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. 💛

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 decorations, 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.

Just a few more months of work before I clock off for the last time at Christmas and join the ranks of the retired. Debbie is already ahead of me — she resigned from her parish back in June and is currently enjoying the benefits of long service leave while I’m still chained to the desk. (Not that I’m counting the days or anything…)

So what’s next? Well, I’m not quite ready to take up competitive lawn mowing or spend my golden years pottering in the garden. That can wait until I’m actually “old.” Until then, Debbie and I have big plans — very big plans.

In January 2026, we’ll officially become card-carrying members of that great Aussie phenomenon known as the Grey Nomads. Australia is massive — we’ve done a fair bit of travel over the years, but truthfully, we’ve barely scratched the surface. So we’ve decided to give it a proper crack: at least two years on the road, doing the classic “big lap” around this incredible country.

The plan? Well… to not really have a plan. Other than getting the house sorted before we leave, our only itinerary is to follow the weather, chase the best campsites, and spend as much time off-grid as possible. If it’s hot, we’ll head south. If it’s cold, we’ll chase the sun. Basically, we’ll wander where the mood takes us.

I’ll be keeping this blog updated along the way and sharing videos on YouTube — so if you’re ever curious about where we’ve parked up, you’ll be able to track us through our website. Don’t expect glossy, big-budget productions though. There are plenty of Aussie travel vloggers out there who seem to have bottomless wallets; we’ll be showing what it’s like to do it on a budget. (Think less champagne and caviar, more instant coffee and sausages on the campfire.)

Of course, the toys are coming too. Metal detectors? Packed. Fishing rods? Absolutely. I’m even planning to master the art of damper, and if that goes well, maybe move on to more ambitious camp cooking. (Although Debbie has already suggested we keep the fire extinguisher handy.)

So buckle up, follow along, and watch this space. The big lap awaits.

Not my words, but I couldn’t agree more.

Someone asked “Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?” Nate White, an articulate and witty writer from England wrote the following response:

A few things spring to mind. Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed.

So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever.

I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman.

But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty. Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.

And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness. There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface.

Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul. And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.

And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.

There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless or female – and he kicks them when they are down. So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think ‘Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that:

• Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and most are.
• You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.

After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum. God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid. He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.

I think that sums a few things up. And this is the type of person who holds power over us, sanctioned by big government, large corporations, the military / drug industrial complex and organized religion.

~ Stolen from David! Thank you, David!

For as long as I can remember, staying informed about the world has been essential to me. To be whole, I believed you had to understand what was happening beyond your own doorstep. Keeping up with the news seemed like a way to be aware, engaged, and part of something larger. But recent events—especially in the United States—have shaken that perspective to the core. It’s hard to keep watching when it feels like a place that once represented democracy is walking away from it.

This past week, I reached a point where I decided I had to disconnect. I stopped watching, listening to, or reading the news altogether. The constant flow of unsettling headlines has moved past enlightening and informative; now, it just feels disheartening. We already knew things were unsteady, but this week felt like watching the world completely lose its way. There comes a point when the endless cycle of negativity, sensationalism, and chaos no longer serves any good purpose, and for me, that point has arrived.

Instead of feeling bound to newsfeeds and broadcasts, I find myself longing for a different rhythm. I’ve always been drawn to the open landscapes of the outback, where time slows down, and life isn’t defined by the next big headline. And now, the pull to escape this whirlwind and immerse myself in travels through the rugged beauty of the outback is stronger than ever. There’s something profoundly liberating about trading the noise for the quiet hum of nature, where moments are measured by the rising and setting sun, not by breaking news alerts.

Disconnecting from the news, I hope to reconnect with something deeper and more enduring: the simple, grounding reality of the natural world. Out there, beyond the reach of chaos, I believe there’s peace to be found. So, for now, I’ll turn my attention to planning these travels, setting up my gear, and finding refuge in the outback—a place far removed from the frenzy, where the world feels a little less crazy and a lot more like home.