# A Prosaic Life > Reflecting on the Everyday. --- ## Pages - [Sitemap](https://www.prosaic.life/sitemap/): ## ## Posts - [The Lost Art of Fiddling](https://www.prosaic.life/the-lost-art-of-fiddling/): This morning started innocently enough: a quick tidy-up of my desk—or so I thought. What began as a bit of... - [New Years Eve](https://www.prosaic.life/new-years-eve/): New Year’s Eve—what a curious little tradition we’ve concocted. There’s something both absurd and wonderful about staring down a ticking... - [Failing to Write 2.0](https://www.prosaic.life/failing-to-write-2-0/): I could tell you I’ve been busy with meaningful things—the kind of tasks that fill a life with purpose and... - [Failing to Write](https://www.prosaic.life/failing-to-write-about-life/): I’ve been neglecting A Prosaic Life, haven’t I? It was meant to be my touchstone, a place to anchor fleeting... - [Funeral Reflections](https://www.prosaic.life/funeral-reflections/): Today, I attended a funeral for a friend—a good man, gone at 85. It was one of those days that... --- # # Detailed Content ## Pages ### Sitemap - Published: 2025-01-30 - Modified: 2025-01-30 - URL: https://www.prosaic.life/sitemap/ --- ## ## Posts ### The Lost Art of Fiddling - Published: 2025-01-07 - Modified: 2025-01-30 - URL: https://www.prosaic.life/the-lost-art-of-fiddling/ - Categories: Blog This morning started innocently enough: a quick tidy-up of my desk—or so I thought. What began as a bit of paper shuffling and cable untangling somehow escalated into a full-scale excavation of forgotten notebooks, dead batteries, and a pen collection that would have been impressive—if any of them worked. By the time I looked up, two hours had vanished, and my desk was still an absolute mess. Accomplishments? Well, I’d tested every pen, crafted a makeshift to-do list on a torn envelope, and debated for far too long which drawer deserved to house my paperclips. It was not exactly productive, but it was strangely satisfying all the same. I’ve always been a fiddler. Hand me a gadget, and I’ll spend hours tinkering with it and chasing some elusive notion of perfection. I like to think of it as the creative process, but let’s face it—sometimes it’s just an elaborate way to avoid finishing. An unfinished project brims with possibilities; a finished one stands there, flaws and all. This afternoon, I continued fiddling with my website. I opened my laptop and made tiny changes. After making each change, I checked my computer, tablet, and mobile phone to view the outcome. I then immediately replaced the coding with what I had before. Fiddling is a peculiar thing. It’s procrastination and productivity rolled into one. You know you’re not really achieving much, but you’re so engrossed that it feels meaningful. And maybe that’s the point—the joy of getting lost in the small, inconsequential... --- ### New Years Eve - Published: 2024-12-31 - Modified: 2025-01-30 - URL: https://www.prosaic.life/new-years-eve/ - Categories: Blog New Year’s Eve—what a curious little tradition we’ve concocted. There’s something both absurd and wonderful about staring down a ticking clock, champagne—who am I kidding—beer in hand as if midnight will magically reset the world. When I was younger, it all felt so grand—the glitter, the laughter, the shared optimism that the coming year would somehow outshine the last. Back then, my celebrations were raucous affairs: makeshift dance floors in living rooms, cheap lager masquerading as champagne, and the occasional ill-fated resolution that I had no real intention of keeping. Marriage and children, of course, rebranded New Year’s Eve into something quieter but no less meaningful. Becky and I would sit with the kids tucked in, raising our glasses to another year survived, another one hoped for. The magic became less about the stroke of midnight and more about the small moments—our children's giggles echoing down the hall as they tried to stay awake or the soft clink of glasses at midnight after she had lost her battle. Now? Well, now the whole event feels more like a reminder of time’s relentless march. Midnight doesn’t feel like a beginning anymore; it feels like the closing of a loop. The ritual is there—a glass of something warm (often sherry these days) and a vague sense of obligation to watch the clock—but the shine has dulled. Resolutions? They’re made with the same half-hearted enthusiasm as ticking a box on a form: “Must try harder to... ” What, exactly? Lose weight? Be kinder? Fix... --- ### Failing to Write 2.0 - Published: 2024-12-20 - Modified: 2025-01-30 - URL: https://www.prosaic.life/failing-to-write-2-0/ - Categories: Blog I could tell you I’ve been busy with meaningful things—the kind of tasks that fill a life with purpose and tick all the right boxes. But once again, I have yet to post anything. But the truth? The truth is far less impressive. Take, for instance, The Quest for Perfect Coffee. This noble pursuit had been ongoing since—well, forever. Now, every morning, it’s me, a Flying Start coffee bag, a Starbucks pod, and the near-perfect cup of coffee I’ve finally managed to master. It’s not perfect, of course, but it’s close enough to keep me coming back to the ritual. Still, this is hardly an excuse. It’s more like background noise—a steady hum that accompanies the real culprits. Let me introduce you to The Great Pen Sorting Incident. What began as a casual desk tidy quickly spiralled into something resembling an archaeological dig—minus the sand and ancient treasures. I unearthed pens I didn’t even remember owning, each one insisting on a test drive like a forgotten car demanding to be taken for a spin. Hours vanished in a haze of scribbled lines, doodles, and an oddly satisfying sense of chaos. By the time I’d finished, I had eight working pens, an alphabetised pile of notebooks, and a vague feeling that I’d just invented a new form of procrastination. The blog? Forgotten amidst the stationery carnage. Then there’s A Novel That’s Nowhere, a tale as old as... me. I’ve spent more time thinking about the book than writing it. I’ve pictured... --- ### Failing to Write - Published: 2024-12-08 - Modified: 2025-01-27 - URL: https://www.prosaic.life/failing-to-write-about-life/ - Categories: Uncategorized I’ve been neglecting A Prosaic Life, haven’t I? It was meant to be my touchstone, a place to anchor fleeting moments before they vanished entirely. Instead, it’s sat there, quietly gathering virtual dust. Life, ever the mischief-maker, has been hurtling along so fast that I’ve barely had time to jot down a passing thought, let alone anything profound. I’ve been neglecting A Prosaic Life, haven’t I? It was meant to be my touchstone, a place to anchor fleeting moments before they vanished entirely. Instead, it’s sat there, quietly gathering virtual dust. Life, ever the mischief-maker, has been hurtling along so fast that I’ve barely had time to jot down a passing thought, let alone anything profound. I could blame my website project, and I will—though I know it’s a thin excuse. Typically, my days have been starting simply enough: tinkering with font size or maybe adjusting a margin. Fast-forward a few hours, and there I am, debating the existential merits of purple buttons at one in the morning. (Spoiler: there aren’t any. ) The entire thing has been both maddening and hypnotic, a rabbit hole of infinite possibilities and equally infinite frustrations. Other days... But here’s the snag: the whole point of this journal was to press pause. To carve out a moment to sit and wrestle with my thoughts and pin them down before they flitted away. Somehow, in trying to document life, I’ve been too busy living it—or letting it run me ragged. Still, it’s not all lost. Like an old friend you haven’t called in ages, this space waits patiently. And so, here’s my olive branch, my promise to try again. Let’s see if we can make tomorrow stick. --- ### Funeral Reflections - Published: 2024-11-14 - Modified: 2025-01-27 - URL: https://www.prosaic.life/funeral-reflections/ - Categories: Uncategorized Today, I attended a funeral for a friend—a good man, gone at 85. It was one of those days that quietly rearranged your perspective. Today, I went to a funeral for a friend—85 years old, a good man who lived well. It was one of those quietly sobering days that made you stop and take stock. Standing there among faces weathered by time, I couldn’t help but notice how much had shifted around us. Becky’s and my parents are all gone now, and so are nearly all our aunts and uncles, save one. It hit me: we’ve moved through the wedding years, then the farewells to our elders, and now we’re at the stage where it’s our friends. The numbers are thinning, and we’re next in line. Oddly enough, I felt pretty young. Sitting in the church, waiting for the service to start, I realised I was one of the younger ones there—most of the mourners were well into their 80s, with the average age somewhere in the mid-70s. Still, there was a weight in the air, that unique silence that settles when years of shared history gather in one place. But it wasn’t all heavy. There were plenty of stories, the kind told with warm, knowing laughter that only comes from a lifetime of memories. Beneath the humour, though, was that unspoken understanding—a shared awareness that time is relentless and every day counts. It’s strange to feel so young at a funeral, knowing that time is catching up. The road ahead may not stretch as far as it once did, but it still feels worth walking. ---