I recently watched a video that claimed to rank the countries most affected by immigration, placing France first and the United Kingdom second. Whether such rankings are reliable or not, they prompt a broader and more personal question: how does anyone maintain a sense of peace of mind when it feels as though familiar social, cultural, and economic structures are being steadily weakened?
Rising crime, social fragmentation, and highly symbolic gestures all contribute to a background sense of unease. One example that struck me was the announcement that the Archbishop of Canterbury had committed one hundred million pounds to slavery reparations. While I understand the moral impulse behind such actions, I find myself wondering why there is no comparable acknowledgement of the collective benefits humanity has gained from centuries of scientific discovery, invention, and institution-building.
Perhaps that is my idealistic thought, but it continues to surface.
In response to this wider uncertainty, I find myself focusing increasingly on what I can control. I can write. I can observe. I can continue living attentively rather than reactively. My belief in a reality beyond the purely material helps me remain largely free from fear and anxiety, even when public discourse feels chaotic or hostile.
I am also conscious of my own good fortune. I have a strong relationship, reasonably good health, no debt, and sufficient financial resources to live without constant worry. These things matter far more to me now than political spectacle or ideological argument.
More recently, I have heard suggestions that pensions may come to be treated not as an automatic entitlement but as something closer to a means-tested benefit. Under such proposals, individuals with assets above certain thresholds — figures such as £500,000 and £750,000 are mentioned — could see pension payments reduced or withdrawn altogether. While this would affect some regions more than others, particularly areas with high property values, it raises unsettling questions about security, expectations, and the quiet reshaping of long-standing social agreements.
If such changes do occur, they are likely to be introduced gradually, softened by language and delay. Whether inevitable or not, they add to a growing sense that many assumptions once taken for granted are no longer secure.
Perhaps that is why I keep returning to the small, durable things: meaningful conversation, careful attention, and the effort to remain inwardly free, whatever changes may take place beyond my control.
My aim, as ever, is simply to continue doing what I enjoy, which is writing. The next project I have in mind centres on Torquay, a town in the south-west of England on the English Riviera, experienced during the less celebrated winter months. I’m interested in how a place feels when the gloss has worn off, and in asking people how they experience it when the crowds have gone.
I like setting myself challenges, especially ones that require me to stretch a little further — to try something original, observant, and quietly creative. If the result brings a moment of recognition or pleasure to even one or two readers who happen upon it, that feels sufficient. I’m planning a visit to Torquay in mid-February and intend to spend my time talking to a wide range of people: business owners, people I meet in the street, locals who stay all year, and visitors passing through. What I want most is a sense of perspective — not opinions rehearsed for effect, but the texture of everyday thought.
I’ve always found it easy to talk to strangers. People seem to sense when a conversation is genuine, and most are willing to engage if they don’t feel pushed or judged. Finding deeper companionship — people truly on the same wavelength — is another matter. In recent years many people seem to have grown more guarded, shaped by long periods of fear, uncertainty, and continual messaging that keeps anxiety close to the surface. At times it feels as though even the weather has been enlisted as something to be feared, rather than experienced, narrowing people’s sense of themselves and their own inner freedom.
Because of this, many of the questions and reflections that matter most to me are things I tend to keep private. They are easily misunderstood and often provoke defensiveness rather than curiosity, particularly if they suggest that a person’s settled view of the world might benefit from revision. I’ve learnt that not every thought needs to be shared in every company.
Fortunately, Françoise and I are both independent by nature. We are content to read, think, and watch material that feels constructive and enlarging, rather than inflammatory. We value our routines and the freedom to reflect without constant interruption. We also happen to live in an area that feels relatively settled and familiar, and I’m aware that this situation places us in a fortunate position.
All of this feeds back into the writing. I don’t feel the need to persuade or to convince. I want to notice, to listen, and to record something truthful and human about how a place — and the people within it — feel when things slow down. That, for now, feels like enough.
