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It rained the whole of last weekend. The bookshelf is finished, the side table is "in planning" (meaning: not started), and I had two days with nothing to do. So I decided to make a video game. I have never made a video game.

The idea came from my notebook, of course. In the margin of an old page there's a doodle of a paper plane dodging a row of pencils. I'd drawn it during a very long phone call. It looked like it wanted to move.

Version one was a disaster

My first plane fell like a brick. My second one shot off the top of the screen and never came back. For about an hour the pencils didn't move at all, which made for a very peaceful but very boring game.

The trick, it turns out, is gravity that's a little weaker than you'd think and a flap that's a little stronger. Real physics feels unfair. Slightly fake physics feels fun.

The best rule I learned: if it feels wrong, it is wrong, no matter what the maths says.

The little details

I added spinning suns worth three points, because every game needs something shiny to chase. The pencils get a bit faster and the gaps a bit tighter the longer you survive. And when you crash, you get a rank, from "Crumpled on take-off" all the way up to "Legend of Joshua World." My personal best is 23. I'm not proud of how many tries that took.

It's not a big game. It's a small, silly thing that lives on this blog now, like a doodle that learned to fly. Which is exactly what it is.

Go on, beat my score. Then tell me about it.

Play Paper Plane →

Last March I was tired of my own excuses. "Too tired." "Maybe next time." "I don't really know anyone there." So I made a rule for one year: if someone invited me to something and I wasn't already busy, I said yes.

That rule took me to a beginners' salsa class (I was terrible), a 5am fishing trip with my neighbour (we caught nothing, it was perfect), and — through a friend of a friend — a wedding in Porto where I knew exactly two people.

What changed

The obvious thing is that I met more people. The less obvious thing is that I stopped treating my calendar like something to protect and started treating it like something to fill with stories.

Most of the best nights of my year started with me almost saying no.

I also learned where the rule breaks. Saying yes to everything can mean saying no to rest. By month eight I'd added a footnote: one quiet evening a week is non-negotiable.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. Just with more sleep.

It's on a steep side street in Graça, between a laundromat and a shop that seems to sell only buttons. No sign worth mentioning. Just a counter, four stools and a man who looks deeply unimpressed that you exist.

For €4 you get a galão (a tall milky coffee), a pastel de nata still warm from the oven, and a view of the tram rattling past the window.

How to order like a local

Point, smile, say "um galão e um pastel, por favor," and don't ask for anything else. Cinnamon is on the counter. Use it.

The custard was still trembling. I went back three mornings in a row.

On the third day the owner nodded at me. In Lisbon, I'm told, that's practically a hug.

I've tried every note-taking app. Some were beautiful. Some synced across eight devices. All of them eventually became graveyards of half-thoughts I never looked at again.

My paper notebook is different. It's slow, so I only write down what matters. It has no notifications, so when I open it, I'm actually thinking.

My simple system

One notebook at a time. Date on every page. A star next to anything I want to come back to. At the end of each month I flip through and copy the starred items onto the first blank page.

A notebook can't distract you. That's the whole feature.

Half the posts on this blog started as a scribble in the margin. That's reason enough to keep one in my bag.

I own too many books and not enough shelves. Buying one felt like admitting defeat, so I decided to build it myself. I have never built anything.

Weekend one: I bought pine boards, a hand saw, and a square I didn't know how to use. The first prototype leaned like it was tired.

What finally worked

Measuring twice (really), clamping everything while the glue dried, and adding a thin plywood back panel. That back panel turned a wobbly frame into something solid.

The shelf isn't perfect. But every crooked edge is mine.

Total cost: about €65 and a lot of patience. Next project: a small side table. Wish me luck.

I booked a small cabin two hours from the city with one goal: do nothing on purpose. No plans, no list of sights, no phone except for emergencies.

Saturday was long walks and longer naps. I read most of a novel next to the wood stove and cooked a pot of soup that lasted the whole weekend.

What I noticed

By Sunday morning the itch to check my phone had quietly disappeared. I heard birds I'd never have noticed. I slept nine hours, twice.

Rest isn't a reward for being productive. It's part of the job of being a person.

I'm already planning the next one. Same cabin. Same soup.

This is the first post on Joshua World. I've started blogs before and abandoned all of them. This time I'm treating that as practice, not failure.

The plan is simple: write about what I'm living, where I'm going and what I'm making. One post a week, every Sunday, even when it's short.

Why bother?

Because writing things down makes me pay attention. And because I'd like a place on the internet that feels like mine — a small world, rather than a feed.

Starting over isn't going backwards. It's going again, with more information.

Thanks for being here. Pull up a chair.