Dad.

My Dad, Don Cameron, passed away on New Year’s Eve at the age of 88.

It seems to me there’s a huge dose of symbolism there. A day that is traditionally seen as ringing out the past and welcoming the future. A day for remembrance, but also for hope.

Growing up, I thought Dad could do anything. And even in the last few years, as he struggled with breathing issues, arthritis, mobility and dementia, I found it difficult to reconcile the reality with that image.

He taught me many things; values, resilience, admitting failures. But mostly he taught me about being honest, about doing what’s right, even when no one is watching.

Dad was generous, gentle and compassionate, and I think he became more so as he aged. Scots have a reputation, undeserved, for being tight with money. The truth is that Scots in the north were generally poor and had to be thrifty in order to survive. But even now I am hearing stories of Dad’s generosity which I never knew. That’s who he was: quietly giving, never seeking recognition.

I wish Dad’s last words were “Franco Cozzo”, (google him, if you don’t know Franco) which would have made for a great tale and wonderful epitaph for years to come. And although it was only a few days ago he did blurt that suddenly and for no apparent reason, he went on to say other things before he passed. But that moment, like so many others, reminds me of his humour.

I last saw Dad in June. I had planned to visit later in 2025, but as he was declining I gathered my remaining leave dates and went earlier. I was fortunate to sit with him for several hours daily, to tell him how I felt, and to listen to his stories. There were even days he had moments of knowing who I was.

Sleep well, Dad. I love you always.

All the way to Nort-a Melbourne, Brunsa-wick and Foot-a-scray

Kicking It Old School.

I write a lot. Almost daily. And almost all of it is by hand.

This feels almost sacrilegious in this computer age, particularly when my job role specialises in digital tools, but I already spend too much time staring at screens.

It’s slower, yes, but that’s part of the appeal. Slowness forces you to think, to feel the words as they form. There’s something deeply satisfying about the physical act of writing by hand. It’s tangible.

Handwriting changes the rhythm of my thoughts, and allow me time to change and adapt as I go. I pause more. I choose words with care. It’s in the “now”. Alert and mindful.

And then I have the satisfaction of seeing volumes of journals and notebooks lined up, filled with my words, my scratchings.  And that’s a joy you don’t get from a hard drive in a machine.

It's not for everyone. When I first started out, or re-started, my hand ached.  I was using muscles I hadn’t used since High School.  But as I wrote more often and for longer periods, my stamina increased, my writing became more legible, and my hand ached less and less.

I love it. And once you go back, there’s no going forward again.

The Quiet Power of Ritual

Our daily lives often hold rituals, small repeated acts that shape our minds, our moods, our wellbeing, our days.

For me, it’s the morning coffee and my word puzzles. I wake early, make my brew, and dim the lights. I sit in my armchair and, after checking my emails and Facebook feed from overnight, I do my word puzzles. There are several I do, and there is a particular order in which I like to undertake them.

The dogs are still sleeping, and I sit in the quiet. A moment of stillness, a pause before the day roars at me.

I think we underestimate the value of rituals. They may seem ordinary, even trivial, but they anchor us. They remind us that life is about presence. I feel settled and well once my morning rituals are done. I feel ready to get prepared for the day and for work.

But there are other rituals I have. Walking the dogs, a book before bed, selecting the soundtrack for my drive into the office. These aren’t just habits, they are structure in a chaotic world. In a world that feels like it’s out of control, there is something revolutionary about repetition, about gaining some control and saying, “this time is mine, this action is mine.”

So today I’m raising my mug to the small rituals.

What are yours?

The Path Continues.

My uncle John also shaped much of my taste in music - or at least he guided it.

When I was around 11 or twelve years old, he gave me a cassette tape. He had recorded two of his records for me - one on each side. The Essential Beatles, a quirky Australian compilation, and The Monkees Greatest Hits.
 
I already liked the Beatles, having watched the cartoon series. While the cartoon show focussed on the earlier years, although it did include Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane (and, most disturbingly, Tomorrow Never Knows), the cassette included songs right through to Let It Be.  The Monkees Greatest was, and still is, just a really good selection of songs.

I'm not sure, but I think it was probably a year or so later, he gave me two purchased cassettes - The Most of the Animals, and The Beatles & The Rolling Stones. The Animals tape had, for me, intriguing track titles, although at the time I didn't play it as much as the other tapes. The Beatles and Rolling Stones cassette was, in hindsight, my first bootleg.  A pretty average sounding tape of a few tracks from the Beatles 1964 Hollywood Bowl show, and the rest from BBC recordings.  I remember falling in love with the energy of Twist and Shout, but I did play the tape to death.

Unfortunately those tapes were lost in a fire in the early 80s, and until about 6 months ago I couldn't remember which Animals and Monkees tapes he had given me. I spent a bit of time researching, and by looking at album artwork and tracklists, it had to be these two. I've had the Essential Beatles on vinyl since the 80s, but I've now found copies of the other three. 

I've had a lot of fun revisiting these four albums.  I only wish my uncle was still around.  We could share a beer, listen to the albums, and talk music.

I Join The Path.

The first album I ever chose for myself was Suzi Quatro's Can the Can. I was about ten, and I asked Dad to buy it for me for Christmas. He was a little concerned, as the men on the cover looked a bit "rough", but he bought it, and I loved it and played it a lot. I still do. It had fantastic songs, a great sound and it rocked. I thought Suzi was the greatest. I even had a Suzi poster on my bedroom wall. I wish I still had that poster as it's quite rare now.

A year later I was lucky enough to score two albums for Christmas. I had really liked The Night Chicago Died and Billy Don't be a Hero, and so my parents bought Paper Lace And Other Bits of Material for me. My mum quite liked it - she even told me that it was better than she thought it would be. Not knowing who they were, she was probably basing her ideas on the sounds of the Suzi album from the year before. 

Unfortunately, Paper Lace hasn't aged too well. Many of the songs were dated even then, although at the time I thought they were really good.  Forgive me. I was 11 years old.

The other album I received was a compilation, Explosive Hits '74. It's a fantastic snapshot of the Australian music scene from that year. It's amazing how many music fans still consider it to be a great album.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, at a school fete, I bought a Simon and Garfunkel compilation. It cost me 10 cents or so. I had no idea who they were, but I liked the cover. I played that album a lot. I remember listening to I am a Rock, and thinking how deep the lyrics were. As an adult, I am amazed at about the age of ten I understood its meaning so well. 

And then a year or two later, an older friend lent me Rolled Gold. I was a Beatles fan, he was a Stones fan. I played the album a lot, preferring the later sides. He asked me what I thought of side one. I told him I didn't like it as much as the later, more poppy stuff as the production sounded "dirty".  He told me it was meant to be like that. It took a while, but over the next few years I really got into the Stones as well.

There were singles in between, one or two other albums, but in my mind, apart from the Beatles, Can the Can, Explosive Hits '74, Simon & Garfunkel and Rolled Gold put me on the path to where I am now, musically. 

And I still listen to these four albums.

From Windy Hill to Sincil Bank.

Sport has always been part of my life, though the shape of that connection has changed over time.

As a kid, my uncle played for our local soccer team. He even helped coach, I think. I’d tag along to matches when I could. For a while, I trained with one of the junior teams, but circumstances beyond my control meant I couldn’t continue. Slowly, my interest in soccer faded.

But football, Aussie Rules, was different. I fell in love with it around the age of five. I chose Essendon, the Bombers - my uncle and aunt’s team - as my own, and sometimes he’d take me to matches. Those outings were wonderful, and they’ve stayed with me. Years later, I bought a season membership and went to every home game for a few seasons. It was a ritual, a rhythm.

Eventually, though, commitments made it difficult to attend. AFL games are long, and the travel to and from the stadium made each match a five-hour affair. It became harder to justify, even though the love never left.

I visited Lincoln a few years before I moved here, and went to a local derby. It was cold and damp, and about 1,500 people turned up to watch a draw. I enjoyed it, but the mood was subdued. It was the kind of grey afternoon that leaves its mark long after the final whistle.

After relocating to the UK, I started following Lincoln City more seriously. I read match reports, kept up with club news, and went to a few games. It turned out to be a good time to get involved. New managers arrived, the club reconnected with the city, and results began to improve. The energy shifted. Attendance grew. Optimism returned.

I didn’t have anyone to go with, but I started going anyway. At first occasionally, then more regularly. Last season I went to quite a few matches. This year, I splurged and bought a season ticket.

Lincoln is a small city, tucked among farmland and often overlooked. Getting here isn’t always straightforward, though the new direct trains to London help. It’s not a place people pass through, you come here on purpose. But that’s part of its charm. It’s a place with its own pace, its own pride. That distance also fosters a kind of fierce local pride. The football club is more than just a team; it’s a symbol of the city’s identity. The fans don’t just support Lincoln City. They defend it. There’s a territorial edge to the loyalty, a feeling that the club belongs to the people in a way that’s deeply personal.

Match day has its rituals. A sausage in a bun. A quiet ale. A chat with fellow fans. And then, inside the ground, something shifts. I become part of something larger. The chants, the songs, the shared celebrations - and, as I said, football here is deeply tribal. It's us against them, the home fans against the visiting fans. It’s not just about the game; it’s also about belonging.

There’s something else,  something oddly poetic. Lincolnshire is known as Bomber County, a legacy of the many RAF bomber squadrons based here during the Second World War. Lincoln itself is closely tied to that history, especially the legendary 617 Squadron, the Dambusters. On match day, that legacy comes alive. When Lincoln score, fans stretch out their arms like Lancaster bombers and sing the Dambusters theme. For corners, they wind up an air raid siren. The ultras call themselves the 617, and the stand bears a mural of bombers in flight, along with the slogan “After me, the deluge” in both English and French.

It’s tribal, yes, but it’s also mythic.

And strangely, it echoes my other footballing love. Back in Melbourne, my Essendon Bombers also play the sound of aircraft engines and an air raid siren before matches. It’s theatrical, stirring, and deeply rooted in identity. Two cities, two sports, two teams - half a world apart, both shaped by aviation history, both rallying behind teams associated with Bombers. It’s a coincidence, but one that feels meaningful -  a thread running through my sporting life, tying together past and present, Australia and England, memory and belonging.

I still love my AFL, my beloved Essendon Bombers. That will never change. I stream as many Essendon matches as I can. But there’s something irreplaceable about live sport, about watching two teams battle it out, surrounded by people who care just as much as you do. It’s a connection to the city, to the crowd, to something bigger than yourself, and to the person you’ve always been, shaped by sport, place, and the people who shared it with you.

The Ferry, the Frames, and the Flavours

Last weekend, we took the ferry from Hull to Rotterdam, and then a bus on to Amsterdam. 

There’s something quietly calming about travelling by sea - no airport queues, no anxious crowding, just the slow churn of water. We arrived in Amsterdam with minimal plans, just a shared sense that we’d walk, look, listen, and eat well.

We visited the Van Gogh Museum. I’ve always enjoyed Van Gogh – at least the bits I’ve seen. But too often, his art disappears behind the myth - the tortured genius, the ear, the sunflowers. But standing in front of his work, you see his efforts to hold his world together with brushstrokes. The colours vibrate. The skies swirl. It’s not all madness - it’s effort.

MoCo was a surprise. Banksy, Basquiat, and Robbie Williams – now that was one I didn’t expect. I’m not a fan of the person, but I loved his artwork. A small museum with a large impact. A sense that art doesn’t need to whisper to be profound.

We visited the Anne Frank House. It’s hard to write about that experience without sounding trite or overly solemn. The space is small, but the silence inside is vast. You feel it in your chest. The creak of the floorboards, the pencilled growth chart on the wall, the photos of movie stars Anne admired - it’s all heartbreakingly ordinary. And that’s the point. An incredibly emotional experience.

I went vinyl hunting, of course. Amsterdam’s record shops are tucked into corners like secrets. I found a few gems—some Stones, some Beatles, and a Dutch pressing of a Dutch band.

And then there was the food. Indonesian at Blauw. Rich, fragrant, layered. The kind of meal that makes you pause mid-bite just to appreciate how all the flavours are talking to each other. We didn’t rush, and neither did they. We let the evening stretch.

It was a short trip, but it felt full. Not just of places and things, but of moments. The kind you don’t photograph because they’re too quiet, too personal. A glance across the table. A shared laugh in a museum gift shop. The ferry ride home was smooth. We watched the sea and said very little.

Sometimes, that's the best kind of travel.