I’m 50odd. When I was 10(ish) my mum would take me to Thorntons. A magical, dimly lit chocolate cave that made only the best chocolate in the world, where all the people working there only ate chocolate, that only sold chocolate, and where everything was made of chocolate. Even the doors.

It was beautiful. I’d have travelled for miles. I’d have travelled for hours. I’d have travelled for ever.

Then, some slimy, short-term thinker at Thorntons, something-teen years ago got a distribution deal with Tesco and other such channels. They won that years sales targets but killed my dream for ever. Because Thorntons should never have been about availability. The easier it is to have, the less I want to have it. The lights in the dimly lit chocolate cave fizzed. Blinked. And died.

So in stepped the energetic, sophisticated, fresh faced, wonderful, magical, beautiful, exclusive Hotel Chocolat. Into the malls, and into the gap in my mind. A place where the 50-odd year old me took my 5, 6 and 7 year old daughter Izobel. A magical, dimly lit chocolate cave that makes only the best chocolate in the world, where all the people working there only eat chocolate, that only sells chocolate, and where everything is made of chocolate. Even the doors. It’s also the only place where Izobel ever had ice cream for breakfast.

But death can come quickly.

On Monday 22nd July 2024, I noticed Hotel Chocolat product in Tesco. Maybe because Mars bought Hotel Chocolat in 2023 for half a billion quid, and they want money back quick. No matter. I don’t care about that. And Hotel Chocolat don’t care about me. I know they don’t care about me, because they don’t understand me. If they did, they’d not be in Tesco. They’d understand the position they have in my mind, and they’d be protecting it.

Now, here’s the important bit. Some of the above is factually correct. Some isn’t. But it is all true. Because that’s how brands work. They are born, and they die, by what exists in my mind. Understand that – and the world is at your feet. Don’t, and whatever world you create – literally – will die.

When I say I don’t care what people think about me, it’s not true. Not really. I pretend it’s true for two people. For me, and for my 8 year old daughter Izobel. I pretend it’s true for me to (try to) create armour. And I pretend it’s true for Izobel to protect Izobel from becoming who people say she should, instead of who she is.

But something happened last night that changed all that. My friend Jess said, in passing, that she didn’t ‘mind’ what people thought of her. And all of a sudden, I realised two things.

First, I realised me not caring what people think of me is not only untrue, but something I’ll never achieve. Because I quite like caring about all sorts of things.

Second, I realised me not ‘minding’ what people think of me, feels completely different to me not ‘caring’ what people think of me. You see, I do care. But somehow, I really don’t mind.

Who knew! And if you don’t think this is useful. Focussing on ‘not minding’ instead of ‘not caring’. That’s OK.

I now don’t mind.

I’m the worst person to ask what I do. And you’re the worst person to ask what you do. Because we’re just about the only people we don’t do and never will do what we do to. (Dancing sentence, there. I like it).

When I was at The Do Lectures recently, people I knew introduced me to other people as a writer. A writer of snacky things that make people think. Or words to that effect. Even though I’m not brave enough to introduced myself as a writer.

Granted, The Do Lectures is a unique place. But it made me think that we might not know what we are most valued for. And that all this polishing and posturing we get into, around presenting what we think we do, may very well be a waste of time.

So if you want to know what you really do. Ask those you do it to.

Businesses use boring words like strategy, framework and, err, business. I don’t. Instead, when in the Brand Director chair, I explore:

1. Why are we doing what we’re doing? Who for? What’s the change we’re focussed on making? What 3 immovable, driving opinions or points of view do we (all) hold?  What’s our essence?  What thing are we most famous for, and own, in our category? ‘Could be one word. This is a short document.

2. What precise words and phrases do we say over and over? Subcategorised. A dozen phrases, notions or ideas. All with tonal consistency and clarity. This is a short document.

1. is a Brand Framework. 2. is a Messaging Framework. And no matter how great the resulting documents are it’s just as important to notice how crappy they look and where you keep them.

If they are beautifully pristine and carefully filed, that’s no good. If they’re dogeared, coffee stained and pinned or lying where you sit, every day, that’s good. Because that means you’re using them, every day.

Documents like this should be great. But it’s always best when they look a bit crappy.

It surprises me when I start a new business or project, that good people around me suggest it’s a brave move. I never feel brave. I feel excited. All I need is an idea, love for the change I’m determined to make, a sketchy plan and discipline. Not bravery.

Stopping things, though. That’s different. I need bravery when stopping things. Stopping things frightens me. If I’ll be judged. If I’ll be seen as a failure. If I’ll be regretful. Stopping things frightens me much more than starting things. This means I stay too long.

Increasingly, it helps to remind myself I’ll be dead after 1,000 months here. And that I’m in 672 months in right now. I don’t want to spend any of the 328 months I have left doing anything I don’t want to do.

So on I go. Moving faster when I remember the 1,000 month thing. Moving slower when I can’t find the bravery I need to stop. Tell you what though, learning how freeing it feels when I do stop is fuel too. Lovely feeling, that.

When I meet a 50odd blog reader, and they realise I’m the writer, and they thank me for writing, I almost always do the same thing.

I look down, stutter a thank you, and change the subject. However, that’s changing. A bit. Because something surprising is happening. They’re telling me their favourite 50odd. Like a 50odd is a thing. I like that. I like learning how people feel. I like making people think, and feel.

One particular 50odd was mentioned more than once recently. As a favourite 50odd. It’s a bit long. And I write shorter these days. But yes. I do like it. I like that it made people feel. I’ll rewrite it shorter for my book. It’s called The Bathroom Cabinet Game.

I chatted with a nice lady recently that had decided to be angry with her own bottom because it was bigger than she wanted it to be.

Two things.

First, she openly admitted that she did little about her bottom issue other than (literally) sit on it.

Second, she was in a doubly-negative place because she was angry with her bottom for being too big, and angry also with herself that she was doing nothing at all about it.

I sometimes wish we recorded ourselves and listened back to how daft we are. I get fed up that I haven’t written that book I should write, because I don’t actually sit down and write it. I used to be angry that I was aging in ways I didn’t like, then to make me feel better I’d have four cans of Brewdog. And whenever I felt worried about finances I’d buy a load of shit I don’t need to make myself feel better.

Well, thanks to my friend with the annoying bottom, I now have something to remember if ever I am moaning about not having something I haven’t planned, worked hard or paid for yet.

It’s remembering the obvious pointlessness of being angry with your own arse.