Killing time with a toddler is mind-bendingly dull.

Sure, there are moments of intense beauty and wonder as you revel in your child’s awestruck delight at something as trivial as a cardboard box or the reflection from some coloured glass. You can put on a piece of music or favourite film and watch their brain expand almost in real time, as new thoughts and experiences stimulate their cerebral cortex¹. Even the hardest of hearts will soften as they watch a 22-month-old stagger around the dining room wearing a princess dress and clutching a toy monkey. But also: it can be soul-crushingly boring, too.

Our daughter was off nursery with a virus for most of this week, which left me with long mornings to fill while we waited for her to recover. Sitting around the house is a recipe for a boredom-induced breakdown, so I resolved to chuck her in the pushchair and go for a walk in the April sunshine.

I’m reading a new book at the moment called John & Paul: A Love Story in Songs. It’s about the two famous songwriters and how the music of the Beatles defined their relationship.

The popular conception is that John Lennon was the troubled genius whose spiky wit gave the Beatles their edge, and Paul McCartney was the people-pleasing cheeky chappie, writing mainstream-friendly hits and propping up the band during the final years of Lennon’s descent into heroin and avant-garde. This book aims to dispel some of these stereotypes, and uses the songs of the Beatles as hooks to dig into the relationship between John and Paul and how it informed their lives.

As both a huge Beatles fan and also an amateur songwriter who’s played music with lots of other beardy men who wish they were Lennon/McCartney, the premise of this book alone is right up my street. Watching the footage from the Get Back documentary, showing a month in the life of the Beatles as they try to coax another album out of their increasingly-unwilling selves, I was struck by the same observation that Ian Leslie makes with his book: John and Paul really do communicate through music.

I’m addicted to user reviews of things.

It started many years ago when I was first starting to buy things off Amazon and needed reassurance that the electronic gadget I was planning to purchase would definitely improve my life. I clung to the opinions of random strangers for validation, basking in the glow of their five star rating as my confidence bloomed like a tea bag in hot water. Thank you, generous stranger.

Next, the advent of photo reviews arrived: suddenly you could see for yourself that the awesome-looking Tolkien-themed bookend you were contemplating buying was actually a piece of 3D-printed trash:

Over the last week or so, I’ve been glued to Netflix and watching Adolescence.

If you’ve missed the hype, here’s a quick summary: it’s a four part British drama about Jamie, a 13 year old boy who’s accused of murdering a schoolmate called Katie. As the episodes progress, we learn that he’s been sucked into the “manosphere” and his oblivious parents can’t understand how their clever, handsome son has been radicalised into a violent, misogynist criminal. Interestingly, the show is filmed in a single take, with some creative camera work (and incredible performances) to make it all fit together. It’s fantastic and you should watch it.

Okay, summary/promo aside, here’s why I want to write about it this week: this stuff preys on my mind all the time.

I love the internet. I grew up online: as a lonely teenager not much older than Jamie, I discovered “my people” on music messageboards and forums, which directly led to my career today (it turns out learning to code by making music websites is a good foot-in-the-door for a career in tech). I’m still a complete internet culture nerd and can’t tear myself away from memes, platforms and new technology.

Today is “Pi Day” – 14th March, or 3/14 if you follow the obviously-flawed American standard for expressing dates. As I hinted last week, my son’s school is celebrating today by asking kids to dress up again as “something maths-related”. Thank you, school!

At 6.30am my almost-six-year-old son bounded into my bedroom and woke me from slumber. He’s developed a mildly disconcerting habit of prefacing most of his statements with what I can’t stop myself from thinking of as trailers: eg:

• “Dad, can I tell you something?”

• “Do you know what I’m about to say?”

• “I’ve got something to tell you:”

I groggily rolled over to make space for him in the bed, and he earnestly began telling me about the Wizard of Oz-themed dream he’d just had, complete with songs. As I rubbed my eyes blearily, I remembered it was Pi Day.