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What is it about the Olympics, that strange, glorious parade of the odd and the beautiful, that makes us care so deeply about women's under 58kg weightlifting, a sport we hadn’t known existed until last Tuesday? Handball, with its curious mix of soccer and something else entirely, becomes, for two weeks, the reason I leap from my couch with the enthusiasm of a man possessed. And why do I find myself invested in the form of the Nigerian marathoner, who I’m certain has the legs to go all the way, or suspect that New Zealand, of all places, will walk away with wrestling gold? Is it the magic of the moment, or some ancient spell from the days of gladiators and chariot races, a modern Coliseum wrapped in flags and good intentions? Perhaps it's both—a cocktail of spectacle and spirit, just enough opiate to keep us cheering, our voices hoarse with excitement instead of anger. But whatever it is, whatever alchemy makes me suddenly an expert in canoe slalom or synchronized swimming, I’m hooked, and when the closing ceremony arrives, I’ll be the one asking, “Can we have a third week, please?”

Olympic Fever

Well, Universe, here we are, just you and me, and I’ve got to hand it to you; this job, this daily grind, it keeps the lights on, puts food on the table, and, hell, it even saves me from the endless puzzle of assembling IKEA on my weekends. I guess that’s something to tip my hat to, a small rebellion against the absurd. Fifty-four feels like forty on a good day, if I don’t push too hard, if I move slow and steady in the morning. The years add up, but I keep moving, because what else is there? The body creaks, the mirror lies, but there’s a kind of beauty in that, isn’t there? In knowing, and still choosing to rise. The kids, they’re running wild, making the same foolish moves I did once, and I can’t help but see myself in their chaos. Sorry, Mumma, for what I put you through; now I get it. But there’s a strange comfort in the cycle, in watching them stumble, knowing they’ll stand up again, just like I did. And the friends, we’ve grown older, sure, traded our wild nights for early beds, but there’s a quiet triumph in that, too. We laugh, not just because it’s funny, but because it’s all we can do in the face of time’s relentless march. We made it this far, and there’s a kind of victory in that. My car still runs, faithful as ever, and doesn’t judge when I’m belting out 80s tunes, stopped at a red light, feeling alive, if only for a moment. That moment’s enough, sometimes— a small slice of defiance, a way to spit in the face of the absurd. The cat, my dawn companion, nudges me awake at 5 AM, like he knows something I don’t, something about the day that I’ve yet to figure out. Maybe it’s just hunger, or maybe there’s wisdom in his persistence; a reminder that life goes on, and so must I. I’m thankful for the small things, the snacks that didn’t run out, the couch that holds me when the day is done. And yes, even for the office lighting, that merciful glow that hides the gray, lets me believe, for just a while, that I’ve still got time, still got some fight left in me. So here’s to laughing at the absurdity of it all, to finding meaning where there seems to be none, to waking up each day, knowing it’s all a bit ridiculous, but choosing to live it anyway, with a touch of hope, a dash of defiance, and maybe, just maybe, a reason to smile in the end. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;

A Grateful Defiance

It begins innocently enough,&nbsp;&nbsp;a ball oddly shaped like a giant almond,&nbsp;&nbsp;something to chase down like a dog&nbsp;&nbsp;gone mad in a field of endless green.&nbsp;&nbsp;Eighty minutes where the world&nbsp;&nbsp;holds its breath,&nbsp;&nbsp;and all that matters is this peculiar object&nbsp;&nbsp;bouncing unpredictably&nbsp;&nbsp;as if it has a mind of its own. There’s a kind of magic in the pain,&nbsp;&nbsp;in the way lungs burn and ribs protest,&nbsp;&nbsp;in the cauliflower ears&nbsp;&nbsp;earned one scrum at a time,&nbsp;&nbsp;the souvenirs of a love affair&nbsp;&nbsp;with something that leaves you breathless,&nbsp;&nbsp;and sometimes, speechless. The glory of a win,&nbsp;&nbsp;that sweet taste like nothing else,&nbsp;&nbsp;and the agony of a loss,&nbsp;&nbsp;a hollow ache that stays with you&nbsp;&nbsp;long after the final whistle blows.&nbsp;&nbsp;Are we having fun yet?&nbsp;&nbsp;The pre-season mantra,&nbsp;&nbsp;uttered between gasps for air,&nbsp;&nbsp;when fitness feels like a slow march&nbsp;&nbsp;through hell and back,&nbsp;&nbsp;and yet we come back for more. But then, there’s the camaraderie,&nbsp;&nbsp;the songs that rise in the locker room,&nbsp;&nbsp;voices mingling in a hymn&nbsp;&nbsp;to this brutal ballet.&nbsp;&nbsp;The brotherhood,&nbsp;&nbsp;the laughter and the mischief,&nbsp;&nbsp;the shared bruises and beers,&nbsp;&nbsp;the stories that grow&nbsp;&nbsp;more exaggerated with every retelling. It’s said this is the game&nbsp;&nbsp;they play in heaven,&nbsp;&nbsp;but I suspect there’s a pitch in hell too,&nbsp;&nbsp;and in every place in between,&nbsp;&nbsp;because rugby is less a sport,&nbsp;&nbsp;and more a state of being,&nbsp;&nbsp;a world where, for eighty minutes,&nbsp;&nbsp;we chase after that odd-shaped ball,&nbsp;&nbsp;with all the passion of a lover,&nbsp;&nbsp;and all the madness of a fool. FSF

Rugby Union

It’s happening again.&nbsp;&nbsp;The slow burn of annoyance flickers to life&nbsp;&nbsp;as I pat my pockets,&nbsp;&nbsp;scan the kitchen counter,&nbsp;&nbsp;and peer under the newspaper&nbsp;&nbsp;as if my glasses have somehow&nbsp;&nbsp;mastered the art of camouflage. It’s the third time this week,&nbsp;&nbsp;but who's counting?&nbsp;&nbsp;(Except me, obviously.)&nbsp;&nbsp;I can already hear the ghost of Monday’s panic&nbsp;&nbsp;rattling its chains in my mind,&nbsp;&nbsp;and Thursday’s fiasco lingering like a bad aftertaste. I march from room to room,&nbsp;&nbsp;each step more frantic than the last,&nbsp;&nbsp;my hands swiping across surfaces,&nbsp;&nbsp;yanking open drawers with the urgency&nbsp;&nbsp;of a man searching for a misplaced lottery ticket. Are they in the bathroom?&nbsp;&nbsp;The car?&nbsp;&nbsp;The refrigerator?&nbsp;&nbsp;I’m not above checking,&nbsp;&nbsp;because at this point,&nbsp;&nbsp;it feels like anything is possible. Memories of past searches&nbsp;&nbsp;flash before my eyes;&nbsp;like that time I found them in the garage,&nbsp;&nbsp;next to the lawnmower,&nbsp;&nbsp;or last summer when they turned up in the freezer&nbsp;&nbsp;(I still don’t want to talk about that one). By now, I’m muttering to myself,&nbsp;&nbsp;something about losing my mind,&nbsp;&nbsp;or how this is surely&nbsp;&nbsp;a sign of some greater cosmic joke,&nbsp;&nbsp;when my daughter walks in,&nbsp;&nbsp;and in one glance,&nbsp;&nbsp;solves the mystery&nbsp;&nbsp;with the ease of a seasoned detective. “Dad,” she says,&nbsp;&nbsp;barely suppressing a grin,&nbsp;&nbsp;“they’re on your head.” Of course.&nbsp;&nbsp;Of course they are. I reach up and there they are,&nbsp;&nbsp;perched like a tired bird&nbsp;&nbsp;that’s been resting there all along,&nbsp;&nbsp;mocking my frantic search&nbsp;&nbsp;with their quiet, unassuming presence. I let out a laugh—&nbsp;&nbsp;part relief, part disbelief,&nbsp;&nbsp;part resignation to the fact&nbsp;&nbsp;that this will probably happen again,&nbsp;&nbsp;and again, and again,&nbsp;&nbsp;until I’m either too old to care&nbsp;&nbsp;or too forgetful to remember&nbsp;&nbsp;that I should care at all. I slide the glasses back onto my nose,&nbsp;&nbsp;the world snapping into focus&nbsp;&nbsp;with a clarity that feels both miraculous&nbsp;&nbsp;and a little smug.&nbsp;&nbsp;My daughter just shakes her head,&nbsp;&nbsp;already halfway out of the room,&nbsp;&nbsp;knowing, as I do,&nbsp;&nbsp;that the next time this happens—&nbsp;&nbsp;because there will be a next time—&nbsp;&nbsp;she’ll be right there,&nbsp;&nbsp;ready to save me from myself&nbsp;&nbsp;once more.

The blind groundhog

Introduction:If you’ve ever fantasized about spending a significant chunk of time locked in a metal box, suspended between the existential dread of your job and the daunting task of adulting at home, this guide is for you. Here's how to make the most of 14 hours stuck in an elevator, the perfect setting for some much-needed introspection and perhaps a dash of existential crisis. Hour 1: Throw a TantrumInstructions:Unleash the inner child you’ve kept muzzled during PowerPoint presentations and budget meetings. Pound your fists, stomp your feet, and scream as if you're a five-year-old denied candy. Existential Moment:As you throw your tantrum, ponder the Sisyphean nature of your job. Is this tantrum a metaphor for your endless cycle of work and dissatisfaction? Hour 2: Pray to a Non-Existent GodInstructions:Get on your knees and pray to whatever deity you imagine might be listening. The Elevator God, perhaps? Existential Moment:Realize the absurdity of life as you pray. Are you just a speck in the universe, or does the Elevator God truly care about your plight? Hour 3: Cry for Your MumInstructions:The lift walls are good listeners. Sob generously while calling for your mother, forgetting for a moment that you’re a grown-up. Existential Moment:Is your yearning for parental comfort a microcosm of humanity's desperate search for meaning and security? Hour 4: Try Every Way to Wedge the Lift OpenInstructions:Use your shoe, your tie, or even your hastily-scribbled resignation letter to pry the doors open. Existential Moment:Consider whether this struggle is a futile endeavor, akin to humanity's quest for ultimate knowledge. Hour 6: SingInstructions:Belt out your favorite tunes. From "Bohemian Rhapsody" to "Let It Go," the acoustics in here are surprisingly good. Existential Moment:Who are you performing for? Yourself, or some imagined audience that validates your existence? Hour 7: Feel Sorry for YourselfInstructions:It’s a pity party, and you’re the guest of honor. Brood over every minor inconvenience you've ever encountered. Existential Moment:Are you feeling sorry for yourself, or for the human condition that binds us all to suffering? Hour 8: Where Do I Piss In Here?Instructions:Identify the least offensive corner. Mark your territory, but elegantly, like a civilized beast. Existential Moment:As you relieve yourself, think about the basic animal needs that tether us to this mortal coil. Hour 9-14: The Existentialist MarathonInstructions:You’ve been through a lot. Now is the time to deep-dive into the works of Camus, Sartre, and Nietzsche. If you didn’t bring them along, improvise based on what you remember from Philosophy 101. Existential Moment:You have 6 hours to solve the riddle of existence. No pressure. Conclusion:If you followed this guide, you should emerge from the lift not just relieved but also spiritually awakened. And if they fire you for not showing up to work, at least you’ve had a head start on pondering the meaninglessness of it all.

How to get stuck in a lift: A 14 hour guide to Elevator Existentialism

I feel the cold shimmy down my spine-ah yes, the universe’s love letter,&nbsp;&nbsp;and the chair leg, a trusty companion, digs into my calf,&nbsp;&nbsp;like an old friend who never quite learned personal space.&nbsp;&nbsp;Evening sneaks in, cool as a cucumber that forgot to mention it was summer,&nbsp;&nbsp;and here I am, sitting, waiting—no, not like the noble poet,&nbsp;&nbsp;more like a sucker waiting for a date who’s as timely as a sloth on vacation. One wonders, doesn’t one, if it’s really so bad to waltz solo through life,&nbsp;&nbsp;or if society’s just tugging at our sleeves like an overeager salesperson,&nbsp;&nbsp;“Buy one relationship, get a lifetime of complications free!”&nbsp;&nbsp;Sure, love has its moments; brief sparks of joy,&nbsp;&nbsp;kind of like finding an extra fry at the bottom of the bag,&nbsp;&nbsp;but I’ve grown fond of my own company,&nbsp;&nbsp;where the only arguments I have are with myself, and I always win. Am I squandering my time? Their time? Is the universe sighing at my lack of direction?&nbsp;&nbsp;Or perhaps it’s rolling its cosmic eyes, plotting a grand adventure for me;one filled with music, stories, and zero romantic entanglements,&nbsp;&nbsp;because really, who needs the headache? My cat—ah, the furry sage—offers no deceit, no power plays,&nbsp;&nbsp;just purrs, headbutts, and the occasional dead mouse,&nbsp;&nbsp;always happy to see me, never late, never annoyed,&nbsp;&nbsp;much to ponder, indeed, as the evening coolsme, the cat, and the indifferent, slightly sarcastic universe,&nbsp;&nbsp;all wondering what the heck everyone else is so busy fussing about.

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

Olympic Fever

A Grateful Defiance

Rugby Union

The blind groundhog

How to get stuck in a lift: A 14 hour guide to Elevator E...

Cool on love