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.

A new start is a daunting thing.

Imagine you’ve just moved house: suddenly you realise you don’t know where the stopcock is and panic that your kids are going to flood the bathroom while you run around fruitlessly yelling “WHERE IS IT”.

The first time you greet your new next door neighbour, they call you Mark instead of Matt, and you pause a fraction of a second too long while debating correcting them. Too late: you’ll need to answer to a different name for the rest of your time there.

The parking situation is new and mildly challenging: suddenly you have to parallel park on the street again for the first time in years while your new neighbours watch through their living room blinds. One of them sarcastically shouts “good job, Mark!” when you eventually nail it.

My name is Matt and I’m addicted to stacking pigs on top of steel barrels.

Let me explain.

I’ve never been a big video game fan. When I was a kid growing up in rural Nottingham, my family was never on top of the cutting-edge: we didn’t get cable TV until years after it became passé, and any games consoles I had were hand-me-downs from family friends who’d already moved on to something several generations newer. I was still playing Sonic on my Mega Drive when everyone else got their Playstation 2s.