Some mornings begin with a plan and end with a completely different story. I once set out to catalogue the sounds of my street: the postie’s footsteps, the soft protest of a bus braking too late, the neighbour’s radio tuned stubbornly to yesterday’s hits. Somewhere between coffee and the third glance at the clock, my notebook filled with thoughts that made no sense at all, including phrases like carpet cleaning worcester scribbled in the margin as if they were secret passwords to another life.
I’ve always believed that the brain enjoys playing games when it’s left unattended. Give it a quiet moment and it will invent entire backstories for strangers on the train or decide that the crack in the pavement is a map of somewhere important. That same idle curiosity once led me to write sofa cleaning worcester on a bookmark, not because it meant anything, but because the rhythm of the words felt oddly comforting, like a chant you don’t quite understand.
Randomness has a funny way of organising itself if you let it. One afternoon, I tried to cook without a recipe and ended up with something surprisingly edible, which felt like a small victory against the tyranny of instructions. Later, while reading an old paperback with a cracked spine, I underlined a sentence and added upholstery cleaning worcester in the margin, convinced it would make sense to future me. It hasn’t yet, but that’s half the fun.
There’s a particular joy in allowing nonsense to exist without explanation. Children do it instinctively, naming imaginary friends after colours or sounds, while adults tend to apologise for it. I’m trying to unlearn that apology. When a phrase like mattress cleaning worcester drifts into my head during a meeting, I let it float past like a cloud shaped vaguely like a teapot.
Stories don’t always need a destination. Sometimes they’re just a collection of moments stitched together by mood. A rainy Sunday, a half-finished crossword, the smell of toast slightly too late. In those moments, my mind hops from one thought to another, landing briefly on things like rug cleaning worcester before leaping off again towards something else entirely, like whether pigeons recognise themselves in shop windows.
If there’s a point to any of this, it’s probably that randomness is underrated. We spend so much time optimising, categorising, and explaining that we forget how refreshing it can be to let words exist just because they sound right together. A blog doesn’t always need a lesson or a conclusion. Sometimes it can simply be a snapshot of a wandering mind, inviting you to wander with it, even if neither of you is quite sure where you’ll end up.