Rough isn't it? The urge to fill the void of not knowing and uncertainty with a definitive answer. Here's why you're not alone, and what might really be going on. Live from the epicentre of high-stakes decision-making in a teen skate park, west Leeds.

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Nerves, excitement, fear get to me before a big day. Then I have the temerity to talk about influencing your body chemistry, thoughts and feelings. Again, the irony is not wasted on me.

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If you like my s**t, check out the pessimist's guide to a hopeful future, a podcast beyond the confines of my head. Here there are other humans, with actual wisdom, and insightful interviews. Here's what season 2 is all about.

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This allotment has been in my life for about 5 years now. But I've given it up. I walk past it most days and you know what? I feel only relief. That tells me I've made the right decision, I think. I've been wondering if I'm in a kind of mourning - the aftermath of making a significant decision or a change in life. We call it reflection, with regret, relief, sadness, happiness - whatever, but we go through a kind of separation. When the consequences of what we've done linger for a while.
I'll miss planting in Spring. And the wildlife. The digging and manuring. I won't miss the veiled Brexity-racism, moaning, and petty politics. It wasn't the leftie utopia I'd hoped for. More like an extension of British gardens where we like to keep ourselves to ourselves.
Realisitically, the allotment isn't a priority any more, what with growing my coaching practice, a new dog and planning to move house. Proximity to nature, muddy fingers and the stench of compost is very much who I am, and to give up the allotment feels like a betrayal of that. But it's only temporary. I'm sure my green-fingered urges will resurface, probably when we get our own garden.
Good news is I left the plot in a better state then when I got it. I added a greenhouse, shed, raised beds and the soil is incredible, thanks to a veggie rich diet feeding the compost heaps. The new owner has taken it on as a retirement project, and she's lovely. I'm glad it's in good hands.
For now, I'm content to indulge the mourning, if that's what it is. The body's way of coming to terms with loss, perhaps. I think it's important to allow time to process thoughts and feelings. Maybe I need a ritual?

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In case you haven't noticed, which seems unlikely, we got a puppy. Dog, it turns out are agents of change. Catalysts for personal growth and destruction. I've also become a walking cliché for middle class parenting. Listen to a broken man witter about everything you already knew about family life.

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The improv retreat comes to an end, and I'm left to process the fall-out on Birmingham New Street station concourse. Alone. Broken. Sleep-deprived. Yet deeply inspired.

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It's the second day of this comedy improv retreat my intuition hoodwinked me into attending. This is so much fun, so much to learn, nice people I'm having a nice time are you I can't slow my brain down please can I sleep now this is more than I can handle give me more.

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Facing the demons/music on day one of this daft improv retreat my intuition signed me up for.

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That time my dead grandad's watch nearly got me nonced by a guy with calves like gammon.

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More grim recollections from a misspent adolescence in a northern industrial town.

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