Today is a fine day. Not extraordinary, not grand—just fine. Partly because I’m alive and woke up on the right side of the bed, albeit later than usual. 10 a.m. A scandal for someone who leans toward the toxic productivity of pre-dawn starts. But today, there’s no guilt, no hangover—just the mild fuzz of a late night with my wife and a bottle of rosé. Well, 70/30 in my favor.
The rosé wasn’t expensive, nor did it need to be. Some drinks carry their charm without ceremony or gilded corkscrews. That said, a small caveat: cheap rosé can go sideways fast. A good £15-20 bottle is the starting point, particularly one with that subtle, pale grey-pink hue, as it delivers more value than most equally priced red or white. At least in my view. There’s still a glass left in the bottle. I’ll save it for later, for the swilling and sipping that pairs best with preparing my prized carvery joint. No Reservations hums faintly in the background, and I find myself unconsciously mimicking Tony’s cadence. Time to cut that off before I start musing on why I only need one great knife for cooking.
One of life’s quieter pleasures, especially as a suburban dad riding the fine line between “burnt out” and “crushing it,” is drinking while cooking.
It’s Friday, and I’ve given myself the grace of a long weekend. Earlier this week, I was in London—Fitzrovia, specifically. The six-hour round trip has left me worse for wear and battling an oncoming sore throat. GWR First Class clearly wasn’t the sterile sanctuary i needed this time, though I’ll admit relief at not having to endure Scumbag Steve rapping along to Central Cee this time. Will that get me cancelled?
As I sip, I’ll offer some thoughts on social media. Instagram. It’s better than when I left it, though perhaps that says more about me than the platform. The self-help community has grown oddly wholesome. I like that Irish gent with the makeshift microphone who’s perpetually outdoors and insists on “pushing P.” His messaging is repetitive, sure, but it reminds me of a truth worth revisiting: one from master Qui Gon before he got cancelled.Your focus determines your reality. Meditation, positivity, all of it—cliché, but necessary.
Now, Instagram has also taken a turn for the worse. The age of flex culture has evolved from Love Island types flaunting business-class French tips and bust-down Pateks to tech bros peddling half-baked disparagement on homeownership. It all distills down to : If it isn’t a stock, it’s not worth owning,” they declare, as though the world were one big Excel sheet.
For what it’s worth, I live in the Welsh Valleys near the Brecon Beacons. My wife and I sold a fixer-upper for six figures over two years—a feat born less of genius and more of competence amid silver lining circumstance. It was meant to be our forever home, but the blocked driveway, rowdy teens vandalizing cars, and a set of sour neighbors nudged us out. We mourned the dream, wiped our eyes with crisp £50 notes, and moved on. Fittingly, Florence and the Machine’s Dog Days Are Over played on the radio as we drove away for the last time. We both hate that song, and laughed uncontrollably at the irony. It was almost too poetic, like something from a novel you’d put down for being too on the nose.
So no, I won’t be dispensing unsolicited market wisdom, but here’s my 2 cents : luck often masquerades as strategy, and the market is a beast no one can fully tame. If you are up to owning a home and want to shorten your mortgage term, it seems as responsible a choice as any. Not financial advice.
Back to social media. How does one navigate it without falling into the same flex-laden traps? I aspire to be like Christiane Amanpour, James Martin, Anthony Bourdain, and, in moments of reckless confidence, a less-problematic Ian Fleming. The common thread? Purpose. Mission. I want to offer something useful: a bit of insight for those who need it, friendship for those who get it, and inspiration for those tired of it all.
As Adele croons in the kitchen and my wife negotiates a return to Waitrose—provided the Amex behaves and I manage the collection—I’m reminded of why this is indeed, a great life. Waitrose isn’t just a grocery store; it’s a treasure trove for Pho ingredients, Japanese lagers and regional wines that demand my attention.
The rosé is gone now, and I’ve moved on to Snoop Dogg’s Cali Red—a surprising kitchen staple alongside the more storied Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a tasty nod to my wife’s family history. Scrolling briefly through Instagram, I see the usual suspects: Tudor Black Bays, boxing clips, over-engineered denim jackets from Germany, and David Byrne in that unforgettable big suit. All fascinating, yet not enough to hold me. I close the app and return to Adele.
And so, I drink wine.