I decided.

Today.

That I’d like to write for a Business Magazine.

Not just any Business Magazine, though.

The very best and funnest Business Magazine ever printed.

(Print’s nice).

An uplifting, lovable and valuable bi-monthly Business Magazine.

One you scribble in as you read it.

One that’s unexpected.
Light.
Snacky.
Genuinely creative.
Funny.
Brave.
Irreverent.
Seriously unserious.
Self-aware.
Playful.
Unpretentious.
Whimsical.
And just… different.

And a magazine that, if you bought a copy.
Any copy.
You’d never let your copy go.
Because you just know that your copy will grow with you.
You’ll go back to it.
Over and over and over.

Anyhow…

There isn’t one.

Not one.

They’re all a bit (check the names)…

MoneyWeek, New Business, Investor’s Chronicle, Entrepreneur, Fortune, Start Your Own Business, Business Connect, Elite Business, Business Info, SME Web, Your Business Magazine, My Business is Shiny like a Mackerel, Business Hedgehog and ShitBusiness Pterodactyl*.

…grey?

This is not business as I recognise it.

And I suppose that, since I’ve just pissed off an entire category, they’ll not be signing me up as a guest columnist anytime soon.

Hey ho.

The best business magazines that help me think about business are not business magazines.

Wallpaper*, for example.

But MoneyWeekNewBusinessInvestor’sChronicleEntrepreneurFortuneStartYourOwnBusinessBusinessConnectEliteBusinessBusinessInfoSMEWebYourBusinessMagazine.

‘Not for me.

Or am I missing something?

*Made the last three up.
‘Got bored.

I should leave the house more. That way, I meet more people. And I do love people. People are amazing. And surprising. I like finding out what people are like.

When I left the house recently I bumped into an old girlfriend. Jane. She’s a people.

The two things I remember most about Jane are, firstly, Jane once said that me becoming a dad would be the making of me. And the second thing I remember about Jane is that she could only have a poo in York.

I’m not sure why Jane, one day, out of the blue, blurted out that me becoming a dad would be the making of me. I was only about twenty-five at the time.

It was twenty years later that I actually did become a dad. And Jane was right. Izobel was, and is, the making of me. Super-astute, Jane.

Jane and I lived together for a short time. In Newcastle. And, one day, she mentioned that she only really felt comfortable pooing in her family home in York. So, every now and then, she’d set off in her little mini – to York. For a poo.

I never questioned it. Well, you wouldn’t would you?

I should leave the house more. That way, I meet more people. And I do love people. People are amazing. And surprising. I like finding out – or remembering – what people are like.

Look at the state of this knife.

Look at that gunk. By the blade. On the steel. That black, waxy stuff.

That gunk reminds me of when I was at Newcastle Polytechnic. Making furniture and jewellery on my three dimensional design degree. 35 years ago.

I remember seeing gunk like that as I polished metal things on a buffing wheel. Polishing Compound Residue, it might be called. It is, with a little attention, possible to polish it all away.

I never did though.

Leaving it seemed more honest. A reminder of the process. And the time.

I was reminded of all of this when I got this knife from my friend James just before Christmas. He made it for me.

I have a favourite coffee cup.
It’s glass.

It’s from Ashleigh King 🎙️🎧 (MBA). I think of Ashleigh, a fine person and fine podcast studio owner, when I use it.

I have a favourite whisky glass too.

I stole it from a rubbish hotel in Blackpool. I was with Izobel. She was 8. It’s… just right.

And now I have a favourite knife.

It lies awkwardly on top of the knife block that houses the other knives. The ones with no gunk. No reminder of the process. No reminder of the time. Or the person.

‘Too polished, you see.

I think we should all have a favourite everything.
One of each is enough.

I’ve never had a favourite knife before.
I do now.

When I look at my old work, I tend to think it’s mostly rubbish. I flush and I blush when I reread it.

50odd has over a thousand stories, made from almost a million words.

And as I rootle through them, searching for stories to steal (from myself) and adapt for the book I’m writing, most of them, I leave behind.

They don’t make me feel anything. So they’re no good.

Then, earlier today, I found the story that she read to her daughter to help her understand what real friends are.

And the story that he showed to his eldest daughter to help her ignore the voices wanting her to stop, and stay focussed on that one thing she really wanted.

And the story that – to this day – is magneted to her fridge door.

And the story that made him, her, and her start writing too.

I remembered also that, at one point, 10,000 people a day read 50odd.

I’m glad I’ve written a million words on 50odd.

It means that as I enter this new chapter, I’m starting from rung two on the ladder.

Instead of rung one.