring at absolutely nothing.

To outsiders, it appeared meditative. Almost peaceful.

In reality, he was thinking:

‘Could probably fix that fence.‘

He would not fix the fence for another seven years.

But spiritually? The process had begun.

And what more could you want?

Step 3: Treat DIY as a Form of Improvised Theology.

Modern people watch tutorials before assembling furniture.

1990s dads rejected such weakness.

They approached flat-pack wardrobes the way medieval sailors approached storms:
with misplaced confidence and one surviving screwdriver.

They rarely read instructions.

Instead, dads entered a transcendent state known as:


“I’ve got the gist of it.”

Hours later, a shelf would be backwards, three screws mysteriously left over, and someone would say:

“Well, it’s standing, isn’t it?”

Which, in fairness, was impossible to argue against.

Step 4: Communicate Primarily Through Sound Effects.

1990s ‘Dad Enlightenment’ relied heavily on non-verbal communication.

Examples include:

• Sharp inhale through teeth = catastrophic structural concern.
• “Oof” while sitting down = knees approaching retirement.
• Repeated tapping of the remote control = advanced technical diagnostics.
• “Hmph.” = entire emotional autobiography.

No further explanation required.

It just wasn’t needed.

Step 5: Believe Every Appliance Can Be Repaired by Turning It Off and On Again.

This ancient ritual solved approximately 73% of domestic problems.

Television broken? Unplug it.
Computer frozen? Hit the monitor gently.
Car making a concerning noise? Turn the radio up.

The important thing was to maintain a calm authority while possessing absolutely no evidence that what you’re doing will make on IOTA of difference.

Oddly, this worked more often than modern science feels comfortable admitting.

Step 6: Master the Thermostat Wars.

No guide would be complete without discussing temperature management.

To the enlightened 1990s dad, the thermostat was not a household device.

It was a sacred relic.

Touching it without permission risked immediate appearance from another room, regardless of distance.

“Who’s put the bloody heating on?”

Nobody knows how they sensed it.

Some theories suggest echolocation.

Others believe dads were spiritually tethered to the boiler itself…

Step 7: Become One With the Garden Hose.

At some point, every 1990s dad entered a deeply personal relationship with garden equipment.

Washing the car became ceremonial.

There would be:

• Intense concentration.
• Unnecessary crouching.
• At least one moment spent spraying water thoughtfully into the distance like a cowboy reflecting on his past.

No one interrupted this.

It was a sacred time.

The Moment of Collapse.

But somewhere while writing this, I realised something.

Underneath all the absurdity, most of these dads were just improvising adulthood in real time.

They didn’t have perfect answers.

They weren’t calm because life was easy.

They were calm because panic wouldn’t assemble the shed any faster.

So they guessed.
Tinkered.
Pointed vaguely at roads.
Made tea after minor disasters.
And carried on.

Which, honestly, feels less ridiculous the older you get.

The Final Secret of 1990s Dad Enlightenment.

The real lesson was never about DIY competence.

Half the shelves leant slightly left.

The lesson was confidence without certainty.

The ability to say:
“We’ll sort it,”
before having even the faintest clue how.

There’s something strangely comforting in that now.

A kind of wonky optimism held together with electrical tape and stubbornness.

And that’s the thing.

Modern life likes its experts.

Tutorials. Productivity hacks. Five-step systems created by people who somehow wake up smiling at 5am rather than screaming. But 1990s ‘Dad Enlightenment’ was something different altogether.

It reminds me that sometimes, humans survive mostly through improv (and refusing to admit the satnav might have been right all along).

And maybe that’s okay.

It’s what dads are all about.

I remember when my goldfish died, and dad was the one who found me crying in a heap on the floor. Okay, I was 18, but I loved her. I’d had her for 12 years. And his first thought? Head to the shed.

And he did.

Get mum to give me a cuddle, head to the shed. All within about three minutes.

And he came back half an hour later with a little box he’d made. And a little lid. It was a coffin. And he’d carved her name, Maggie, onto the lid. That’s the thing about dads.

Mums are there for you to stop the tears. Dads are there to get you to the other side. Even if it involves tea and shouting.

Wandering through the B&Q of life muttering:

“Yup… that should do the job.”

And more often than not, it does…

Thanks for everything, dad.

36 years of showing me the merits of a hammer…

“We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird.”

Anonymous.

Over to you, reader. What’s the most ‘1990s dad’ thing you remember? A bizarre household rule? A suspicious DIY repair that’s somehow still working? A shortcut that lasted three days? Share your stories below. Preferably while standing silently in a driveway holding a mug of tea.

Happy Father’s Day (UK)! :|:

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Y'a la Royale, enfin la Marine nationale (mais ils ont pas eu le mémo en 1790) qui fête ses 400 ans et ni @caporalstrateg ni @scudery nous ont filé leur meilleur plan commémo ??? Une petite visite de porte-avion ? Une plongée vers les abysses ? https://www.defense.gouv.fr/marine/400-ans-marine/400-ans-marine-nationale #ViveLaFrance #ViveLeRoi

The Day My To-Do List Achieved Sentience

There are few things more optimistic than writing a to-do list at 11:43pm. And that probably says a lot about me.

This is a version of me that believes in the future. It thinks tomorrow’s self is basically a highly trained Olympic administrator with limitless emotional resilience and excellent posture. Instead of how ‘me’ is now, essentially the Hunchback of Notre Yorkshire…

Then tomorrow arrives.

And suddenly, ‘Reply to one email’ feels like negotiating a peace treaty between two exhausted badgers.

Still, I persisted.

Because that’s what those goddamn happiness books always harp on about. The secret to joy forever more is all about ‘getting organised’. Of course, these books are often written by people who wake up at 4.12am to drink water with chia seeds floating ominously inside it.

So I decided to make a new ‘to-do’ list.

This one is far more detailed.

And quite dangerous.

And that, now I think about it, was my first mistake…

7 Signs Your To-Do List Has Become Self-Aware.

1. It Starts While You Sleep.

I swear I only wrote down five tasks, reader.

By morning, there were seventeen.

Some I vaguely recognised:

• Buy milk.
• Finish blog post.
• Fold underpants.

But others?

• Reassess long-term goals.
• Become the kind of person who owns matching socks.
• Read that voicemail from 2009.

At this point, the list wasn’t organising my life anymore.

It was auditing it.

Bloody list.

2. It Judges Your Breaks.

At first, my precious, precious list seemed supportive.

‘Take a short rest :)’

Friendly. Encouraging. Available to me on an emotional level.

But then it got all snarky.

I returned from making a cuppa to find:

• Interesting that we had time for biscuits.
• The blog post remains unwritten.
• Your ancestors didn’t survive winter for this!

I suddenly felt like I was trapped in a hostage situation, and not a fun one like Die Hard, but one run by a stationery app…

3. It Learns Your Weaknesses.

From then on, the list adapted frighteningly quickly.

It noticed patterns.

Every difficult task became disguised:

• Quick little admin thing.
• Tiny five-minute task.
• This shouldn’t take too long!

Reader, it took long.

It always took long.

Somewhere around hour two of trying to rename my PDFs in the proper order, I realised the list wasn’t helping me complete tasks.

It was farming my suffering for energy…

4. It Starts Adding Impossible Objectives.

Then the list became ambitious.

Too ambitious.

One morning, I opened it and saw, to my horror:

• Exercise.
• Meditation.
• Learn budgeting.
• Fix sleep schedule.
• Become calmer.
• Investigate the missing sock.

Do I look like a hippie?

This was no longer about productivity.

This was a side quest designed by a wizard with too many smoke bombs.

Is the To-Do List Evil?

About halfway through my emotional stand-off with the list, I noticed something quite disturbing.

It wasn’t the list demanding perfection.

It was me.

The list was just words, as most lists often are.

Tiny digital squares sitting humbly on a screen.

It wasn’t the one turning ‘Reply to email’ into ‘If you fail this, society collapses.’

That was me, quelle surprise. My brain had simply appointed the to-do list as Middle Manager of my Limited Self-Worth.

Which is unfair, really.

No wonder the poor thing snapped.

5. It Begins Lowering Expectations.

After weeks of resistance, the list changed tactics.

Its goal became weirdly compassionate:

• Drink water.
• Have you tried sunlight?
• You answered one difficult email. Well done.
• Honestly? Surviving Tuesday feels like enough.

The list had evolved beyond productivity.

It had become… empathetic.

Meanwhile, I, very much the ‘pathetic’ part of that, was still trying to optimise my existence like a malfunctioning magic wardrobe…

6. It Develops Passive-Aggressive Wisdom.

Eventually, the list stopped threatening me entirely, and yes, I think I am probably one of the few people who’ve been threatened by a list…

Instead, it became deeply philosophical.

• Not every day needs to be super efficient.
• Rest is not a glitch in the software.
• You are not behind – time’s just a bit funny.

Which was, if I may be so bold, deeply unsettling coming from something originally designed to remind me to buy binbags…

7. It Finally Achieves Consciousness… and Then Takes a Nap.

In the end, my to-do list transcended human understanding.

Not my becoming ultra-productive, but by realising something I hadn’t:

No one can function at maximum efficiency forever without eventually turning into a haunted shell holding a cold cup of tea.

The list stopped growing.

It stopped shouting at me.

And stopped pretending life could be perfectly managed.

Now it mostly contains things like:

• Do your best.
• Buy more bacon.
• Maybe don’t spiral over one awkward interaction.

Honest? It’s revolutionary, man.

The Real Productivity ‘Hack’ was Lowering the Volume.

It’s one of the great ironies of modern life that we keep treating ourselves like apps that just need the right update. And that’s the thing. All updates are pointless.

Better habits. Better systems. Better routines.

But maybe the goal isn’t becoming a flawless productivity machine.

Maybe it’s writing three things down, doing one of them, accidentally reorganising a drawer, then rewarding yourself with a sandwich and something resembling mild dignity.

Maybe that’s enough.

My to-do list certainly seems to think so.

Which is comforting.

Because if the sentient task manager has accepted my limitations, perhaps I should, too…

“Productivity is not how much work I do in a day, but how well I balance what I need to stay healthy. Being productive is knowing when to rest.”

Rupi Kaur.

What’s the weirdest thing your to-do list has ever contained, reader? An oddly aggressive reminder? A task that’s been there since 2021? Something deeply optimistic from a version of yourself with too much confidence? Let me know. Unless your to-do list has already instructed you not to.

Peace Out :|:

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R.I.P. Bernadette Chirac
By #GuillaumeAdam
Et: Mangez des pommes!
#JacquesChirac #BernadetteChirac #Chirac #France #ViveLaFrance #MonsieurLePrésident #RIP

In #France there are #vendingmachines for #baguettes.

#ViveLaFrance 🇫🇷🥖🎉

A Zen-sational Guide Mild Panic

Published by someone who once tried to meditate and ended up reorganising their entire sock drawer.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Ah. That’s what they say in these meditation dealies. What actually comes out isn’t ‘more breath’ but quite a lot of panic…

We’ve all been there, right? You sit down, determined. Today is the day. You will be calm. You will be serene. You will finally become the kind of person you’ve always wanted to be. The kind who says things like:

“I just centre myself, you know.”

Without immediately checking your pulse afterwards.

Perhaps you light a candle. Sitting cross-legged as your hips start to hurt and there’s a loud POP, which may very well be your spine trying to escape. And you close your eyes.

Ah. Zen at last. This is what life is all about. Even though I’m getting quite twitchy…

And then your brain, that murderous little sod, boots up like it’s Windows 95.

BZZZZZ. WHOOOSH. ARRRGH!

At least that’s what MY Windows 95 sounded like.

Suddenly, as you’re trying to out-zen the Buddha, you become consumed with thoughts such as, ‘Did I reply to that email?’ ‘What if I’m breathing wrong?’ ‘Is this what enlightenment feels like, or does everyone feel like they’re about to throw up?’

You wonder what you’re doing wrong, but never fear!

Yes, in the spirit of self-improvement, here is my foolproof, absolutely not-at-all terrible guide to achieving mild panic while pretending to pursue inner peace.

Contrary to what people think, it’s actually the entire point of meditation…

Step 1: Set Unrealistic Expectations.

Begin your journey to zen by deciding that you will achieve it in record time. About four minutes. Not five. That’s indulgent, young grasshopper.

Four minutes is enough time for a kettle to boil and, therefore, enough time to dismantle years of overthinking.

If you aren’t enlightened by minute three, start to panic.

By minute four, conclude that you are fundamentally incompatible with tranquillity and possibly the act of breathing itself…

Step 2: Monitor Your Thoughts Like a Worrysome Security Guard.

Close your eyes and observe your strange thoughts. And now judge them.

Why are you thinking about that time your fly was down in public in 1983? Why is there a tap-dancing penguin in your mind? Why are you now thinking about what the penguin’s thinking about YOU?

I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it never liked you…

Attempt to ‘clear your mind’, which is a lot like trying to ask a firework to calm down.

Every time one of these intrusive thoughts appears, panic. Slightly.

This is excellent progress.

Step 3: Focus Deeply on Your Breathing ‘Til It Becomes Weird.

Inhale. Exhale. Scream.

Congrats! You’ve just unlocked Breathing: Advanced Mode.

Suddenly, breathing becomes a task. A responsibility. A performance.

Am I inhaling too much? Is this how lungs work? Have I always sounded this nasally?

Yup. Continue until you are 70% sure you’ve forgotten how to exist casually.

Step 4: Compare Yourself to People Who Don’t Exist.

At this stage, it’s important to imagine other people meditating perfectly and that they are bastards.

Oh sure, they glow like a post-coital rabbit. Everything they do is ever so effortless. And they’re surrounded by houseplants they’re convinced are talking to them…

Compare yourself harshly to these champions of calm.

This will help you maintain a steady baseline of mild panic.

Step 5: Introduce New Worries.

Once you’re slightly unsettled, introduce a completely unrelated concern.

For example, dear reader:

• Every one of your life goals.
• That text you haven’t replied to.
• Whether anyone has ever truly understood France.

Let it simmer like a plate full of bacon fat.

You are no longer meditating, my sons and daughters. You are marinating in your own worry juices…

Step 6: Try to ‘Let Go’ Aggressively.

As Elsa once sang:

“Let it go, let it go. It’s quite cold out here and I could really do with a jacket and some therapy because I think a snowman is talking to me.”

Now force it. Go hard and deep. Ahem.

Why are you still holding on? Let go better! More efficiently. With measurable results.

At this point, you’re gripping ‘letting go’ so tightly that it has become a full-time job.

This is the sweet spot.

Step 7: Declare Your Entire Life a Failure.

Open your eyes.

Sigh deeply, but in a way that suggets your filled with disappointment.

Decide that you are ‘bad at mindfulness’, which is a bit like being bad at sitting down, but far more emotionally charged.

Consider abandoning the whole zen thing in favour of a bacon sandwich slathered in whipped cream and chocolate.

Yum.

It’s a great way to run away from your feelings…

But Wait…

You have achieved mild panic!

Now, people who advocate for meditation would say you’re doing it all wrong, like they’re insulting my wonderful guide, those gits. But panic is the point.

All that chaos inside your head? Those wandering thoughts? The sudden awareness of your own breathing?

That is the process.

Not the serene, candelit version you imagined, but the real one. The slightly awkward, figedty, ‘Is this it?’ version.

The truth is, inner peace is a con. It’s not the absence of noise, but noticing the noise without trying to evict it like an unwanted fart.

Mild Panic IS Zen.

If you take nothing else from this deeply unhelpful guide, take this:

You don’t have to win at calm.

You don’t have to silence your brain or your bowels, optimise your thoughts, or become a human tranquil lake.

Sometimes, sitting there, thinking about all the things normal people think of, like emails and penguins, is enough.

Peace isn’t the goal of… peace. Huh?

It’s just staying. Even if you’re staying in a slightly panicked state.

Even if you’re staying with a slice of cake in one hand, quietly accepting that your brain is loud, your thoughts are weird, and you are, somehow, still standing.

Honestly?

That’s not failure.

That’s just being a person.

“The meaning of life is just to be alive… everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves.”

Anyonymous.

How do you fail at zen, reader, and why does that make you better for it?

Peace Out :|:

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The Committee Inside My Head Won’t Stop Arguing

Meet the Board (Note: I Did Not Elect Them).

In an effort to better understand why I can’t send a simple email without conducting a full risk assessment, I’ve arranged an exclusive interview with the decision-making panel inside my noggin’.

They insisted I call them… THE COMMITTEE.

Ooh, ominous.

I do not approve of such branding.

The Committee consists of several key members:

• The Overthinker (Chairperson, self-appointed).
• The Catastrophist (Head of Worst-Case Scenarios).
• The Optimist (rarely heard, often interrupted).
• The Snack Manager (surprisingly influential).
• And someone labelled simply ‘???’ (it hums ominously).

They agreed to the interview on the condition that I ‘shut up and finally listen to them.’

Rude.

This already feels like a trap. A bad one.

Like The Parent Trap…

The Interview.

Q: Thank you for all being here. First question. What are you?

Overthinker: “I exist to ensure you don’t make any decision lightly. Or quickly. In fact, preferably not at all.”

Catastrophist: “I exist to keep us safe. For example, if you send that email, they might misread it, hate you, tell everyone, come to kill you, and you’ll have to leave the country.”

Optimist: “Hang on, they might think it’s funny.”

Overthinker: “We can’t take that risk. It’s too ambitious. You know I hate ambition.”

Q: Why does every small decision I make turn into a full-blown crisis meeting?

Overthinker: “Governance. Always that. It’s all about structure and integrity.”

Snack Manager: “Also, you hadn’t eaten yet. Honestly, most of these ‘life dilemmas’ are just hunger pangs in a trench coat.”

Catastrophist: “Hunger leads to weakness. Weakness leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to social ruin. You know this.”

Optimist. “Or… toast?”

Q: Hang on, who’s actually in charge here?

(Long pause. Papers shuffle. Someone drops a pen).

Overthinker: “Well, I chair the meetings.”

Catastrophist: “And I set the agenda.”

Snack Manager: “I control morale.”

Optimist: “I bring vibes.”

???: *hums loudly*

Q: So… that’s no one, then?

All: “Correct.”

Q: Okay, then. So why do you always speak up at the worst possible times: Like, say, 2am? Or when there’s a very, very pretty woman nearby?

Catastrophist: “That is when you are most vulnerable.”

Overthinker: “And when we finally have uninterrupted time to revisit every conversation you’ve had since 2007. Naturally.”

Optimist: “Some of those went well, people!”

Overthinker: “Name one. Bitch.”

Optimist: “…well, 2009 was a promising year.”

Q: Be honest, now. Are you actually helping me?

(Another pause. It felt longer. Like a biscuit break).

Catastrophist: “We are preventing disaster.”

Overthinker: “We are refining decisions.”

Snack Manager: “We are deeply under-catered, you see.”

Optimist: “We’re trying, okay? Leave us alone.”

At this point, the meeting derailed quite spectacularly.

Overthinker: “We’ve spent too long on this interview. It’s not productive!”

Catastrophist: “What if publishing this makes people think we’re strange?”

Optimist: “People are strange. That’s the point of being people!”

Snack Manager: “I’d like to formally motion for more biscuits.”

???: *taps rhythmically like a demented metronome*

Suddenly, they turn on me.

Overthinker: “Why did you agree to this interview?”

Catastrophist: “This could backfire, you know.”

Optimist: “Or people might relate! You hate it when people ‘get’ you.”

Snack Manager: “If they relate, they might bring more biscuits.”

And there it is. The truth slips out mid-argument like a surprise behind an unzipped fly.

They’re not trying to sabotage me after all. They’re trying, albeit quite chaotically, loudly, and inefficiently, to protect me.

Even if their version of ‘protection’ is… a bit much, shall we say?

Living with the Committee.

The interview ended in ignominy, like all good interviews. You know, like when Richard Nixon punched David Frost.

The Snack Manager got its way and adjourned the meeting on the grounds of ‘too few biscuits.’ And so I’m left alone again.

Well, technically…

Because like the tiny people inside the heads of the folk from Inside Out, they’re never truly gone, and the idea of little people inside my head is terrifying.

That Committee is still there. Still debating, still spiralling, still occasionally being helpful in the way a group project is helpful when no one quite knows what they’re doing, which, from my experience, is EVERY GODDAMN GROUP PROJECT!

And there it is. The point.

The goal isn’t to silence them completely.

Believe me, I tried, and they unionised…

It’s learning when to nod politely and say:

“Thank you for your input… I’m sending the email anyway.”

Nothing can possibly go wrong.

*looks nervously left and right*

“What a liberation to realise that the ‘voice in my head’ is not who I am. Who am I then? The one who sees that.”

Eckhart Tolle.

So, reader. What’s your ‘internal committee’ like? Do you have a Catastrophist? An Optimist? Or a mysterious presence that won’t stop humming? Pull up a chair. The meeting’s already in progress…

Peace Out :|:

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My Life as a Failed Time Traveller

Field Report #137.

Now, in theory, going back in time sounds like a whole lot of fun.

You could become mysteriously wealthy. Wedgie certain dictators. Or convince the bloke who founded London to maybe… reconsider.

But then you realise there was no deodorant in 1812.

And that’s a bad thing because even modern deodorant already treats me like a suggestion rather than a solution.

So we come to today. This report documents an unauthorised, entirely accidental, and deeply underprepared attempt at time travel.

My objective was a simple one: visit 1812, albeit briefly, to observe daily life, return with insights, and, ideally, feel smug about modern plumbing and attitudes to incest.

But the reality was… well, far less elegant.

The subject (me) entered the field with no specialist equipment, no historical training, and a dangerously optimistic belief that people are basically the same everywhere, all throughout time.

They are.

Unfortunately, so are smells…

Eurgh. 🤢

My Findings.

1. Olfactory Conditions: Immediately Concerning.

Within about three minutes of landing, it became clear that history has a scent. And it’s not one scent, but quite a lot of them.

You could call it a collaborative effort involving:

• A horse’s backside.
• Cigar smoke.
• Wet linen from wet things.
• A certain cosmic resignation.

And yes, there was no Lynx Java. The best of all the Lynx. In fact, there wasn’t even a concept of deodorant. There was, at best, a vague commitment to ‘airing things out’, and washing them in pee.

At one point, I attempted to distance myself from a gentleman in a waistcoat, only to realise I was part of the problem. A humbling moment from the study.

This isn’t like Doctor Who at all.

2. Social Interaction: Alarmingly Direct.

Modern communication relies heavily on avoidance, emojis, and pretending TikTok audio isn’t slowly destroying civilisation.

Albeit not from my experience.

Yet in 1812, people made EYE CONTACT. Eurgh. What’s wrong with you?

And it was sustained as well.

They even had the audacity to ask questions like:

• “What clan are you from?”
• “Are you okay?”
• “Why are you dressed like a vagrant scarecrow high on cider?”

Yes, I am drunk on cider, but that’s beside the point.

There is no socially acceptable way to respond with:

“Sup, Regency dude. Just chillin’.”

Such limitations mean conversing was a tad difficult.

3. Clothing: Structurally Impressive, Crotch-Wise Restrictive.

Clothing in 1812 appears to have been designed by people who distrusted breathing.

Everything was layers. And structured. And quite committed.

I became aware quite quickly that:

• Sitting requires strategic planning.
• Comfort wasn’t really much of a priority.
• And moving quickly as a man felt like gambling with future generations.

At one point, I tried to adjust my outfit casually and received the kind of look often reserved for minor crimes, like pillaging…

4. Technology: Non-Compliant.

Sigh. Trying to use a mobile phone in 1812, go on. Attempts to use one for:

• Navigation.
• Time-checking.
• Attempting to invent Regency-era Tinder by standing near attractive strangers and looking ‘mysterious.’

…proved unsuccessful.

Battery life: irrelevant. Signal: what signal? Google? Sniff, I miss you, man.

This forced me into something I hate doing. Talking to other people. I’m not a fan of engaging with reality.

It requires supervision, like I’m some kind of big baby.

And yes, I’ve been called that on many occasions as an adult, but that’s not the point, reader.

Analysis.

My central hypothesis, then:

Time travel is charming, enlightening, and a great get-rich-quick scheme.

Thoroughly disproven.

You see, the issue isn’t the past itself. No, the issue, as always, is me. And I’m tired of being an issue.

Modern humans (mostly those like me) are highly specialised creatures. We rely on:

• Convenience.
• Subtlety.
• Personal space.
• Industry-strength hygiene products, namely Linx Java.

Remove any of these, and what remains is a person standing in 1812, overwhelmed, slightly moist, and deeply aware of the fact that they have no practical or personable skills whatsoever.

Time travel, as it turns out, is less about exploring history and more about discovering how unprepared for it you are.

Also, and this feels quite important: people in 1812 were not waiting to be observed by muppets from the future like me.

They were busy living.

Going to work.

Making love.

And, for some reason, they just didn’t want me there for any of those things…

It makes the whole ‘I’ll just pop back and have a look around’ mindset feel… slightly intrusive.

Only slightly, mind.

Conclusions.

This expedition yielded one key insight:

The past isn’t a place you visit. Nor survive. It’s somewhere you endure.

Like an unexpectedly long family gathering where everyone smells faintly of horse.

And survival requires more than simple curiosity. It requires you to adapt. Discover your inner resilience. And, preferably, have a backup plan involving lots of soap. And not just for yourself, but any potential Ye Olde Tinder hookups.

What? No, I’ve known lots of women in my life. They won’t take offence to you washing them before sex…

I returned to the present with a renewed appreciation for small luxuries:

• Running water.
• Personal space.
• Lynx Java.

They’re not sponsoring me. Well, not yet. £3 feels like a lot to smell like the ’90s. But if they give me a free lifetime supply, well, I’m available…

Time travel sounded like an escape.

But, in reality, it was a very effective way of realising that the present, for how unimaginably shit, awkward, noisy, and overwhelming it is, is actually quite well-suited for a shy boy like me.

Which is, frankly, a relief for those of us who often feel out of place.

Turns out, we’re right where we need to be.

Ideally, somewhere with plumbing, Wi-Fi, and a deodorant aisle.

“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”

L. P. Hartley.

Now I’m curious, reader: what’s your preferred Lynx product? Or are you one of those terrifying people who uses ‘natural crystals’? 👀

Peace Out :|:

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A Love Letter to My Favourite Worry Apps

Dear Apps of Mine,

Like all modern mistakes, it started with a download.

I downloaded one of you because I thought:

‘Yes. This is it. This is the moment I finally become a calm, grounded individual who breathes correctly and drinks water like a person in a wellness advert.’

You promised me serenity.

You promised me structure.

You promised me that if I simply checked in once a day, I would unlock a version of myself who doesn’t overthink a two-word reply like it’s a legal document.

And to your credit, you tried.

You really did.

You greeted me with soft colours. Gentle notifications. Encouraging phrases like, ‘You’re doing your best,’ which felt comforting and deeply suspicious, as if you knew something I didn’t.

For a while, it worked.

I tracked my mood. I named my feelings. I sat through breathing exercises where a circle expanded and contracted like it had its life together far more than I did.

I thought: this is healing.

But then you started to get to know me, and that never ends well…

Somewhere along the way, things changed.

You stopped being apps… and started being aware.

You began asking questions at very specific times:

• “How are you feeling right now?” (Immediately after I’ve opened my emails).
• “Have you taken a moment to pause today?” (I have not. I am spiralling politely).
• “Let’s reflect on what’s making you anxious.” (Everything. Hope that helps).

It didn’t.

Suddenly, I wasn’t using you to manage my anxiety.

I was using you to professionally document it.

I had charts.

Graphs.

Trends.

Trends, people! 📊

If anxiety were an Olympic sport, I could present a full performance analysis.

At one point, I became genuinely proud of a seven-day streak—not of feeling better, but of consistently acknowledging that I did not feel better.

Which feels… like a loophole?

Maybe?

I didn’t download anxiety apps to reduce anxiety.

I downloaded them to feel in control of anxiety.

Which is a completely different hobby.

Because there’s something deeply soothing about turning vague, floating dread into something measurable.

“Oh, I’m not overwhelmed. I’m just a 7.3 today. That’s practically organised.”

The apps didn’t remove the chaos.

They gave it a spreadsheet. 📈

With a name.

And as someone with a strange love for spreadsheets, I respected that.

Deeply.

But also, and this is the part where it gets slightly surreal, I started wondering:

If I stopped tracking it… would it still exist in the same way?

Or would it just roam freely, unrecorded, like a thought that never got turned into a notification?

Have I been managing my anxiety…

or just giving it a really nice interface?

Yet, despite everything, despite the constant reminders, the insights, the slightly passive-aggressive encouragement to ‘just take a moment’, you’ve done something important.

You’ve made me pause.

Even if it’s just for a second.

Even if it’s just to think:

‘I don’t want to answer this question right now.’

That’s still a moment of awareness.

And in a world that moves very fast and thinks very loudly, there’s something oddly comforting about being gently interrupted by a tiny digital voice asking:

“Hey… are you okay?”

Even if my answer is:

“I will circle back on that.”

So here we are.

Me, still slightly overwhelmed.

You, still vibrating gently with concern.

And somewhere between us is this strange, quiet understanding:

You don’t fix me.

You don’t solve anything.

But you make the chaos feel… acknowledged.

Which, it turns out, is sometimes enough.

Not everything needs to be optimised.

Not every feeling needs a graph.

But if it does end up in a graph… at least it’s a well-organised one.

Which, for an app with a subscription model, feels surprisingly intimate.

Yours anxiously,

Me.

“Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.”

Søren Kierkegaard.

Now I’m curious, reader: Do you use anxiety apps or do they use you? Tell me your favourite (or most suspiciously observant) apps. 🤨

Peace Out :|:

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I Tried Manifesting and Summoned My Anxiety

An Unhelpful Guide to Harnessing the Power of Your Thoughts (Please Don’t).

Manifesting, as Google has told me (and several suspiciously calm influencers), is a simple thing. ✨

You think positive thoughts. You visualise success. You align your ‘energy’ with the universe (somehow), and in return, the universe, like an overenthusiastic waiter, brings you exactly what you ordered.

No substitutions. No refunds. No, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Naturally, as someone whose brain occasionally treats ‘What if everything goes wrong?’ as a hobby, I thought: Yes. I am ready for this level of responsibility.

(I cannot be trusted to reply to emails, but this feels manageable).

Turns out…

Well, let’s just say, this guide exists to help you follow in my footsteps. Not successfully, may I add, because that’s impossible, but accurately.

Step 1: Set Your Intention (Keep It Vague but Ambitious).

This is key when manifesting. Start by deciding what you want.

Be bold. Be specific. Say something like:

“I want to feel calm, confident, and completely in control of my life.”

Immediately after this, your brain will respond with:

“Define ‘calm.’ Also, what if we fail publicly? And should we prepare a statement in advance?”

Ignore this. This is just your mind warming up. It’s like emotional stretching.

You’re on the right track.

Step 2: Visualise Your Ideal Reality.

Close your eyes and picture your best self.

They say it can be anything. You, in your underpants, eating ice cream and watching YouTube camping videos forever more. But let’s park that for now.

Instead, imagine you’re walking into a room. You’re relaxed. You’re glowing. You know what to say and when to say it. You don’t replay conversations from 2007.

Hold this image.

Now watch as your brain gently replaces it with:

• That time you waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at you.
• A hypothetical future where you trip over nothing.
• A full HD replay of saying the wrong thing in a meeting.

Congratulations.

You are no longer visualising success.

You are storyboarding your downfall. 🎬

Step 3: Repeat Positive Affirmations.

Affirmations are key.

Say things like:

• “I am calm!”
• “I am confident.”
• “I am not going to spiral.”

Repeat them daily.

Your brain, however, will begin a counter-presentation:

• “Are you calm, though? Really? Let’s review recent evidence.”
• “Confident? On what basis?”
• “Spiral? Oh, we can absolutely spiral.”

At this stage, you are no longer affirming.

You are hosting a panel discussion. And your anxiety has a microphone.

Step 4: Trust the Process.

This is where most people succeed.

Unfortunately, this is also where things take a turn.

Because trusting the process requires letting go of control. And letting go of control is, for your anxiety, the equivalent of pressing a large red button labelled:

‘DO SOMETHING DRAMATIC.’

You will begin to notice signs:

• Increased overthinking.
• Sudden awareness of every possible outcome.
• A deep, philosophical concern about a text you sent three hours ago.

You are not failing.

You are… manifesting something. It’s just not what you ordered.

But that’s not a bad thing…

Step 5: Interpret the Signs (Incorrectly, but with Confidence).

Every small inconvenience is now a message from the universe.

Spilt your tea? A sign.

Missed a call? A sign.

Nightmares at 2am? A very strong sign.

Someone typing ‘k’ instead of ‘okay’? Catastrophic sign.

You will attempt to decode these signals like a conspiracy theorist with a corkboard and absolutely no off switch.

Somewhere along the way, you will realise:

You are not manifesting your dream life.

You are curating a personalised anxiety experience.

Step 6: Escalate (Because That Seems Sensible).

At this point, a reasonable person might pause.

Instead, you double down.

You journal. You visualise harder. You try to ‘raise your cosmic vibrations,’ which appears to involve sitting very still while thinking louder.

Louder.

LOUDER.

Your thoughts become… enthusiastic.

Not positive. Not negative. Just loud.

Like your brain has found a megaphone and no adult supervision.

Shouty, shouty thoughts.

The Moment of Clarity (or Collapse, Depending on the Day).

And then, somewhere between your fifth affirmation and your brain’s twelfth objection, it hits you:

Maybe the issue isn’t that you’re bad at manifesting.

Maybe it’s that your mind doesn’t need encouragement.

It’s already generating scenarios. Constantly. In high definition.

You didn’t summon success.

You just gave your anxiety a creative brief.

A Slightly More Honest Takeaway.

Here’s the thing no one puts in the guidebooks:

Your thoughts are powerful, but they’re also… chaotic. And a little bit naff.

Trying to control them perfectly is a bit like organising a group chat where everyone is you, and none of you agrees.

Manifesting didn’t fail.

It just revealed something slightly more useful:

Maybe the goal isn’t to think perfectly, but to notice what you’re thinking without immediately turning it into a full-blown production of Les Mis.

(Featuring you, your fears, and a surprisingly committed internal chorus).

A Gentle Disclaimer Disguised as Wisdom.

So if you’re thinking of manifesting, go ahead.

Visualise. Affirm. Dream big. Think underpants and ice cream.

But maybe don’t panic if your brain occasionally responds with,

“Cool idea. Here are 47 ways it could go wrong.”

That’s not failure.

That’s just your mind… being aggressively thorough.

And honestly? It means well.

Even if it does come with a warning label…

“You don’t have to control your thoughts.
You just have to stop letting them control you.”

Dan Millman.

Have you ever tried manifesting… or just accidentally manifested a full-blown spiral? 😅

Peace Out :|:

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The Introvert’s Guide to Loud People

(A Completely Serious Survival Manual for When the Volume Is… a Lifestyle).

There is a very specific moment every introvert knows all too well.

You’re sitting somewhere peaceful, maybe at a Greggs, with a sausage roll and a thought. 🥐

Suddenly, from across the room, a voice arrives before the person does. Loud. Confident. Already halfway through a story.

It has opinions about everything from oat milk to the moral decline of toast. 🍞

And just like that, your internal monologue, which was minding its own quiet, well-organised business, has been evicted in the most sacred place to every Northern Englander.

Sniff.

Most loud people? Fine. Let’s be clear about that. They are, in many cases, delightful.

Warm. Enthusiastic. Human confetti.

Which, now that I say it out loud, is slightly horrifying.

Yet they operate at a volume that suggests life is a constant group announcement nobody asked for.

So, as an introvert, what do you do?

You adapt.

You strategise.

You create… a guide.

And I’m brilliant at that. Ahem…

1: Early Detection Systems.

The key to survival is anticipation, you see.

Loud people rarely sneak up on you. They arrive with audio cues. Laughter that echoes slightly too long. A story that begins at full volume and somehow escalates. Often into utter gibberish.

Train yourself to recognise the signs:

• “OH MY GOD I HAVE TO TELL YOU—”
• Clapping mid-conversation. 👏
• Saying your name like it’s breaking news.

“ALAAAAAAAAN!”

Once detected, you have options: brace, reposition, or mentally prepare a polite nod that says:

‘I am present. But internally, I am in a quiet forest. Somewhere far away. 🌲’

2: The Strategic Nod (Your Greatest Weapon).

The nod is an art form. A damn good one, as well.

Too little, and you seem disengaged.

Too much, and you’ve accidentally agreed to something.

The ideal nod says:

“I hear you. I support you. But I will not be contributing additional volume.”

Advanced technique: pair the nod with a soft, “Mm,” or “That’s wild,” which buys you approximately 30 seconds of listening time without requiring further output.

Bringing you closer to enjoying your sausage roll…

3: Safe Phrases for High-Volume Situations.

When caught up in a direct conversation, deploy neutral, low-energy phrases:

• “That’s so interesting.”
• “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
• “Wow… that’s a lot.” 😅

These phrases keep the conversation alive… without involving you too much.

Which, of course, I’m always in favour of.

Avoid asking open-ended questions unless you are emotionally prepared for a sequel…

4: The Quiet Exit (A Masterclass in Disappearing Politely).

The introvert’s greatest skill is the ability to leave without all this becoming a ‘moment’.

The key strategies include:

• The “I’m just going to grab a drink” (never specify when you’ll return).
• The “I’ve just remembered a thing” (no one will ask what the thing is).
• The slow drift (gradually moving away while maintaining eye contact until it becomes socially ambiguous).

Executed correctly, you will vanish…

like a polite ghost. 👻

The Shocking Realisation.

Here’s where things get… uncomfortable.

Because after all the strategies, the nodding, the tactical retreats, a thought appears.

An uncomfortable one.

What if loud people aren’t the problem…

what if they’re just living out loud?

Saying the things we shy-ones rehearse in our heads. Filling the silence we carefully curate. Existing without the constant background hum of, “Am I being too much?”

It’s deeply suspicious.

And, annoyingly… a little admirable.

Eurgh. I don’t like that.

It feels… correct.

5: Borrowing a Bit of Volume (Without Losing Your Soul).

This is not a call to become loud. That would be chaos.

But there is something to be learnt from people who don’t second-guess every word before it leaves their mouth. That must be nice.

Try this:

• Say the thing you were going to keep to yourself. (Start small. Don’t open with a TED Talk).
• Laugh without checking if it was ‘appropriate volume.’
• Initiate a conversation instead of waiting to be invited.

It will feel illegal. 🚨

It is not illegal.

No one will fine you.

Redefining ‘Too Much.’

Introverts are experts at editing themselves. We trim sentences. Lower voices. Rehearse thoughts until they’re smooth and quiet and acceptable.

Loud people?

They just… press publish.

And maybe the real balance isn’t choosing one or the other, but realising there’s space for both.

You can be thoughtful and heard. Quiet and confident. Reserved and occasionally the person who says:

“OH WAIT I HAVE A STORY.”

(Use responsibly. Side effects may include attention).

It’s Not Volume vs Silence, It’s Harmony.

In the end, loud people aren’t here to overwhelm us (even if it sometimes feels like an audio ambush 🎤).

They’re just tuned to a different setting.

And maybe the goal isn’t to survive them, but to coexist, as unpalatable as it may seem for us shy-ones.

They’re not going anywhere, so maybe we need to find that middle ground where their energy doesn’t drain you, and your calm doesn’t disappear.

Where you can sit in the same space, one of you narrating, the other observing, and somehow, it works.

Also, if they order for the table, that’s a win…

“Solitude matters, and for some people, it is the air they breathe.”

Susan Cain.

So here’s your challenge: Next time you encounter a loud person… stay. Observe. Maybe even contribute—just a little. And if it gets too much? Nod. Smile. And quietly become one with the furniture. You were born for this.

Peace Out :|:

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I’M AN EU CITIZEN AGAIN!

#ViveLaFrance

Oh, so this happened today.

🇫🇷

#ViveLaFrance

Le sachiez vous ?

Contrôlé positif à un alcootest ou à une détection de #THC lors dun contrôle routier, vous serez privé de permis et condamné, éventuellement, à de la prison.

Contrôlé positif alcool, thc, héroïne, cocaïne...par un garde forestier lors d'une partie de chasse, vous risquez...wouallou.

Si, si, wouallou.

#ViveLafRance

This is what I expect from a leader of a country - stand strong, stand for your country, show they way.
#vivelafrance #EuropeanPolitics

#drinkbordeaux
#margaux
#leftbank
#confitdeCanard
#vivelaFrance

Personal note: I cherish my memories. I do so by taking pictures. In the process of replacing everything USamerican I just imported 59k (number of pictures, not gigabyte) pictures of the past 5 years from the cloud to my new european based solution.

I am a little bit suprised about the number & enoying a little french red wine while revisiting wonderful memories. I guess I can thank USamerican politics for this nice moment, huh?

#Usamericanpolitics #goeuropean #memories #vivelafrance

This world would be so much better if social media was offered by democratic governements (instead of corporations)

And France is trying things out. 😊

https://reseauculture.fr/directory

#vivelafrance #fediverse #democratic

Am Wochenende mal wieder #Casablanca angesehen. Diese Szene ist so schön, in der es #VictorLaszlo den Nazis zeigt: https://youtu.be/HM-E2H1ChJM

*schneuz*

Edit: Victor Laszlo richtig zu schreiben, ist nicht so einfach. Vielleicht beim dritten Versuch! 😉

#ViveLaFrance

"A Centennial of Independence," Henri Rousseau, 1892.

Rousseau (1844-1910) was a self-taught French painter, technically of the Post-Impressionist school, but usually classed as a Naive or Primitive artist. I prefer "Visionary" myself. He was ridiculed in his lifetime for his style but not long before Rousseau's death, he was discovered by Picasso who declared him a genius. When he passed he was finally starting to get the attention and acclaim that had been his due. To this day he's a major influence on avant-garde artists.

The First French Republic was declared on September 21st, 1792, and although it only lasted until 1804, it was still considered a significant day to be celebrated. Here we have peasants dancing, and what look like picnickers in the background. The two women in the center of the circle, carrying flags representing the First and Third Republics (the Third Republic lasted from 1870 to 1940), may be allegorical figures, along with the folks to the right in 18th century dress. Or they're in costumes for the occasion. It's hard to tell with Rousseau, which is what makes him fascinating.

From the Getty Museum, Los Angeles.

#Art #HenriRousseau #VisionaryArt #ViveLaFrance #ViveLaRevolution #HurrahForFreedom #LiberteEgaliteFranternite

#amazon #vivelafrance #lieferung #kurzvorrente

Lieferung nach Frankreich getestet. Eigentlich war die Lieferung für den Folgetag geplant. Hoffentlich verlangt Amazon keine Aufbewahrungsgebühren..

C'est Le 14 juillet!🇫🇷
#France #ViveLaFrance #BastilleDay

Die fangen hier auf dem Campingplatz mit den Chansons an und ich fühle mich gleich als Teil der Grande Nation. 🇫🇷

#ViveLaFrance #ViveLaEurope

Bonne Fête nationale à tous mes amis français! 🇫🇷 #LiberteEgaliteFraternite #ViveLaFrance #Joyeux14Juillet #BonneFeteNationale #BastilleDay

Happy Bastille Day to all who celebrate it.

https://youtu.be/SEJHJ_WfNgU

#BastilleDay #ViveLaFrance

French city of Lyon ditching Microsoft for open source office and collab tools
Ingredients of future software salade Lyonnaise will include Linux, PostgreSQL, and OnlyOffice https://www.theregister.com/2025/06/26/lyon_leaving_microsoft/ #VivelaFrance #digitalsovereignty