Do you believe in karma? Yes, I do believe in karma. I’ve had people take advantage of my generosity and kindness over the years. I’ve helped people who probably took me for granted, and at… More
Self help me?
How do you make time for self-care?
I’m not sure I’ve ever deliberately made time for self-help. For most of my life, if I had an hour spare, I’d probably find something that needed doing instead.
Work came first, family came first, jobs around the house came first — and somehow I always seemed to come somewhere near the bottom of the list.
These days I’m getting a little better at it.
For me, self-help isn’t necessarily sitting down with a book telling me how to become a better version of myself. It can be going for a walk, playing the piano, reading something I enjoy, writing, or simply sitting with a cup of tea and doing absolutely nothing productive for a change.
And, rather surprisingly, giving up alcohol has become a big part of it. I’ve discovered that when you remove the drink, you don’t just remove the drink. You get some of your time, energy and headspace back as well.
I think I’m finally learning that looking after yourself isn’t selfish. You can’t spend your whole life maintaining everything and everyone else and then wonder why you’re running on empty.
So my approach to self-help these days is fairly simple:
Do a little more of what makes me feel alive, a little less of what makes me miserable, and occasionally sit down with a cup of tea and pretend I’m not supposed to be doing something else.
Greek meze
What’s the best local dish you’ve ever eaten while traveling?
It’s got to be the Greek meze — a meal that seems to have no beginning and certainly no end. Dish after dish arrives at the table: grilled meats, fresh fish, olives, salads, halloumi, dips and warm bread, each one inviting you to try just a little more. It is never rushed. You sit, talk, laugh and eat while the plates keep appearing. Somehow, a Greek meze becomes much more than a meal; it is an evening, a conversation and a little taste of everything that makes Cyprus so easy to fall in love with.
A place in time
What’s a place you visited that felt like home?
If I had to choose a place in Europe that feels like home, it would have to be Cyprus.
There was something about the laid-back way of life that just suited us. People seemed to have time for each other, life moved at a gentler pace, and we found it surprisingly easy to settle in and become part of the community. We loved it so much that visiting wasn’t enough — we bought a house and ended up staying for seventeen years.
Cyprus became much more than somewhere we went on holiday. It became a chapter of our lives, filled with familiar faces, favourite places and memories that still feel like yesterday.
Another place that has always felt special to us is Arizona. We loved the contrast of the warm winter weather in the south and then setting off on a road trip north, watching the landscape change completely as we headed towards the snow-covered Grand Canyon.
There were so many memorable days out. Horse riding around Tucson, exploring the incredible red rocks of Sedona, driving up Mount Lemmon as the desert gradually gave way to pine forests and cooler air, and wandering through Tombstone, where it felt as though we’d stepped back into another century.
I particularly remember the drives out from Scottsdale along the prairie trails, where the landscape seemed to stretch forever. There was something wonderfully open and peaceful about those journeys — just the road, the enormous sky and that feeling that there was always another place around the next bend.
And then there was the Grand Canyon. Leaving the warmth of the south and driving north into the snow was an experience in itself. Arizona seemed to contain several completely different worlds within one state.
Perhaps that’s what makes somewhere feel like home. It isn’t necessarily where you were born or where you spent most of your life. Sometimes it’s simply a place where you feel comfortable, where you make memories, and where life seems to fit you.
Cyprus gave us seventeen years of that feeling. Arizona gave us a different version of it. And both still have a little piece of us.
Listen to your mother
What’s one thing you wish you had started doing earlier in life?
What’s one thing I wish I had started doing earlier in life?
Probably learning to take life a little easier.
I sometimes think I should have started my business earlier. Not because I wanted to work more, but because I might have learned sooner that success doesn’t necessarily come from working yourself into the ground. I wish I had learned earlier that working hard doesn’t mean pushing yourself to the limit every day. It means finding a sustainable pace and giving yourself enough space to keep going.
I was never particularly good at dealing with stress. I tended to push through it, carry on, and tell myself that was simply what you did. Looking back, I think learning how to handle stress would have been just as valuable as learning how to work hard.
And then there’s the obvious one: I wish I had stopped drinking alcohol about ten years earlier.
It took me a long time to recognise how much it was affecting me. At the time, I probably wouldn’t have described myself as someone with a serious problem. I was only drinking what seemed like a small amount—around three bottles of beer a night—but even that was enough to affect my sleep, energy and mood. It was simply part of my routine, part of relaxing, part of socialising. But gradually I noticed the tiredness, the poor sleep, the irritability and the feeling that the next day was something to get through.
It’s at times like this I wish I’d listened to what my mother says.
Someone might ask, “Why? What did she say?”
I’d reply, “I don’t know. I didn’t listen.”
If I could go back, I wouldn’t tell my younger self to stop enjoying life.
I’d tell him that there are better ways to enjoy it.
Perhaps that’s what getting older gives you: not the chance to change the past, but the ability to understand it a little better.
And maybe that’s why I’m not particularly interested in regrets anymore.
I’m more interested in what I can start doing now.
E.T.
If you could pick any fictional animal to be your lifelong companion (like a Pokémon or fantasy pet), what would it be?
If I Could Pick a Fictional Animal for a Pet
Without hesitation, I’d choose E.T.
I was 21 when I first saw the film, and I absolutely loved him. There was something about this strange little creature that made him feel more human than many of the humans around him.
I loved the film so much that I bought the music — a little wind-up E.T. that played the theme tune. I’m not sure what possessed me to buy it, but I obviously needed a tiny musical reminder of the film sitting around the house.
And then there was the ending.
I remember sitting in the cinema, watching E.T. dying, and finding myself sobbing. What makes me smile now is that I wasn’t the only one. The whole cinema seemed to be sniffling and crying together.
Then, when he came back to life, there was this enormous collective sigh of relief around the cinema.
Twenty-one years old, surrounded by strangers, and completely emotionally destroyed by a fictional alien.
So yes, if I could choose any fictional animal as a pet, it would be E.T.
The Invisible Man
If you had to switch lives with a fictional character for a week, who would you choose?
Go to be the invisible man for hundreds of reasons
I’m not going to bother with a image
When Love Has Lost Its Fire
Once you were the flame
that warmed my winter room,
the golden bird upon the bough,
the light before the bloom.
I drank the summer from your lips,
and thought the summer stayed;
but autumn came with silver hands
and gathered what we made.
Now when you cross the quiet door,
the shadows rise and sing,
and all the ghosts of former days
come trembling on the wing.
What once was music in my blood
has grown a mournful bell;
the heart that built a house for you
now knows that house too well.
And yet I wonder, should I go
beyond your darkened shore,
might some forgotten joy return
and knock upon my door?
Might I beneath another moon
walk lightly through the rain,
and hear, among the sleeping trees,
the old laugh rise again?
For love can be a golden chain
when first its links are bright,
then rust can gather round the heart
and turn the gold to night.
I have held fast through many storms,
afraid to lose your name;
but what is love that leaves a man
a stranger to his flame?
So let the last leaf leave the tree,
let winter have its way.
Some loves must grow old
before the heart can grow free.
And if I walk beyond your reach,
through fields of frost and grey,
perhaps the dawn will find me there
and teach my soul to stay.
Not free of love,
nor free of loss,
nor healed of all I knew —
but once again beneath the sun,
perhaps I shall be me,
and laugh as I once knew.
Steve Halstead.
We Go Back a Long Way
For Kim
It started back in Scholes, so many years ago,
Two children with no thought of where their lives would go.
I still recall that blonde-haired girl, so pretty even then,
And somehow through the passing years grew prettier again.
Your kindness came from Peter and from my “Auntie Joan”,
They gave you love and strength that you have made your own.
Through all the changing years you’ve always been right there,
With friendship, words of kindness and a heart that’s always cared.
I tell you that I owe you more than words could ever show,
You simply say, “We go back a long way” — as though I didn’t know.
Perhaps I would, I hope I would, but this I know is true,
Whenever life has brought me down, I’ve always counted on you.
More than fifty years have passed since childhood days we knew,
And through those years I’ve learned what friendship means from you.
If I could turn the clock back and begin our lives anew,
I’d gladly walk that road again — as long as it led to you.
For Kim
All my love,
Paul
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.
What’s the longest book you’ve ever read?
Probably Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.
I’ve read it six or seven times, so does that count as one really long book?
I love the way it brings together two things that shouldn’t really sit comfortably together — the brutality and absurdity of war, and a beautiful, complicated love story. It can be heartbreaking one minute and tender the next.
Perhaps I keep going back to it because, each time I read it, I notice something different. The story stays the same, but I’m not quite the same person reading it.
Lost Our Rizz
I wake up groaning, joints all shot,
My back’s on strike, my knees are not.
My hair’s a ghost, my gut’s appeared,
And somehow hair grows from my ears.
I used to flirt, I used to swoon,
Now I snore like a broken tune.
My kids say “sus,” I nod and grin,
Then Google what they meant again.
They tell me something’s “giving mid,”
I’ve no idea what either did.
They shout “no cap,” I check my head,
Then wonder what the hell they said.
I tried their slang — said “lit” and “bet,”
They laughed so hard, I nearly wet.
I tried some “rizz” — they cried with shame:
“Dad, please don’t ever say that again.”
Apparently I’ve got no aura now,
Though God knows when I lost it, or how.
I called their trainers “rather nice” —
Apparently that’s social suicide.
Hangovers linger like unpaid rent,
My liver wonders where youth went.
I bend too fast — a pop, a crack —
Then spend ten minutes getting back.
Romance now’s a quieter affair:
Netflix, tea, my favourite chair.
No clubs, no taxis home at three —
Just “one more episode” for me.
My glory days? They’ve packed and fled,
I’d rather have an early bed.
The kids may think I’m past my prime;
I’m usually asleep by half past nine.
So here’s to age, the creak, the fart,
The dodgy knee, the ageing heart.
We’ve lost our rizz, our skin, our hair,
But not our right to drink and swear.
Raise your pint and toast the lot —
The old, the grumpy, slightly hot.
They call us “mid” — well, let them say:
We invented half their slang anyway.
And when they “skibidi” round the place,
I’ll nod with wisdom on my face.
I may not know what one word means —
But neither do they, so it seems.
Steve Halstead.
