The Joy of Being Bad at Things on Purpose

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The Joy of Being Bad at Things on Purpose

Retirement has given me something forty-six years at sea never did: the right to be bad at things. I am a mediocre watercolourist, a slow and inconsistent baker of bread, and a gardener of chaotic ambition and modest results. None of this is assessed. Nobody is checking my working. I am incompetent entirely for my own pleasure, and it's the most fun I've had in decades.

For forty-six years, competence wasn't a preference — it was a condition of employment, and a literal one. I built a working identity on the idea that good enough wasn't good enough. That's a fine standard at sea. It's a genuinely difficult habit to put down once the only thing at stake is a loaf of bread.

I painted a bowl of lemons in April that my neighbour, examining them with studied kindness, asked if they were "abstract." They were not abstract. They were badly painted lemons. And somewhere in that exchange was the entire discovery: nobody is coming to correct it. The absence of consequence isn't a loophole. It's the point.

Want something more practical?

I’ve created a collection of guides for people who still believe life isn’t over just because the calendar says so. You’ll find them here:

The Library

And if you’d simply like to support the writing, some readers buy me a pot of Yorkshire Tea.

It’s not mandatory. But neither is keeping the lights on.

Tea remains the official fuel source of The Old Grey Thinker.

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