Nigel

I’m not negative. I’m realistic, letting past disappointments set future expectations. My speciality is lowering expectations to a basement level where reality can finally surprise you by being merely adequate. That’s not pessimism. That’s hope management.

It runs in the family. Mum knitted jumpers that stretched as soon as you put them on. Dad kept spare batteries in the fridge “just in case the sun goes out.” I grew up understanding that joy is a volatile substance that should be handled with safety gloves.

Consider my friend’s wedding. Everyone toasted to “eternal bliss.” I stood in the back calculating the statistical probability of cohabitation fatigue. When they had their first fight over loading the dishwasher, I didn’t say “I told you so.” I just sent them a spreadsheet on chore division. It saved the marriage. Romance is fine, but logistics are forever.

I do enjoy things. I like lukewarm tea, the smell of old books, and the moment a printer actually works on the first try. I suspect the universe gives us these moments to lull us into a false sense of security, but I appreciate them anyway.

In meetings, when someone says, “Let’s stay positive,” I take a slow sip of my lukewarm tea and say, “Or we can be realistic.” People pretend to dislike that, but we all know it’s for their own good.

Friends come to me when they want honesty without theatrics. I won’t sugar-coat anything—sugar attracts ants—but I will tell you the thing you already know in a way that makes it feel survivable. We nod. We sigh. The world keeps spinning.

I’m not here to ruin your day. I’m here to hand you a helmet so you don’t get a concussion when reality hits.