The Commonplace Newsletter

For those of you who prefer to read on paper rather than a screen, here’s an easily printable pdf file of this story. Twenty Seven 83.3KB ∙ PDF file No sun, no moon, no stars, no clouds. No crisscross of contrails or swarms of startled city birds. Just a white nothingness above, a vast absence like unused sketch paper up beyond the near colourless brick townhouses looming overhead. It was the most vague and unreadable sky he had ever craned his neck to contemplate. The world made no sense.

Between 2020 and 2025 I published 119 essays which totalled over 200,000 words. They covered everything from cloudwatching to birdsong, from the death of lunch to the end of the extremely online era, from pylons and foxes to insomnia and discouragement and pretentiousness and pretty much everything else in between.

‘What you need,’ The Fat Man said, gesturing with a twirl of his yolk-dripping knife ‘What you need is to learn how to enjoy yourself, get a little pleasure into your life. Get a girl. You got a girl, right?’ Across the table Smith gave a near imperceptible shoulder shrug, the gesture saying ‘maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’ ‘I mean Lord knows I pay you enough, right? You can’t be hurting for money. Go out and spend a little, go for a drink, meet someone.

The Kid shouldered the fire exit door open, his face a scowl of concentration. In each hand he had a mug of hot black coffee that threatened to slosh out on to his already sweat and soup and gore-stained t-shirt and apron. He sidestepped the waist-high A-shaped chalkboard sign with its inviting list of specials and prices and offers, he slow-walked along the row of empty wooden tables, each with a limp and logoed brewery umbrella sheathed in a hole in the centre of it.

I was starting to take myself seriously for a moment there, which is a really unfortunate situation to find yourself in. Deadly even. See, some confluence of pretensions, ambitions and delusions led me to hit upon the misguided idea that I should write an essay about failure. Because that’s a cheery, easy to write about topic that the readership would be sure to lap up.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Contended we carve through countryside- Bound for town, for reality, for bed. Beyond the window now a mellow unfolding: Patchwork hedgerows- artichoke barriers around kelly-green grass, Steady slow turn of white windmills, Horizon haze, heat shimmering, Steep valley drops beyond brick bridges. Delays in departure no issue, Each station a saint and we draw patience from them.

As I draw closer to the end of this Commonplace Newsletter project, I am forced to ask myself what else is there left to say? What topics or ideas or themes have I not yet covered that I would regret leaving untouched? It’s a question I have been turning over in my mind for a couple of weeks now; while on the commuter train to work, while scanning groceries, while queuing at the post office ideas will come to me and I will rapidly realise that I have already written about them.

The experiment continues… A year ago today (which also happens to be my birthday) I announced a new policy. I would only directly hit my readers with a call to action once a year. January 24th would be the one day each year where I would pass the hat. And only on this one day each year would I approach my readers directly with a reminder that I offer paid subscriptions- both monthly and annually- as well as an option for a one off donation (via ‘Buy Me a Coffee’) if preferred.

Speed is modernity and modernity is speed. Everything’s moving so fast and yet little seems to get better. Everyone’s working so hard- or at least exerting so much energy- but little seems to get improve. The hands race around the clock face, the pages fly off the calendar, the speedometer quivers dangerously in the red zone. But to what end?

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Like the drifting pinks and reds of an autumn sunset, Like the rolling, vast unfathomable ocean, Like the oceanic intoxication of a moment of insight (as brief as the beat of wings, as eternal as hope itself) my love for you is beyond mere words. My love for you is beyond mere words, beyond mere intellect, beyond theorising, beyond categorisation, beyond comparison, beyond all such thinking things.