Been a while, friends. I spared you several earlier drafts. They were unholy messes: three thousand words of tripping over my own heels, of saying too much at once. Things are clearer now.

Small life

I was recently rifling through my 2019 calendar. ‘Flitting’ is the word. I had a new book; I wolfed down every invitation. How thrilling to be part of the discourse, to feel I might influence how technology was made! It was a wonderful year in retrospect, and fun to revisit.

2026 has been a wonderful year too, but life is now very different. My horizons have violently shrunk. Physically, it’s meant far less time away: my flight emissions this year are one-fifteenth of 2019’s. Intellectually, it’s meant doubling down on my priorities and sloughing off everything else.

I ditched the book I was working on. It was outlined; the words were beginning to unfurl; it would have been competent and useful. But also anodyne. Pedestrian. I finally admitted my excuse-finding was really a lack of interest. I don’t owe anything to the industry I’ve left. And like anyone sentient I’ve been struggling with AI angst. For a while – many, many months, in truth – I was utterly discouraged from writing: what’s the point when the robots do it better, when our earnest thoughts become mere fodder for summarisers and plagiarisers? This from LM Sacasas crumpled me:

One of the few clear intuitions I have about our current technological milieu: that the arc of artificial intelligence bends toward demoralization. Or, to put it otherwise, that burnout society has phased into the demoralized society.

Oof.

And beyond that, y’know, I’ve grown nauseated by the influence industry, the marketplace of ideas. Fucking spare me. And in particular spare me discourse-as-marketing. LinkedIn today has become a source of genuine despair – I just can’t stomach how it drives good people to debase themselves before a collapsing market, the cruel demands of late capitalism.

This ennui began in the gut; it took several months before I figured out why I wanted to retreat like this. I had some nagging memory of an interview snippet that seemed relevant. After much digging, I refound it. Arendt, no less:

‘You ask about the effect my work has on others. If I may speak ironically, that’s a masculine question. Men always want to be influential […] Do I see myself as influential? No, I want to understand.’

Cue the DiCaprio/sofa GIF. Yes! I want to understand. And so, despite everything, I’ve found a fresh purpose to writing. I write to understand too. Perhaps my interest in influence will return, but only once I understand better.

And so…

And so the signs point – or rather they blink in 10-metre neon – to academia. I start my PhD in philosophy at Leeds’ IDEA Centre in a couple of weeks, researching whether deception and manipulation are morally permissible in AI-authored design. Trust me that there’s more to it than ‘obviously not’.

This was all on the cards for a while, but the big change is I’m going full-time. While I’ve had a few decent projects in the last 18 months – Over The Edge 2.0 for Mozilla, workshopping the future of product management, ethics training for GDS – the flourishing responsible tech scene of a few years back seems terribly distant. Times remain rough for cautionary voices and I’m burned out chasing work. I’ll keep pockets of availability for product reviews and workshops, but research is the focus now.

The PhD search was exhaustive/ing. I looked everywhere including overseas – theoretically promising but ruined by Brexit – but in the end Leeds was the only place I applied to. An excellent reputation for ethics, a design school hosting two ideal co-supervisors, and the all-important good vibes with my primary supervisor. They’re also running a new MSc AI Ethics and Society, which perhaps I can get involved with once my feet are under the table.

My timing is admittedly awful. With British academia teetering on a financial precipice, academic job prospects once I emerge from my doctoral cocoon are dismal. A humanities PhD in 2026 feels like career suicide – but to be honest I already pulled the pin a while back. Can’t wait.

One last summer

Until it all kicks off I’ve been enjoying one last summer, reading no philosophy (save for David Edmonds’ touching Parfit biography) and writing no words (save for this newsletter). My health has been my main focus. I’m down 20kg since I left the US, in no small part due to the dawning of my MAMIL era. As midlife crises go cycling is surely harmless, at least compared to jacking in a perfectly good career, and it’s become a great source of embryonic memories. London–Brighton was sluggish due to mechanical issues but still a blast, while a Mallorca training trip with Anna and my cycling buddy Matt revealed that my fear of heights is actually a problem for cycling (to wit, the subsequent white-knuckle descents). I have lots to learn. Luckily I’m close to great training options like the Olympic Park’s road circuit and the hazy beauty of Richmond Park, and even rides into Essex are pleasant so long as you’re out of bed before the BMW hypertension crowd. I even took a weird little trip to Silverstone, where I was able to lap the Grand Prix circuit for a couple of hours. The big thing for 2027 is London–Paris, arriving the day before the final stage of Le Tour.

I say ‘last summer’ metaphorically but it also feels semi-literal. You might not know how it’s been in the UK: the hottest ever, five consecutive heatwaves, a record-demolisher. Yes, the cabbage whites whirled around the garden like petals, but the trees are already panicked, prematurely skeletal. You can’t touch grass because there isn’t any; the country has been a tinderbox of straw for months. There was even a solar eclipse just in case the fin-de-siècle thing didn’t quite feel real enough. Hedonistically it’s been amazing for sun-lovers like me. Deeper down it’s been terrifying.

One way to stave off the dread, it transpires, is to organise things in your community. I (rather dramatically, as it happens – long story) quit my old chess club and helped to start a local club, Walthamstow Chess Club. It’s been a joy. We’ve had a Grandmaster simultaneous exhibition, a huge kids’ event across two London boroughs, and an excellent second place in our first local league. I’ve been too busy running things to play much myself, but I did flirt with winning the Central London U1850 Congress back in November, which pushed my rating up a notch. My best game was this virtually flawless positional win:

A memorable golf year too. Eleven years into playing, I finally scored an eagle – three, actually – and also played some elite courses (Sunningdale, Royal Lytham, Royal St. George’s, Royal Liverpool). My game is improving, mostly thanks to strength training and flattering drought conditions, but the real treat was a stroke of luck in the St. Andrew’s ballot that meant I got to play The Old Course. Bucket-list stuff for any golfer. Your feet barely touch the ground.

Our dear cat Beemo died in 2025. Some creeping weight loss was, it transpired, symptomatic of an irreversible kidney problem. Our journey from elevated concern to euthanasia took just four days. No regrets: we made the right choice informed by clinical opinion, and I find virtually no moral argument to be made against euthanasia, human or animal. But damn, what a cat: sweet, noisy, stupid.

Then lacuna. The silent house shorn of a heartbeat; the occasional false corner-eye glimpse. It takes time. Honouring the absence is the point.

And then: Dewi. [‘Deh-wee’. It’s Welsh. That’s him below.] A local gardener wanted to find her visiting stray a home. We said maaaaaaybe and were thereby doomed. Head over heels. An Adonis. A Large Soft Boy. He demolished the Level 2 puzzle-feeder within fifteen minutes. A code-breaker. A spy. But you can pet him anywhere – anywhere! – and he won’t complain. Nicknames: The Dweeb, Mr. Man, Stealth Rug (self-explanatory), The LSB (q.v. above).

Sticking with the French too. I ditched the nagging owl in favour of pedagogically valid learning at l’Institut Français and I still get to break out crumbly B1 French on the odd day-trip. Je ne parle qu’un peu français mais j’aimerais essayer si cela ne vous dérange pas? Montmartre strolling / Michelin stars / Sartre and de Beauvoir’s grave covered in feminist lipsticked hearts and kisses, shed a little tear sure / Gare du Nord Eurostar lounge cocktail. As I said, I don’t really travel these days, but invite me to France for something and I’ll probably say yes.

Music

Alongside Caroline, Water From Your Eyes were the highlight of an otherwise wet and underwhelming Primavera:

I was pleasantly surprised by the Feeble Little Horse album. First one didn’t do much for me, but this one’s a charmer:

And Charli got good again too (I thought Brat was awful). Never mind the Scorsese cover shot; Vincent Cassel is a bigger flex IMO.

Life signs

Perhaps it’s also because this year has been so kind to me that I’ve been so quiet. My good fortune won’t last forever: PhDs are by all accounts a strip-mining of the soul, as is philosophy itself. New wirings will eventually mean I re-emerge. I have a couple of opinion-forcing functions lined up anyway, not least a new talk ’Revanants’ at FFConf. The failed utopias of the web, value-sensitive design, hauntology, all that good stuff. Captivating analysis or unintelligible screed? Signs point to yes.

I’m well aware the skin of hedonism over the skeleton of worry is becoming a common theme for me. But for now, life is great. Let me enjoy it while I can.

Cennydd

PS. Replies always welcome. How are things?