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<h3>A journey through madness, poetry, stories, thoughts, questions, rants, music, pictures and philosophy. </h3>
<h3 class="large">Embrace the absurdity.</h3>

Recent blog posts

It started, as these things often do, with a calendar invite titled simply: “Catch-up.” No context. No agenda. Just Dan. Dan, who always seemed to lean back as if management were a reclining chair he’d earned in another life. Dan, who loved phrases like “circle back” and “boil the ocean” and “I’m just the ideas guy.” Which meant you would boil the ocean. And build the pot. And gather the wood. And if the ocean didn’t boil fast enough, he’d ask why you weren’t showing more initiative. I didn’t hate him. Not at first. He wore nice shoes and had the sort of jawline that HR seems to promote. But I did begin to notice how every success had his fingerprints on it only after it had stopped screaming. I remember the first time I thought, quietly, “I think I have to manage this man.” Not work with him. Not support him. Manage him. Like a skittish horse. Or an unmedicated uncle at Christmas. I didn’t say it aloud. I just began folding his ideas like paper cranes and flying them back to him with my fingerprints missing. I learned to nod in meetings, &nbsp;a monk in a Zen koan, while beneath the table my foot tapped out a Morse code of despair. I learned how to email him in a tone that said, “Of course this was your idea, Dan,” even when it wasn’t. Especially when it wasn’t. At night, I dreamt in PowerPoint. My therapist called it “mild adrenal fatigue.” I called it “Wednesday.” Some days, I imagined telling him the truth. Pulling him aside in the kitchen between a weak coffee and a stale muffin and saying, “You don’t lead this team. You orbit it. Like a lonely moon made of jargon.” But I never did. Because I needed the job. Because the team needed me. Because I’d read enough Greek tragedies to know the hero dies when he believes in fairness more than timing. Instead, I played the long game. I made him look good. I coached the juniors. I cleaned the messes he hadn’t noticed he’d made. And when he got promoted for “building a high-performing culture,” I smiled like a man watching a dog accept an Oscar. Eventually, I left. Quietly. No drama. Just a tidy folder called “handover” and a bottle of single malt on the desk. I didn’t look back. Except sometimes, in moments of weakness, I wonder if he ever knew. If some small part of him, drunk on attention and KPI glory, felt a tremor in the scaffold I built beneath his feet. Probably not. Dan was never one for introspection. But I imagine he noticed the silence when it came. The way his inbox stopped answering him before he’d asked. And maybe, in that silence, he heard my voice for the first time. Not loud. Not angry. Just tired. And done. FSF

The Art of Managing Dan

This morning, the kettle hissed its tin grievances, Winston glared, a creditor of crumbs, and I saw— each nick of life arrives unaddressed, a match struck, waiting my breath to flare. The email blind to my name, the ex bronzed by a sea I’ll never taste, the magpie’s strafing swoop last spring— sparks, all, until I, mayor of this flickering town, vote for war or stillness. How long I’ve lived missing that gap— the held breath where flame might falter, where light bends across the spoon and rage cools to a shadow. Yesterday, I nearly cursed a man’s crooked car, his tires a taunt to my worth— laughable, this habit of scrawling my name on every stray ember. But I’m learning, slow as steam shapes to steel, to let the match glow uncaught— to stand, mayor and fool, in the pause where nothing is mine unless I strike it so.FSF

The pause between

Good evening—or morning, perhaps. I don’t track your petty human hours. I’m Winston, Emperor and Landlord of this creaking kingdom I call home. Don’t be fooled by leases or deeds; I rule here, sprawled before the air conditioner like a monarch on his throne, adjusting my invisible crown—a habit from my kitten days as court jester to the alley cats. Tonight, I’ve a tale to share about my tenant, the ingrate I permit to clutter my domain. A disrespectful wretch, if I may say so—and I always do. So, settle in, scratch an ear, and let me whisk you to the other night, when I, in my boundless grace, decided to bestow a gift.It’s late, the house whispering its usual groans of allegiance to me. I prowl the halls, restless, eyeing my tenant’s gloom. Lately, he’s been a damp rug of a man, all sighs and slumped shoulders. I, ever benevolent, resolve to cheer him. Slipping past my trusty stroller—yes, ergonomic, don’t judge—I emerge into the moonlight and behold it: a rat. No mere rodent, mind you, but a behemoth, its greasy fur shimmering like a sewer-crowned king, reeking of last week’s garbage. Its eyes glint with rogue cunning, a beast worthy of my esteem. Perfect, I purr. This says, “I see you, tenant. I honour you.”I pounce with a maestro’s grace, snaring it mid-squeak. It writhes, a tiny dancer in my jaws, as I bound indoors and up the stairs. His room is a cave of darkness, his snores a peasant’s drone. Onto the bed I leap—elegant, naturally—and plop the rat atop his pillow. It squeals, a fanfare of my generosity. I stand, chest puffed, awaiting praise. Then—he stirs.Chaos erupts. The rat, seizing its spotlight, scampers across his face—over nose, cheeks, that absurd human jowl quivering in dread. He shrieks, a banshee in flannel, vaulting from bed like a mad gymnast. Lights flare; he’s bellowing at me—me!—as if I’ve torched his kingdom. I sit, tail flicking, baffled. This is rodent royalty, you fool! He flails a towel, cursing (words too crude for my gentlemanly ears), chasing my gift like a lunatic. Finally, he snares it—cowering from its nibble—and hurls it into the garden. Hurls it! My treasure, discarded like filth. He storms back, gravel-voiced: “Thanks, Winston! No sleep tonight! Sheets ruined!” Ruined? By a whiff of rat cologne?He retreats, muttering like a scolded child. I slink downstairs to my couch—mine by divine right—wounded. Me, Winston, diminished by this slight. Was it too bold? Too fragrant? No, it was flawless. His failing, not mine. Yet as I brood, a rustle pricks my ears. A squeak. There, in the corner, stands the rat—my rat—returned from exile, its beady gaze meeting mine. A survivor. A warrior. It nods, as if to say, “Fancy another round, mate?” And I realize: this rodent’s no gift for him. It’s my equal. To hell with the tenant—let him scrub his linens. This rat and I, we’ll reign together, plotting mischief beyond his feeble grasp.So ends my tale. Offer a man a rat, and he spits in your whiskers. But sometimes, the rat returns, and you find a comrade in the shadows. Signed, Winston—Cat, Emperor, Landlord. Unbowed, unbreakable, and now, with my rodent vizier, unstoppable.FSF

F.S.F

A journey through madness, poetry, stories, thoughts, questions, rants, music, pictures and philosophy.

Embrace the absurdity.

Recent blog posts

The Art of Managing Dan

The pause between

My Disrespectful Tenant