I’ve shared a fair amount of tears with strangers on the internet this week. The strangers? Quite the motley bunch. A drag queen from Berlin, a MAGA dude from Alabama and everyone in between. Dolly Parton died, and somehow our differences seemed very small indeed next to our shared loss.

A few years ago, I also shed tears aplenty with strangers online. ABBA had released their first new music in forty years. Suddenly, a grandmother from Brisbane, a twenty-year-old twink from Brighton and I seemed to be having some sort of simultaneous and glorious emotional emergency caused by pure happiness.

This is all very out of character for me. I’m quite private. I do not cry with strangers. Except that sometimes I apparently do. And apparently so do they. Sad tears. Happy tears. All unexpectedly public. All quite refreshing. Why?

How to disturb the universe

Humans are notoriously bad at reaching out to each other even when standing in the same room. We’ve all felt like T. S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock at a party. We’ve felt awkward, worried about our hair, and feared others' judgement. Walking over to break the ice with a stranger may indeed feel like we’re about to disturb the universe.

Just like Prufrock, we often struggle to find the right words. We are all stuffed to the brim with thoughts and feelings, and yet we fail to get them across to others. It makes us feel lonely. Misunderstood.

The irony is that Prufrock is not alone at all. We are all with him. He just never got the memo.

I always think of this when I watch the Doctor Who episode where the Doctor brings Vincent van Gogh to a modern gallery to show him what his paintings would come to mean to people. Van Gogh didn’t get the memo in his lifetime either. But culture can outlive its creator and go on reaching people long after they’re gone.

For all our difficulties connecting face to face, we have come up with a remarkably effective workaround: culture.

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Hello, aliens. Here’s Beethoven

Apparently, we trust this workaround so much that we have even tried it on aliens.

In 1977, NASA launched Voyager 1 and Voyager 2, each carrying a Golden Record with a message from humanity to whoever might one day find it. Among the greetings, images and sounds of Earth was a 90-minute interstellar playlist, ranging from traditional music from around the world to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and Chuck Berry’s Johnny B. Goode.

You would have to be a pretty stuffy alien not to shake your booty to that.

Unfortunately, NASA also included a pulsar map that can be used to locate our Solar System. If only The Three-Body Problem had been published by then. You really don’t want the first reply from outer space to be an ominous “We know where you live.”

When the switchboard lights up

But culture has another trick up its sleeve. It doesn’t only connect us to the people who made it. Sometimes the people it reaches find each other too. And that brings me back to Dolly, ABBA and all those tears.

Over decades, the music of Dolly and ABBA had worked its way into millions of lives – including mine. Most of the time, we carried those connections privately: doing the dishes, at the gym, at weddings, at funerals, at parties, belting along in the car.

Then something happened. Dolly died. ABBA came back. And suddenly the whole switchboard lit up. The internet didn’t create those connections. It just let us see them.

The MAGA dude from Alabama and I still don’t share a worldview. Maybe the grandmother in Brisbane and the twink in Brighton don’t either. Not even Dolly and ABBA can override human free will.

But they had quietly wired us into the same switchboard over the years. When it lit up, there we all were. Somehow.

It won’t stay lit forever. But maybe one or two lights will.

I no longer think I’ve been crying with complete strangers online.

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You know that sinking feeling when someone looks a little triumphant because you haven’t read that book, seen that film or heard that album? I hate it. I can’t help feeling like I’ve failed a test.

So, imagine how stupid I felt when I recently realised that the Super Bowl had, in fact, not booked some promising newcomer for its halftime show. Why would they? It was just that several holes in the fabric of my cultural knowledge happened to line up and out jumped Bad Bunny. Not a debutant. Not an underground secret. A global phenomenon.

My relationship with rap music never got further than Coolio’s “Gangsta’s Paradise”, so perhaps it’s no great surprise that Latin trap had passed me by. I’m also 52, which means I guard the entry to my playlists like a greedy dragon these days. But still. I felt caught out.

Culture is supposed to make life richer, but the more I thought about this, the more it felt like revising for an exam I didn’t remember signing up for. I decided to do some research.

At one tablet a day, getting through the British Museum’s cuneiform collection alone would require you to live for about 350 years. And that’s way before you get a sniff of Homer, let alone Homer Simpson.

And that’s only the texts. Add music, art, theatre, film and TV to the mix, and it quickly becomes ridiculous to worry about one missed book, film or song. Try to work your way through all of it, and you’re not bloody likely to live long enough to reach Lady Gaga or Bad Bunny. The sun will turn into a red giant and incinerate both Earth and your ridiculously high cultural ambitions before you catch up.

I had done the maths. I was completely off the hook. Nobody can keep on top of culture. The best any of us can do is scratch the surface.

And yet Bad Bunny still bothered me. Why?

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Apparently, I cared

Part of it was vanity. Your cultural diet says something about you. It’s the human equivalent of curb appeal in suburbia. It’s your chance to shine a little brighter in the eyes of others. This is, of course, not very flattering to admit, but sometimes it’s easier to channel my inner Hyacinth Bucket than to face the awkward truth.

Part of it was identity. Not having a clue about Bad Bunny made me feel old. It challenged my self-image of being broadly culturally literate. It exposed how European and English-language-heavy my cultural bubble is. Ouch!

Hardly a revelation, I know. But there’s a difference between knowing your map is partial and having the blank spaces glaring straight at you. It stung. You can’t consume all culture. But the gaps form patterns. To some extent, it’s inevitable. Proximity – geography, language and time – matters. You are more likely to stumble across what is close to you.

That said, it is still embarrassing that I can quote Shakespeare, ABBA and Schitt’s Creek extensively and don’t panic if a film has subtitles, but I would struggle to name three major Latin American artists shaping music today.

My little Bad Bunny panic might seem trivial, but no. Even if you have a curious mind, lounging in the comfort zone provided to you by circumstance won’t do. Curiosity is not enough.

Checklist, please

The enormity of culture can feel a bit much, so we make lists. A hundred novels to read before you die. Fifty films everyone should see. Sometimes we create whole national canons. They offer the illusion that an infinite cultural conversation can somehow be neatly reduced to a finite test.

A list is a ridiculously thin straw through which to inhale all the wonders culture has to offer. Why gasp for culture when frivolously inhaling big gulps of it is so much more fun and rewarding?

The problem is that we have been taught to use culture to prove we belong, rather than to help us discover where we belong. Conversations about culture should not be a quiz or a not-so-subtle judgement. When culture is reduced to a status flex, curiosity goes to die.

The next time someone looks a little too triumphant because I haven’t read, seen or heard something, I’m going to try:

“I haven’t got to that one yet. Should I?”

Maybe it’s just a silly test.

But what if it’s an invitation?

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A while back, I stumbled across an interview with Sister Dorothea. She’s a Carmelite prioress at a monastery in Christchurch, New Zealand, a life she found most unexpectedly through the rock band Black Sabbath. Living what she describes as a “hippie lifestyle” in her youth, she went to a concert with the band. The music pounded through her, and there was a burning cross.

The experience caught her off guard, making her question her life and eventually turn to a contemplative one. From what you can tell from the interview, it doesn’t seem like the rockers scared her into a religious life. If anything, it seems like they unlocked something deeper and more meaningful in her. And yes, I really, really hope this story reached Ozzy Osbourne in some way. I think he would love it.

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I can’t say that Ozzy has changed my life, even though Sharon Osbourne once indirectly paid my bills for a couple of months when I translated her autobiography into Swedish. But Sister Dorothea’s unlikely story made me think about what has nudged me along in my life and career. I already knew there was a big before and after I read Jeanette Winterson the first time, but as I delved a bit deeper, I realised that more often than not, a book, film, TV series, or song has been instrumental in my choices.

It makes sense. If you want to get things done, you do better by taking advice from Janeway or Xena than from your fifty-five-year-old neighbour who still lives in his mother’s basement. And, it turns out, a lot of people do this.

I just read about The X-Files reboot and realised that the original series premiered 33 years ago. It made me feel old, but got me thinking about the Scully Effect. If you haven't watched every episode of The X-Files twelve times, an explanation may be useful. The Scully Effect is the supposed impact that Agent Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) had on encouraging women to pursue STEM education.

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There's been a lot of talk about the Scully Effect over the years. There seems to be a lot of anecdotal evidence, but that's not enough. The Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media didn't think so either, so they decided to dig deeper together with J. Walter Thompson Intelligence. They found a pretty strong link between looking up to Scully and choosing to enter a STEM field.

"A vast majority of women who know Scully’s character on The X-Files see her as a role model for girls and women, and nearly two-thirds of women in STEM say that Scully was their personal role model. When asked about Scully’s impact, most women in the survey agree that she’s a strong, smart, and intelligent character who boosted their confidence to succeed in a male-dominated profession." (The Scully Effect: I want to believe in STEM.)”

This isn't a massive study, but until some bright grad student gets the resources to do a more extensive thesis on the Scully Effect, I still feel pretty comfortable using this as an example of how good role models really do matter - not just on an individual level, but on a societal level.

It would also be interesting to read a broader study that doesn’t just focus on Scully and STEM. My gut feeling (totally unscientific, hence the need for further scientific research) tells me that many of us have learned by looking up to strong role models - like Sarah Connor, Ellen Ripley, Xena, Buffy, Janeway, and, of course, Scully - that nothing changes if you sit quietly and nicely in a corner. If you want to get things done, being a timid wallflower isn't the way to go.

And speaking of action heroines - one of my absolute favourite topics - you might have paused when you read about the Geena Davis Institute on Gender in Media. If you did, good for you. That's the same Geena Davis who brought us characters like Charlie Baltimore in The Long Kiss Goodnight and Thelma in Thelma & Louise.

In the early 2000s, Davis decided to work her action heroine magic off-screen, and she’s been doing it ever since. And here she is doing it again, paying it forward from one action heroine to another. Ah, if this isn’t poetry in motion, I don’t know what is.

What can we learn from all this? That culture doesn't simply show us the world. It shows us possible selves. Scully can make a scientist imaginable. Janeway can make leadership imaginable. And somehow, wonderfully, Black Sabbath can make life in a Carmelite monastery imaginable.

And once you accept that art expands the range of lives we can imagine and pursue, it becomes much easier to understand why those who want to control other people are so interested in controlling culture.

Control what people can imagine, and you have already begun to control what they can become. That’s why a banned book is never just a banned book.

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A lot of you found your way to Cultural Tendencies through and . So this one is for you — and everyone else who enjoys a slightly unhinged cultural adventure through time.

Don’t worry if you haven’t read Jodi Taylor’s books yet. Right now, the only thing you need to know is that there are five general rules of time travel:

1. Don’t change the past. (Bad. You may turn out to be your own father.)

2. Don’t go to the future. (Risky. You never know what you will find.)

3. Don’t be in two places at the same time. (Very bad. God knows what will happen.)

4. Don’t ever call it “time travel” in the company of Dr Bairstow. (Very, very bad.)

5. Don’t do it. Don’t even think about it. Period. (Unless you want to spend spectacularly low-quality time with the Time Police.)

Today, I will break the first three rules. Worse, I will encourage you to do the same in the comments.

Let’s go!

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Rule 1: Don’t change the past.

This one is tricky. Even if you really tried to tiptoe through the past, you would probably still be stomping through the tulips of history. Time is a big puddle. Touch it anywhere, and the ripples will spread everywhere. Sneeze, scare a horse, and suddenly it’s your fault that someone who should go on to be the ancestor of half of Denmark is dead. Even if future Denmark doesn’t realise that half of the population is missing, it will mess things up.

It’s tempting to take out a few of history’s most rotten apples. The problem is that if you take one person out, another will inevitably step forward – like a fresh shark tooth replacing an old one. Also, anyone – good or bad – might turn out to be the ancestor of an alarming number of people.

In 2003, a group of scientists claimed that many millions of Asians were descendants of Genghis Khan. Today, their science is contested, but still. Over time, anyone can rack up hordes of ancestors.

Even if you’re okay with breaking the first rule of time travel, taking people out is very risky. But what about nudging history ever so gently? You could, for instance, give someone an opportunity they didn’t have in the original timeline. One carefully amplified bright mind could potentially do more good than one nasty voice silenced. And history is filled with bright minds. If you could give them a hand, would you?

I often think of Ada Lovelace. Being the daughter of the “mad, bad, and dangerous to know” Lord Byron made her both privileged and unfortunate. In an attempt to keep her away from the dangerous world of her (in)famous and absent father, her mother forbade her to read poetry and instead pushed her towards safer pursuits like mathematics.

This turned out to be lucky. Ada had a brilliant mathematical mind. In 1843, at only 27, she wrote what is considered the world’s first computer program. An impressive feat, especially since another century would pass before a machine capable of running it existed.

What if Lovelace had had access to a computer? A mind like that, armed with modern tools? I think she would have changed the world.

If nothing else, it may have saved us all from one of Sweden’s most embarrassing displays of chauvinist stupidity. In 2014, the local government of Lund, a university town in southern Sweden, had a brainwave: name a local park Lovelace Park in honour of Ada Lovelace. This immediately sparked a debate that revealed the limited cultural references of a disturbing number of people. It went something like this:

“You can’t name the park after a porn star!”

“We are not naming the park after Linda Lovelace of Deep Throat fame, but after Ada Lovelace of mathematical genius fame.”

“People are going to call it the porn park!”

“Ada Lovelace was a mathematical genius.”

“THE PORN PARK!”

I don’t know what happened to the park. It’s not on Google Maps, which makes me suspect stupidity won this one. The horror! The horror! Unfortunately, brilliance is overshadowed by ignorance every day. Let’s do our utmost to break that depressing downward spiral.

If I could go back in time, I’d give Lovelace a laptop and then head back to a new today where – hopefully – a female mathematical genius could no longer be ignored just because she happened to share a name with a porn star.

Rule 2: Don’t go to the future.

This one is particularly hard for me. I’m not afraid of dying – I’m afraid of missing out. It’s a condition I call FOMO Mortis. The problem with being a history buff is that you will always know an awful lot more about the past than you ever will about the future – especially the part that will unfold after your death.

You may not be thinking of the Roman Empire every day (as a surprising number of men and I do). But you only need to have a vague idea that Caligula was a bad chap to know way more about ancient times than you will ever truly know about the day after your death. You can make educated guesses, but nothing more. The day after your death may look exactly like the day before ... or a meteor hit the planet, and we’re all in the great beyond being chased by dinosaurs. Who knows?

The part after your death is inevitably a massive chunk of time. It’s infinite. I’m a very curious person. I don’t like not knowing things for five minutes, much less so for an eternity. So, this bugs me. If I were to time-travel, I’d like to jump around the future in all its many iterations. The near future, the not-so-near, and the very far-off one.

My expectations as far as humankind is concerned are not high at the moment, but still. There will be a future of some sort. I’d like to know what it will look like. Don’t you?

Rule 3: Don’t be in two places at the same time.

I understand this rule to be mostly about personal safety hazards, so I’ll be a bit selfish about this one. Still, I would only risk breaking it for something momentous - like ABBA. I’d go straight to the Nippon Budokan in Tokyo on March 27, 1980, and thoroughly enjoy myself at ABBA’s very last live concert.

Being Swedish has nothing to do with it. I was born in 1974, just three days after ABBA won the Eurovision. Back then, Swedish people were too busy writing songs about hating ABBA to realise what they were missing. In the 80s, I was bullied in school for listening to ABBA. It wasn’t until the early 90s – when ABBA Gold was first released – that the Swedes finally caught on to the hype. I guess it’s hard to be a prophet in your own country.

I don’t care that Spotify thinks I’m twenty years older than I actually am, because of my ABBA-heavy streaming statistics. I love ABBA. They have always been – and still are – the soundtrack of my life. Happy? Listen to ABBA. Sad? Listen to ABBA. So far, nothing has happened to me that could not successfully be accompanied by an ABBA song. I love them so much, I even forgive them for triggering my pet peeve by using children’s choirs. Twice... Brrr...

And now you know enough about me to fully comprehend my horror at the following little story from real life.

A while back, I was in the town of Jönköping to give a talk about cultural politics. Afterwards, a local journalist wanted to talk to me. He asked a few questions about my talk. Then he asked what I knew about Jönköping’s local culture. Embarrassingly, not much. I blurted out that Agnetha (the blonde in ABBA) is from Jönköping. He sighed and said, “Yeah, yeah, but I meant REAL culture.” Gasp! The ground shifted under my feet.

If I had had any pearls, I would have clutched them. Vigorously. It’s like asking someone about the local culture of Nashville, getting the reply “Dolly Parton” and then going: “Yeah, yeah, but I meant REAL culture.” Double gasp!

Now it’s your turn!

Time-travel rules exist to keep us from breaking reality — but imagination doesn’t care about rules. It thrives when we bend them, twist them, and run full speed into their contradictions.

So, what do you say? If you could nudge the past, peek into the future, or appear twice in the same Tuesday afternoon — what would you do?

We’re all weirdos here. Don’t hold back.

According to a surprising number of angry strangers online, my outlook on life is “annoyingly optimistic.” I prefer “stubbornly optimistic” because, right now, staying optimistic about the world is both necessary and requires a great deal of conscious effort.

The last couple of weeks have been rough. Trump and his tech boys have been handed the keys to the US. They will joyride the shit out of it for their benefit, while others - both in the US and in the rest of the world - will pay the price for it.

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Optimism is a muscle. If you want to be able to flex it, you need to train it, especially in times like these. If you don’t already, start now. Otherwise, you will lack the necessary endurance to be a sneaky Trojan horse for good until this shitshow is over.

I exercise my optimism by always looking for the good stuff. It doesn’t generate as much ad revenue for the media as all the bad stuff does, but it’s there. Find it. Here are two true stories I’ve come across in the past few years that I frequently use to fortify my optimism and restore faith in humanity.

400 people “broke into” a library …

… and nothing terrible happened. A few years ago, the Gothenburg City Library in Sweden accidentally forgot to lock the door over Halloween. Since an unlocked door is the international sign for "Welcome!" about 400 Gothenburgers happily wandered into the closed but unlocked library. What could possibly go wrong? Quite a lot.

But there was no chaos, vandalism, or injuries. The most radical thing that happened was people calmly reading newspapers, flipping through books, studying, or reading stories to their children. Over 200 books were borrowed, all neatly checked out through the self-checkout system.

Libraries are often the only places people can go without paying or buying coffee. This is fantastic, but when other parts of society withdraw from their social responsibilities, libraries are too often left to carry a heavy burden. It creates problems that must be taken seriously. But 400 people entering a closed library and behaving impeccably is also a part of reality that must be taken seriously.

Six boys were marooned on an island for 15 months …

… and they didn’t bully or kill each other. In 1965, a small boat capsized somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Six boys survived and washed up on the deserted island of Ata. They were stranded alone for over a year. This is where everyone who's ever read William Golding's Lord of the Flies probably starts envisioning the horrors that must have happened next. But, no.

The real-life stranded boys didn't choose violence and tyranny. They decided to cooperate and take good care of each other. If they argued, they took a time-out until everyone had calmed down. By the time rescue arrived, they had managed their situation remarkably well. They had a small garden, divided their labour, and established routines. They had even successfully treated a broken leg. In short, they handled their situation excellently without harming or killing each other.

Does this matter? Yes!

You can, of course, always counter good examples like these with bad ones. Human history is packed to the rafters with horrific examples of malicious intent and cruelty, but that’s not the point. The point is that most people don’t choose to destroy things just because they get the chance. Most people do not immediately turn to violence to gain power just because they can. Most people are - despite our many differences - decent human beings. We must not forget that.

Then there are the others - the fearmongering few. They are always ridiculously alike. They want us to fear each other because our fear is the currency on which they build personal wealth and power. You know they are successful at their horrid game when friends and family who used to be decent suddenly turn malicious and hateful. We must stop this from happening.

This is why I have chosen to be a stubbornly optimistic outpost in a crazy and chaotic world. I collect stories about people who decided to be good when they didn’t have to. I keep all those stories close to my heart and trust them to keep me safe from all the fearmongering. I always keep a light on in my little outpost so the decent people who have lost themselves to fear have a warm place to return to. Without it, their only path leads them deeper into fear, and we can’t have that.

The most revolutionary thing you can do today is to remain optimistic and maintain faith in your fellow human beings. Train and flex your optimism muscle as often as possible. Remember to leave the light on for those who want to return from fear. And never give up.

Do you have an uplifting story about when things could have gone bad but turned out okay? Please share in the comments!

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Watching a very unpalatable US politician saying ridiculous things about gay people a few days ago reminded me of a weird piece of news from my own neck of the woods - Sweden. It’s a nice place to visit, but if you plan to marry your toaster, Sweden should not be the dreamy wedding destination of your choice. The Swedish Church has announced that it is a church for people, not AI:s or machines. So, they will not be performing any robosexual marriages. Good to know.

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As far as I know, there is no big push from people who want to marry their robot partners, but I guess the Swedish Church wants to be one step ahead and not rush the issue. After all, they needed a full thousand years to adjust before they finally felt comfortable marrying same-sex couples in 2009. I bet it will be another couple of thousand years before they will be ready to reconsider their stand on robosexual marriages.

Sadly, it’s unlikely that I will be around for that. Unlikely, because I will be dead. Sad, not because I want to marry a robot, but because I find cringe-worthy debates with increasingly crazy arguments entertaining. My wife says it’s an odd trait. I say it’s an endearing trait. She says: “Hmph!”

I can already imagine the future debate on robosexual marriages. It will be glorious! Concerned citizens will urge everybody to “Please, think of the children!” There will be demands that we all stop marrying our toasters or any other hot household appliance that they think tickles our fancy. I bet at least one of the most vehement detractors will be caught red-handed sous viding his sausage before it’s all over. After all, that’s how these things always go.

Before equal marriage was legalised in Sweden, there was a fair bit of fearmongering about slippery slopes and the supposedly genuine danger of everyone suddenly wanting to marry their poor, unsuspecting goats. That never happened. Of course.

But fear not. Neither you nor I will be missing out. Thanks to Futurama, we can all glimpse into the future and engage in the hottest social debate of the year 3000. Enjoy!

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A few days ago, I told I never wanted to read, nor even expected to remotely like one of her novels. She loved it! But before I get into the hows, whys and whats of that, I have a question for you.

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How do you choose which books to read, movies to watch, or music to listen to? Chances are, you're not choosing quite as freely as you think. Let’s ignore the impact of marketing, which only aims to override our natural impulses to ensure that the money ends up in the right pockets. Then, we are left with the two things that are most commonly understood to guide our choices above all others: nostalgia and recommendations.

If you fell in love with a song during your formative years, the odds are that twenty years on and five albums of rapidly declining musical quality later, you will still buy tickets every time the artist is in town. When we dare to try something new, it's usually because someone near and dear to us - someone whose judgment we trust - recommended it. We all do this.

However, we rarely question why we also routinely shut the door on some cultural experiences. This is a mistake because there is a third – more sinister - thing that guides our cultural choices: cultural bias. Luckily, I've spent much time thinking about this very poor guide. It all started with a culture shock of my own.

I was at an airport with a long flight ahead of me. To my horror, I realised I had forgotten to bring something to read. Boarding had already begun, so I needed to find something to read quickly.

My dad was a pilot and taught me two things about aviation safety. The first related to small planes and helicopters: "You can fix just about anything with a bit of duct tape!" The second related to larger planes: "No matter what they tell you in the safety briefing, large planes don’t make emergency landings on land or water. They crash. And if they do, you will be dead.” Despite this dreary pep-talk, I’m surprisingly not afraid of flying, but I do prefer to keep my mind occupied with something other than all the empty air between me and the ground. This was why heading up in the sky without a book - any book - was no option.

There was a bookshop right next to the gate. I rushed in and grabbed the thickest book with an interesting title that I could find. There was no time to vet it properly. I just paid and shoved the book into my bag without further examination.

Once aboard the plane, I settled into my seat and watched the flight attendants go through the safety briefing. My dad would have rolled his eyes at the futility of it all, but my mom imbued me with good manners. If the flight attendants put time and effort into convincing us that we have some control over our fate at 10,000 meters, it would be rude to ignore them. Being polite costs nothing. Come to think of it, it may be the only thing that doesn’t cost extra when flying, so why not take advantage of it? But I digress.

When the plane reached cruising altitude, I pulled out my newly purchased literary companion: The Signature of All Things. The title still sparked interest in me, which was a good sign. Elizabeth Gilbert. The author's name didn’t ring a bell, but I’m terrible with names. I regard every day I still remember my own name as a success. So, no red flags there.

But the devil is in the details. My eyes homed in on a sentence that had escaped me in the bookshop. It was nestled just below the author’s name and said: “Bestselling author of Eat, Pray, Love.”

And this is why an almighty “DOH!” - loud enough to make Homer Simpson proud and the passengers in the row in front of me glare - escaped my lips somewhere above the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

I had not read Eat, Pray, Love. I had no plans ever to read Eat, Pray, Love. If I had any plan whatsoever concerning Eat, Pray, Love, it was NOT to read it. A very efficient way of making me utterly disinterested in something is to bombard me with "You must do XYZ!” or “Everyone is doing XYZ!” I don't respond well to peer pressure. The more you push something on me, the harder I will reject it. If you’re scientifically minded, it’s basically Newton’s third law of thermodynamics: “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

For years, the New York Times bestseller list and the rest of the world had told me to read Eat, Pray, Love, and I had not. Neither was I going to. Much like I was not going to read this other novel that had snuck like a cuckoo into my nest.

I glared suspiciously at the book. It did nothing right back at me. I glared some more. It still did nothing. I approached it the way you would a spider, slowly and ready to recoil in horror at any moment. I flipped it over and read the blurb. Dear God! A novel about a woman who dedicates her life to the scientific study of moss?! I glared even harder at the book. Still no reaction. Moss? You’ve got to be kidding, right?!

But time slows down when you fly. The plane seems to chug along at half speed. It feels like you're never going to get there. This event took place in the not-so-distant past when airlines graciously offered you the possibility to pay a small fortune for internet onboard with absolutely no intention of actually delivering it to you. I had no alternative means of distraction. It was this book or nothing. I gave in.

If you're 10,000 meters up in the air, you've already placed your life in the hands of a bunch of strangers. Pilots, mechanics, Boeing, you name it. What difference can a little bit more trust flung about – however possibly misplaced – do?

After all, this Elizabeth Gilbert person was not a terrorist. She had not built a bomb and snuck it with me onto the plane. She had just written a book which I had vowed never to read because ... Well … I didn't quite know why. Because a lot of other people had read it and liked it? Thinking about it like that made it all seem a bit silly. And that book wasn’t even the one in front of me. However bad this one turned out to be, I had at least not let myself down. I began to read:

"Alma Whittaker, born with the century, slid into our world on the fifth of January, 1800. Swiftly – nearly immediately – opinions began to form around her."

I sat up straight in my seat. I had not expected this. I was offended. Who did Gilbert think she was? She had no right to so confidently grab hold of me and pull me into her story. The audacity! I read on. Anyone can get lucky and accidentally form a great opening sentence, but the cracks will begin to show - sooner or later.

By now, it can be no surprise that I can be a bit of a snob regarding culture. If spring is interrupted by a fresh layer of snow, I will probably quote T.S. Eliot at you and say something haughty about April being the cruelest month. When I recently overheard a lady asking my mother when they should meet up again, I couldn't help chuckling, "When the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's lost and won", to myself. Sometimes, I'm dreadful, but what happened next has completely changed my approach to culture.

To my great surprise and disappointment, the novel did not crack and come apart in my hands. The story was rock-solid. The language flowed over, around and through it like water. Sometimes as fresh trickles, sometimes as a raging flood. There was an effortless lightness to the language. Yes, anyone can get lucky with a sentence or two, but this was something completely different. Luck does not explain five hundred pages of exquisite prose. This was an author in perfect control of her craft. More annoyingly, the writing was so good I found myself utterly fascinated and excited by moss. How?!

I was shaken to my very core. Jeanette Winterson’s mother used to say: “The problem with a book is that you don’t know what’s in it until it’s too late." Crazy, but true. I had stepped into the trap, but was it the book or I who was the problem? It was me, and I had been this close to missing out on one of the best novels I have ever read. And for what? Stupid, stubborn, and thick-headed cultural bias.

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When I came home, I asked friends what books, films, or music they habitually avoided like the plague. Then I asked them why. Every time, it went something like this:

Friend: “I really can’t stand anything by Madonna.”
Me: “Why?”
Friend: “Stacy liked her.”
Me: “Who the hell is Stacy?”
Friend: “A mean girl who joined my class when we were nine.”

I’m not saying that everyone must love or even recognise the cultural importance of Madonna. We all resonate with different things. It just doesn’t make sense to me that the word of a mean nine-year-old thirty years ago should impact your view on Madonna’s work more than the actual work The Queen of Pop has produced over the last three decades. She’s been a very busy bee, you know. If you peel off your bias, surely there must be something you like, even just a little, even if heavy metal or jazz fusion is normally your jam, right? And, even if there isn’t, why is Stacy still running your life? Be your own boss over whatever tickles your cultural fancy. Fire Stacy, already!

I had the great pleasure of meeting Liz a few days ago in Stockholm. I told her the truth. (In a much condensed version, of course.) I told her I had not wanted nor expected to like The Signature of All Things - at all. I told her I had reluctantly found myself not just tolerating the novel - but loving it. I told her she had, against my explicit will and all odds, even gotten me disturbingly fascinated and excited about moss. That cracked her up.

It felt good to give a little something back. All biases are nothing but windows begging for a brick, and my cultural bias was no exception. I’m very happy Liz happened to walk by, see it, and toss her rock-solid prose through it. It has expanded my cultural universe infinitely.

I don’t care what I’m supposed to like anymore. Culture doesn’t care, so why should I? Our relationship with culture shouldn’t be monogamous. It should be curious, exciting, and downright frivolous. Art is not prone to jealousy. One work of art won't mind if you have a dalliance with another. It’s all part of the same ecosystem anyway. If you tickle one end of culture, the other will giggle along with it.

This is why my most-played Spotify playlist is a glorious feast of plenty. At one end of the dinner table, Abba chats with Ozzy Osbourne, and Billie Holiday whispers with Michael Nyman at the other. On a small stage in the corner, Dolly Parton jams with Nina Hagen. Lady Gaga and Nick Cave are having a heart-to-heart, waiting for Beethoven to exit the bathroom. Diamanda Galás shares a joke with Kylie Minogue at the bar. In a corner, Mozart and Eurythmics bond over a few crates of old vinyls. Pizzicato Five and Carl Orff smoke in the hallway. And, in the wee hours of the morning, Jedward parley with The Rolling Stones, Astrud Gilberto and Andrew Lloyd Webber in the kitchen. It’s a complete mess and I love it.

All limitations in our relationship with culture are artificial. They are put there by convention, religion, family or friends. More often than not, we put them there ourselves. Our need to be deep, interesting or cool gets in the way. Let go of all that, and you'll find that there’s so much more to like – maybe even love – than you ever thought.

Go forth and read, watch and listen without bias. It’s one of the best gifts you can give yourself.

Onwards and upwards,

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New technology always worries people. Socrates thought writing would damage our memory. Conrad Gessner, a Swiss biologist, didn't trust the printing press because he thought it would overload us with information. When the first trains arrived, people feared that going too fast would suffocate them. There was fear that radios would distract kids from schoolwork and cause nightmares. When the internet came, some reports claimed emails were worse for our IQ than smoking weed.

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Looking back, previous generations’ technology scares often seem silly. But these technologies were brand new, unknown, and hard to understand back then. This teaches us something important about how to face the new and unfamiliar. If we learn from history, we might even handle new things in our own time a bit more levelheadedly. Unfortunately, levelheadedness is not in vogue.

These days, everyone is talking about AI. There’s so much being said, so many views thrown around. Still, I don’t think AI is being discussed very well. Many people seem to base all their thoughts on AI on Elon Musk’s latest … hmmm … Tweet? X? God knows what it’s called these days. That’s not very helpful. Whatever Musk says is always what’s best for Musk. If you want to know what could benefit the rest of us, you need to look elsewhere.

AI is not only a technical issue, a creative issue, or something that will affect our education and working life. It is all of those things and many more. AI raises new philosophical, ethical, and religious questions. It forces us to delve into unchartered psychological depths. AI is changing everything, so we cannot only hone in on one aspect at a time. We must also look at it holistically - which, in a sense, is just a fancy word for everything everywhere all at once - like the film.

Nor must we fall into the trap of thinking about AI as something we are “for” or “against”. That’s like saying you’re for or against the weather. It’s there whether you want it or not. AI is, too. It’s already part of your everyday life and is here to stay. There will be challenges, but there are also endless possibilities. The best we can do is to prepare for the challenges and open ourselves up to the many possibilities.

In this newsletter, I’ll be sniffing out AI from various angles. I say 'sniff' because I like to imagine myself going over the issue like an eager, wet dog nose. After all, it’s a great way of scoping out the neighbourhood, so to speak. I will get back to AI, but today, I only want you to consider these two things:

1. Anyone jumping into the AI debate should first take the time to read Jeanette Winterson's collection of essays 12 Bytes: How We Got Here. Where We Might Go Next. She bravely and curiously investigates AI from a historical, philosophical, technical, creative, religious, political, and human perspective. You can find Winterson's TED talk on this below. Laura Spinney also wrote a great article in The Guardian about the book when it was published.

2. We need to end all the lazy pop culture references to the Terminator franchise in the AI debate once and for all. Every time someone says: 'It will be like in The Terminator!' I get confused and am flung to and fro between hope and despair. Are they referring to the robots trying to annihilate humanity or those trying to save it? Or do they mean there's an ever-so-tiny chance that I'll one day be as fit as Linda Hamilton? If they mean the latter, I’m all in, but you see the greater problem? There’s no end to the possible interpretations, which makes all sloppy references to the franchise practically useless.

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A friend recently sent me a link to a Swedish newspaper article claiming that only 50 per cent of people have considered what music they want to be played at their funeral. My reaction was: "ONLY 50 per cent? How can you NOT think about your funeral music?!”

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This led me down an internet rabbit hole about what is played at funerals around the world. While some cultures prefer to send off their loved ones to music, others do not. For instance, many Muslims and Jews believe that music distracts from mourning and prefer to save music for other, more joyful occasions. The Catholic tradition doesn’t opt out of music but prefers hymns. There is, of course, no right or wrong here. Whatever floats your boat. Which, coincidentally, supposedly is how some of my Viking ancestors liked to be buried - floating off on a boat.

As for my culture today - i.e. Western, culturally Protestant, but very secular - we have a fairly relaxed approach to music at funerals. As long as the song meant something to the deceased almost anything goes. There are, however, a few songs that seem more popular than others. Here are a few of them:

“My Way” with Frank Sinatra. (I suspect more people opt for this song at their funeral than the number of people who actually go through life in their way.)

“My Heart Will Go On” with Celine Dion. (I boldly guess that the heart referred to does not belong to the deceased, as that particular heart did, in fact, not go on - or on and on and on, like the song.)

“Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” with Eric Idle and Monty Python. (It's for the humorously inclined, I guess.)

“Stairway to Heaven” with Led Zeppelin and “Highway to Hell” with AC/DC are also popular options. (This leads us to the age-old meme observation about the very different traffic situations depending on where you’re heading.)

I'm just as unprepared for death as anyone else, but when it comes to the music part, I'm like an overly enthusiastic scout: Always prepared! I think about my departure music almost as often as I think about ancient Egypt, which is daily. I know I’m a bit morbid because the search phrase "mummification documentary" is frequently at the top of my YouTube searches, but still. There's no way I'm leaving this world without an epic soundtrack.

Hopefully, I'm not checking out any time soon. Right now, my funeral playlist is about five hours long. That's at least four and a half hours too long. Not even Queen Elizabeth II had that much going on musically at her three (!) separate services - state, committal, and internment. If people have to sit through it as it is, I won’t be the only member of the local rigor mortis club for long. The playlist needs to be trimmed down. Which I do now and then - only to add to it again a day or so later. It's a selfish labour of love, but I imagine it will also give those left behind one less thing to worry about.

True preparation must always leave a margin for error. Even the best laid plans can be thwarted - usually by an unruly relative. My greatest fear is that someone decides to hire a local "talent" to butcher (yes, I say “butcher”, you may say “cover”, but that’s your problem) my carefully chosen songs instead of playing the original versions. Oh, the horror! No, no, no. If that happens, I hereby vow to haunt the guilty party to the end of days. If having a local "talent" butcher my favourite songs is the only musical option, I'd rather enter eternity in silence, just like Hamlet.

Am I being too dramatic? I think not. To show you just how bad it can get when someone ruins a perfectly good song, I present the Swedish showband singer Christer Sjögren's cover of Lady Gaga's “Bad Romance”. Choose wisely before you click on that link. Some things can’t be unseen or - indeed - unheard. I’m pretty confident Mr Kurtz had just clicked on that very link on his deathbed when he exclaimed his final words: "The Horror! The Horror!"

What’s on my funeral playlist? Oh no, I’m not revealing that now. First, I need to kick the bucket. Second, you need to show up at the funeral. I’m not giving away a perfectly good playlist to no-shows. Also, years ago, a good friend said she wanted Bach's “Air on a G String” played at her funeral. I still can't listen to it without a sudden, painful melancholy overtaking me. I don’t want that for you, so you must be patient. But don't worry about missing out. I’m turning fifty in a few days, so I practically have one foot in the grave already.

That said, relax. Don’t sweat your funeral playlist as much as I do. I know it’s crazy. We’ll all be dead when our funerals come along, and being dead is arguably a much bigger problem than not having our musical ducks in a row for the big exit.

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I'm turning 50 this year, and I'm starting to realize it's something of a miracle I've reached this somewhat impressive age. The ‘70s were no walk in the park. Bike helmets? Pfft! Seat belts? Double pfft! Environmental toxins? Triple pfft! You might think I'm exaggerating, but no. It's a true wonder I survived my childhood. Let me present my case.

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During my entire childhood, we had this green-striped blanket on the couch. I always complained it was itchy and scratchy. Every time, my Mom would indignantly say: "But it's a Viola Gråsten!" (Viola Gråsten was a famous Finnish textile artist who was trendy back then.) So, following the logic of "No pain, no gain!" I spent most of my childhood wrapped in this itchy blanket in front of the TV.

Imagine my surprise and horror when I recently flipped through a home decor magazine and learned the blanket wasn't just itchy, it was also dipped in DDT. They used to treat these blankets with DDT to prevent moth infestations. Nowadays, you are strongly advised against even keeping them as decorations. They should go straight to a recycling centre for - brace yourselves - destruction. I kid you not! This childhood memory (Exhibit A) naturally led me to two others.

The first is a metal container (Exhibit B), which was always kept in our bike shed. It looked like something straight out of an abandoned Soviet military base in an apocalyptic video game. It was oozing God-knows-what that smeared on everything - including me - that came near it. Or rather, I have a pretty good idea of what it was. In the carefree ‘70s, my Dad was a pilot and spent the summers spraying forests with the now long-banned herbicide Hormoslyr. That container was some sort of... Well, let's call it a "souvenir" from those days. It's worth noting that Hormoslyr is a Swedish brand name for 2, 4-D. Which is pretty much the same stuff as Agent Orange, used by the Americans during the Vietnam War.

When there were too many dandelions in the garden where my brother and I played, my Dad would load an old oil can with Hormoslyr. Then, he would give each unwanted flower a little drop, after which they croaked almost immediately. We also had an overgrown slope that he occasionally soaked with a watering can filled with Hormoslyr. Afterwards, it looked like someone had gone over the vegetation with a flamethrower.

The second memory is about us swimming in the shadow of the Barsebäck nuclear power plant in southern Sweden (Exhibit C). Or rather, a few hundred meters away from it. Everyone did. For all I know, maybe they still do. Rumour had it that the water was a bit warmer there as it had been used to cool the reactor before being pumped back out. (Note: I have no idea if this was true.) This last point isn't so alarming by itself. As long as everything's working, it's all fine and dandy. However, I see a worrying pattern concerning my parents’ parenting.

Once is nothing to worry about. Twice could still be a coincidence. THREE times? Either my parents were actually trying to off me, or the "good old days" weren't all that great. What do you think? My mom gives no answers. She insists that a Viola Gråsten is still a Viola Gråsten, nobody died from a bit of Hormoslyr (well...), and a little DDT in the TV couch isn't something to make a fuss about.

What’s your verdict? Was it just the ‘70s, or were my parents trying to kill me?

Do you have any crazy stories of your own about the "good old days"? Please share!

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I have an annoying habit. At least, that's what my wife, my cats, the dog, colleagues, and several random strangers on the train tell me. My offence is that my typing - allegedly - is way too loud. And we're not talking about my loud opinions (guilty as charged!) but about the actual typing on my laptop keyboard. Apparently, it’s too noisy. Pffft!

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As if this chorus of disapproval from those around me wasn't enough, now Sandi Toksvig – host extraordinaire of the TV show QI – has also joined the critics. I was recently reading her book Peas & Queues: The Minefield of Modern Manners (2014). Somewhere in the middle, I came across this bit that felt like a slap out of nowhere:

“I understand that some people have to work on the train. I don’t understand why typing needs to be so loud. It’s mostly men, I’m afraid. They bash the keyboard as if it were some wild beast which will only do their bidding if it is subdued first. Allow me an aside to those men – Fellows! It is an inanimate object! It’s not going anywhere. It will work just as well if you are gentle … and quiet.”

Toksvig is a brilliant person whom I admire greatly. And it seems she, along with my wife, my cats, the dog, colleagues, and those pesky strangers on the train, might have some support from the iconic Marlene Dietrich. In the movie Der Blaue Engel, Dietrich sang about not "hammering on the keys" and how a little "pianissimo" always pleases.

I don't think that theory applies to my dilemma, though. After all, the film is from 1930, way before the era of laptops. Plus, this line is sung in Dietrich's showstopper "Ich bin die Fesche Lola". For those of you who, like me, did not excel at German in school, the English version is called "They call me Naughty Lola." Now, there’s a clue. I suspect what she refers to as her "little pianola" might not actually be about a self-playing piano but something altogether different.

However, comparing typing to playing the piano is not a bad idea. Both express emotions and moods through a series of button presses, and without some bold crescendos and dramatic fortissimos, it all becomes pretty bland. Some people might like that, but some of us are just a bit more Beethoven's 5th Symphony and a bit less Moonlight Sonata.

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You know I like to bang on about all you can learn from history. Well, Elon Musk does not appear to have gotten the memo. Tesla has been at war with the Swedish unions for the last few months. The company refuses to sign a collective agreement, and thus, the workers are on strike. Collective agreements are the norm in Sweden. Strikes, on the other hand, are pretty rare. The Tesla strike is Sweden's longest-running strike in 80 years.

That's a long time, but it's nothing compared to 3180 years. That’s how many years ago the first recorded strike in history happened. It took place in the Egyptian village of Deir el-Medina during the reign of Ramesses III. Musk should read up on it.

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There’s a lot to be impressed by in ancient Egypt, but the pharaoh ran the show during those 3500 years of Egyptian history. He handed out orders and distributed the workload without any meaningful dialogue with the workers. Sure, there were perks like lunch (beer!) and rudimentary healthcare for the pyramid builders, but being a worker in ancient Egypt was no walk in the park. Or as Tim Rice cleverly sums it up in his and Andrew Lloyd Webber's underrated musical, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat:

"If he [pharaoh] cracked a joke / Then you chortled for days / No-one had rights or a vote but the king / In fact you might say / He was fairly right-wing / When Pharaoh's around, / Then you get down on the ground / If you ever find yourself near Ramesses / Get down on your knees." (från "Pharaoh's Story".)

But when the workers in Deir el-Medina didn't get their pay for several months in a row, they had enough and went on strike. It even reached the point where they blockaded the Valley of the Kings. Both sides of the conflict leaned on Maat - the Egyptian concept of world harmony and balance. Everyone had their place and role in society, and not fulfilling it was considered a violation of Maat, leading to chaos and misery. From the authorities' point of view, the workers broke Maat by not working. From the workers' point of view, the Pharaoh broke Maat by not caring for them properly.

Given the massive power imbalance, you would think the strike would end badly for the workers, but no. It had a happy ending. Ramesses III was most likely the wealthiest man in the world. He effectively owned Egypt. He was also considered divine, a god-king. But Deir el-Medina wasn't just any village. It was the home of the workers and artists who carefully carved out and decorated the royal tombs in the Valley of the Kings. In a civilization obsessed with eternal life, these guys were essential. They were the best of the best. They couldn't be replaced either quickly or easily. Finally, the authorities caved. Nobody dared to risk the Pharaoh dying without a ready-to-go tomb from which to launch him into eternity.

Having key competence in critical roles is just as important today as it was 3000 years ago. And thankfully, we expect better and healthier leadership now. If Elon Musk and other union-averse leaders think they are better positioned to ignore their employees' needs than Ramesses III was, they're sorely mistaken. Musk may be the wealthiest man on the planet, but as long as he isn't personally building, shipping, and servicing all Tesla cars, he ultimately depends on experts to do the work for him. If you want to build the future, you can't just stare obsessively ahead. Sometimes, you need to have a good look in the rearview mirror, too. There's valuable information there.

Unfortunately, there's a bit of a downside to the uplifting story of the first recorded strike in history. The Deir el-Medina workers managed to get their divine boss to bend to their will, but they couldn't escape another work-related pain we all know all too well: commuting. When the workers’ bones were examined, it was discovered that their knees and ankles were in bad shape. Trekking the steep path between their homes in the village and work in the Valley of the Kings had taken a painful toll over the years.

Yet, there's a silver lining. When future archaeologists dig up my bones in 3000 years or so, they'll find an impressive iHunch and severe thumb injuries from all the hours I spent on an icy cold train platform in the middle of nowhere, desperately Googling how to get home. Or, at least, avoid sleeping under the stars after my train has vanished into thin air. How's that a silver lining? Given the mental and physical toll failing transportation has taken on me, I've long given up hope of justice in this life. But maybe future generations will see the physical signs of my suffering and spare me a kind thought. That's something, right?

* If you're interested in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, the 1974 studio recording is the way to go for three reasons: 1. No Donnie Osmond. Good! 2. No Jason Donovan. Doubleplusgood! 3. No children's choir. Trippleplusgood!

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A while back, women on TikTok joked about men thinking too much about the Roman Empire—sometimes even multiple times a day. They should really stop doing that—the women, I mean, not the men. It’s not necessarily a problem that men think about the Roman Empire. It’s a bigger problem that people generally don't think about history at all. Everyone should do it a lot more often.

History is a good foundation for better understanding the present and making educated guesses about the future. Not because everything repeats itself but because history helps us come at and interpret current events from many different angles. Plus, people are people and tend to tackle challenges in similar, if not precisely the same, ways no matter where and when they happen to live in history. Thinking about history can add depth and valuable perspectives to life.

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There is, of course, a real risk of disappointment if you walk around reflecting on a Hollywood-style version of the Roman Empire, believing that's an accurate representation of history. But then again, that's a trap even the Romans fell into. They flocked to Sparta to live out their masculine fantasies, only to find that nothing was left of the city-state's former glory, apart from descendants of the legendary warriors. These descendants, presumably to their ancestors' horror, were more or less creatively reenacting historical Sparta to entertain wealthy Roman tourists. Disappointing. Today, Maximus, Titus, and the other guys would probably give their Spartan trip a mediocre review on Tripadvisor. But the world didn't end because of it.

Here's a lesson: Go ahead and think about the Roman Empire as much as you like, but remember that it was as complex and ever-changing as all other civilizations, including ours. Hollywood is great at many things but is generally a lousy historical guide. There are better guides out there. To keep myself updated, for instance, I got myself a copy of Professor Mary Beard's new book about the Roman emperors, Emperor of Rome: Ruling the Ancient Roman World. I highly recommend it. Beard always delivers.

I think a lot about history. Usually, several times a day. I mostly think about ancient Egypt, though. But I’m no stranger to the Roman Empire. All sorts of historical periods pop up in my head every so often. It helps me better understand myself and the world around me - and it's fun. I asked around at a conference recently, and it turns out that the Cold War is the period of choice if you ask Swedish trade union representatives. At least the ones I asked. Which historical period do you think about the most?

The only downside to my love of history is that I get incredibly frustrated not being able to predict the future. I don't suffer much from a fear of death, but I most definitely suffer from not getting to know what happens next. It's like following a several thousand-year-long TV series and then missing out on the ending. I don't know if this fear has a fancy scientific name. I call it FOMO mortis. My wife doesn’t call it anything. She rolls her eyes.

With that said, stop shaming people who think about the Roman Empire in their everyday lives. Encourage them instead. It's an excellent activity. Even a busy assassin like Villanelle finds time for it in her packed schedule. That must count for something, right?

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This is Henry Jones Junior II. Henry’s my dog. Or, I’m his human. I don’t know. I guess we are each other’s, and it’s perfect. He’s not even three years old, and I can’t remember life without him. I’m sure it was much cheaper, but who cares?

All dogs are different. Different breeds can be more or less prone to certain behaviours, but each individual dog has its own peculiarities. Henry is a “loof,” and I want to be one, too. Let me explain.

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Henry is a Rhodesian Ridgeback. They were initially bred to hunt lions in Africa. He’s very big, athletic, and looks the part. But don’t let that fool you. He tiptoes around our five cats as he quickly learned that an annoyed cat is a very scary cat. His ancestors may have been lion hunters, but Henry is a gentle couch potato who doesn’t want any kind of drama in his life. Well, sometimes he forgets how big and strong he is and sends the coffee table flying, but apart from that, no drama.

Henry shows no interest in other dogs or their people on our walks unless they’re nearby. If they are, he acknowledges them with a quick, friendly look and then moves on. If there’s any sign of drama - barking, pulling or screaming - he gives me a look that says: “Dear God! Give me a break!” and actively ignores them by demonstratively turning away. Then he promptly continues our walk with a swagger that says: “Talk to the paw!”

This has earned him a reputation in the neighbourhood as a bit aloof, which doesn’t sit quite right with me. The word “aloof” has a negative ring to it. It’s basically “reserved” with a touch of “cold” and “distant” thrown in. That doesn’t sound like Henry at all. He’s just a sweetie pie with a healthy dose of integrity.

So, no, I don’t think Henry is aloof. He is just a big, goofy “loof”. I also think he is a bloody genius. Here’s why:

1. The world would be a much better place if we all stopped sticking our noses in everybody’s business, even if we don’t really know them.

2. Refusing to let other people's drama seep into our lives all the time has major health benefits.

I haven’t quite mastered the noble art of loofing myself. I’m sometimes unnecessarily invested in what other people do or don’t do, and my drama shield is not at full capacity. But my doggy mentor seems to think there’s hope for me yet. And you know what? I think we could all use a bit more loofing in our lives.

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