If you gave me a time machine, you might expect me to do something meaningful. Something noble. Perhaps I’d pop back and deliver a timely warning about antibiotics, or nobble Hitler before he got going. Maybe I’d whisper in Marie Curie’s ear about lab safety, or convince a young Elon Musk to take up bee-keeping. Honestly, the possibilities are endless for the morally upright, culturally aware, and heroically-inclined.

But no. I would do none of those things.

Because I am not history’s hero. I am a woman with a grudge, a strong sense of aesthetics, and several unresolved issues involving hats. I bring chaos, commentary, and occasionally, scented soap.

The first time I use the time machine, I appear in the Tudor court. Henry VIII is mid-rant—something about wives, or wars, or gout. I don’t listen. I walk up to him and slap him. Not hard enough to get executed, but firmly enough to see the disbelief bloom on his jowly face. Then I vanish. No one remembers my name, but ballads are written about the mysterious woman in sensible boots who struck the king and disappeared into thin air. Centuries later, historians will refer to it only as “The Incident.”

Afterwards, I hang around in the Tudor kitchens and teach a scullery maid how to make Yorkshire pudding properly. It’s my legacy.

My second trip lands me in a Regency milliner’s shop. There are feathers. Ribbons. Entire birds. I don’t browse—I claim. A bonnet so structurally implausible it may have its own postcode. I stroll back into 2025 wearing it like a crown. A man in Greggs dares to snigger. I raise a single eyebrow, and he apologises to me and the hat.

Later, someone on TikTok tries to copy the look. They fail. I win. The hat is immortalised in a museum as “uncategorisably iconic.”

For my third trip, I crash a 1920s house party. Jazz is playing. Everyone’s drunk on bathtub gin and self-importance. I float around the room making biting observations about stock portfolios and poor foundation coverage. When asked what I do, I say I’m from the future and here to judge. I eat five devilled eggs, critique a flapper’s hemline, and leave without saying goodbye.

Just before I go, I whisper into the ear of one wealthy heir: “Invest in cats. Not stocks. Cats.”

He does. History records him as the founder of the world’s first feline retirement village. You’re welcome.

In the Middle Ages, I arrive with a single bar of lavender soap and instantly achieve godlike status. I do not share the soap. I offer no explanations. I simply glide through villages smelling like a summer meadow while everyone else smells like wet turnip and regret. People bow. Someone offers me a goat. I graciously accept.

Later, I sell tiny chunks of the soap in exchange for ale, gossip, and aggressively large candles. I’m declared a saint. A minor one, but still.

I return to the 13th century again, this time to scribble nonsense in the margins of important documents. “Greg owes everyone sheep” appears in the Domesday Book. No one knows who Greg is. That’s the point. History students centuries later lose sleep over it.

I also sneak a limerick into a monastery scroll and sign it “Dave.” Monks are confused. Theologians argue about it for decades. I watch from the shadows with a pork pie and a satisfied smile.

And yes, I return to 2022. Not to change global events, but to stop my colleague Karen from making the tea. I intercept her at the kettle. “Milk last, Karen,” I whisper, like a caffeinated ghost. She looks confused. I vanish before she can ruin the Earl Grey. The timeline is improved.

Office morale increases by 4%. Karen mysteriously starts bringing biscuits to meetings. She doesn’t know why. She just feels it’s right.

In Victorian England, I attend a séance. Everyone holds hands. The medium asks if a spirit is with us. I answer. “Yes. And she says your wallpaper is tacky.” I knock over a candlestick for dramatic effect and vanish in a cloud of flour and stage fright. The medium gives up the trade the next day.

Before I leave, I whisper “Invest in central heating” into the ear of a nearby engineer. He nods, uncertainly. I feel good about that one.

My final journey is small, personal. I go back to 2013, to a house party where I am three proseccos deep and about to say the words “cheeky naan.” I stop myself. I look myself in the eye and gently shake my head. No one hears. But I feel the timeline shudder slightly with relief.

In that altered timeline, I leave the party with dignity intact, no curry-related shame, and a firm plan to ghost everyone I met that night. My future is quieter, but less cringe.

Would I stop a war? No. Would I rebrand historical hygiene as a capitalist opportunity? Absolutely. Would I single-handedly confuse entire eras with side-eyes, scented toiletries, and petty edits to key documents? Naturally.

I don’t use the time machine wisely. But I use it well.

And if anyone in 1427 tells you about a woman who arrived, critiqued their cloak, took their cat, and left—yes. That was me. And no, I’m not giving the cat back. She came willingly, and her name is Geraldine now.

You’ll find us in the 18th century, probably insulting wigs and drinking port behind a hedge.

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Kerry Freeman

Born and raised in Sheffield, Kerry Freeman is an unrepentant tea addict, cat enthusiast, and lifelong expert in the art of looking busy while doing the bare minimum. By day, she works as a minion in a government department (no, not one of the cute yellow ones with dungarees). By night, she brings her wicked sense of humour to untypicable.co.uk as an occasional contributor, where she fearlessly tackles life’s nonsense with sharp wit, historical references, and the occasional inappropriate joke.

Kerry has no children (by choice, obviously), but she does have a cat, which is basically the same thing but with more attitude and fewer school runs. When she’s not writing, you’ll probably find her at a historical re-enactment, enthusiastically pretending she’s living in another century—preferably one with fewer emails and better hats.

In a world obsessed with identity labels, personality quizzes, zodiac signs, and spending 45 minutes choosing between 300 varieties of oat milk, a simple question haunts me: am I autistic, or am I really just a cat?

Stick with me. It’s not as daft as it sounds. (Or perhaps it is, but that’s very on-brand for untypicable.) After all, stranger things have happened. Somewhere right now, there’s probably a man in Croydon who genuinely believes he’s a Victorian lamplighter reincarnated. Compared to that, feline confusion is practically sensible.

Signs Point to Cat

Let’s start with the evidence. I enjoy solitude with a level of commitment that would make a hermit blush. I despise loud noises—fireworks, doorbells, overenthusiastic humans—all equally unacceptable. I routinely stare into the middle distance contemplating the futility of existence, preferably from a perch slightly higher than everyone else.

I will accept social interaction, but only on my terms and preferably when it involves someone scratching my head and telling me I’m clever (words of affirmation are my love language; actual physical affection, less so). Also, if you rearrange my environment without consulting me, I will sulk about it for a minimum of 48 hours, adding passive-aggressive side-eye for emphasis.

Additionally, I have an alarmingly specific routine: wake up, stare into the abyss, coffee, ignore humanity, nap, repeat. If my routine is disrupted, I may react dramatically—perhaps with a metaphorical hiss, or by knocking metaphorical (or actual) mugs off the metaphorical (or literal) table. There may also be tactical retreating under a metaphorical bed.

If that’s not cat behaviour, I don’t know what is. I’m practically one dramatic flounce away from demanding my own heated windowsill.

Signs Point to Autism

On the other paw—I mean, hand—there are a few things that suggest I’m not merely feline. For instance, I didn’t learn to purr (although, after particularly good coffee or the discovery of a new stationery shop, I do make a small, involuntary chirrup). My brain is wired a little differently: I experience sensory information with the intensity of someone who has had every sense turned up to eleven.

I have a collection of “special interests” that could rival a Victorian butterfly collector—intense, specific, and lovingly categorised. I struggle with the subtle art of interpreting sarcasm unless it’s delivered with the grace of a sledgehammer and a neon sign. I rehearse conversations in my head like I’m directing a Shakespearean tragedy, only to forget all my lines when the moment actually arrives.

These are, as any diagnostic manual will tell you, textbook characteristics of autism.

But… have you ever met a cat who does get sarcasm? Or one that doesn’t immediately take offence when you dare suggest they are not, in fact, the supreme overlords of the known universe?

Exactly.

The Venn Diagram is a Circle

At this point, it’s clear that autism and “being a cat” share a worrying amount of overlap. Strict routines? Check. Aversion to bright lights and sudden noises? Check. Strongly preferring one’s own company to the frenetic chaos of society? Double check, and throw in a nap. Bonus points for disliking being stared at for too long.

Perhaps the only real difference is that cats don’t have to fill out an 87-page Access Needs Assessment to be permitted to have their special blanket at university. Nor do they have to smile awkwardly through team-building exercises, desperately longing for a quiet room and a snack.

And honestly, if a cat ever had to navigate the average university seminar—full of tangents, off-topic debates, and the occasional smell of soggy sandwiches—they’d probably opt to fake their own death within minutes.

Important Disclaimer About Dogs

At this point, I must clarify that while I identify strongly with cat behaviour, I do, in fact, like dogs. Quite a lot, actually. Especially mine, who I sometimes suspect has undiagnosed ADHD. (Jokingly. Mostly. Although if you’ve ever seen him chase his own tail for ten consecutive minutes before forgetting why he entered the room, you’d understand my suspicions.)

He’s all enthusiasm, zero executive functioning, and a genuine joy to behold. Perhaps he, too, is asking himself existential questions—”Am I a dog, or am I a slightly malfunctioning tumble dryer?”

Diagnosis: Schrodinger’s Autistic Cat

Maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m neither. Maybe I’m a neurodivergent human who has simply unlocked the ancient, sacred knowledge of cats: that the world is often too loud, too bright, and too demanding, and that sometimes the correct response is to knock things over, vanish into the airing cupboard, and take a nap in a sunbeam.

If you’re reading this and relating a little too hard, you might be wondering the same thing. That’s OK. Whether you’re autistic, a cat, a neurospicy human with excellent taste in personal boundaries, or something beautifully in-between, there’s no wrong way to exist. (Unless you’re a pigeon. Then you’re just wrong. And probably judging me from the windowsill right now.)

So the next time someone questions your quirks, just stare at them unblinkingly, yawn, walk away, and maybe knock over a pencil on the way out for good measure. If nothing else, it’ll leave them suitably unnerved and wondering what ancient power you wield.

untypicable: your trusted source for all the existential dilemmas, imaginary diagnoses, and self-indulgent ramblings you didn’t realise you needed…

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AJ Wright

AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.

As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.

AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.

For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.  Also a contributor at Thinking Sociologically.

untypicable.co.uk

At first, it seems innocent enough. You spot the neighbour’s cat strolling across your garden like it owns the place. You think, “Ah, how cute,” and maybe even give it a little wave like an idiot. Next thing you know, you’re standing at your back door at 7 AM, dutifully providing Dreamies to an animal that isn’t even yours. Congratulations. You are now employed—by the cat.

Neighbourhood cats have a special kind of power. Unlike dogs, who greet everyone with the boundless enthusiasm of an over-caffeinated toddler, cats operate with quiet authority. They don’t demand your affection outright. They make you offer it, and then they’ll consider whether you’re worthy. They establish rules you don’t remember agreeing to. They take over entire streets without a single formal announcement. And, just like any workplace boss, they maintain an air of mystery, keeping you guessing about what they actually want.

The Job Description You Never Applied For

The role of “unwitting cat assistant” comes with a range of duties. These include but are not limited to:

• Being available at all hours for door duty. The cat will sit outside your window, staring at you in a way that suggests you have precisely ten seconds to open the door before legal action is taken. Once you comply, they will decide they don’t actually want to come in. This is a test of your patience.
• Providing food despite them having their own home. The neighbour’s cat has food. You know they have food. And yet, through a carefully choreographed display of hunger—complete with plaintive meows and slow blinks—they have convinced you that their owner has cruelly abandoned them and only you can prevent feline starvation.
• Accepting their impromptu performance reviews. Unlike human bosses, who schedule annual appraisals, the neighbour’s cat delivers constant feedback on your performance. Ignored their presence? Expect a disdainful stare. Took too long to open the door? A tail flick of disappointment. Gave them inferior treats? A slow walk away, without so much as a backward glance.
• Handling urgent, last-minute requests. You’ll be halfway through something important when you hear it: the noise. A gentle but persistent scratching at your door, followed by a perfectly timed meow. The cat would like attention, immediately. You, foolish employee that you are, will oblige.

The Salary Is Non-Existent, But the Perks Are Unclear

What do you get in return for your unwavering service? Not money, that’s for sure. Instead, the cat will bestow occasional, unpredictable rewards:

• A single moment of begrudging affection. Maybe—maybe—one day, they’ll allow you the honour of scratching their head, at a precise angle they deem acceptable. Do it incorrectly and you’ll be placed on a temporary performance improvement plan (i.e., ignored for three days).
• A dead mouse. This is both a gift and a warning.
• The chance to feel needed, but never important. The cat might acknowledge your existence when it suits them. But let’s be clear: you are not a priority. If another neighbour provides better snacks, you’ll be discarded like last week’s litter tray.

The Mystery of Their Actual Home

One of the defining characteristics of a good boss is the ability to remain elusive, and the neighbour’s cat has perfected this. You think you know where they live, but do you? Have you ever actually seen them inside their supposed home? Or are they simply drifting between houses, collecting paychecks in the form of food and belly rubs?

Their real owner probably assumes they’re sleeping in a sunbeam somewhere, while in reality, they’re patrolling half the neighbourhood, maintaining an iron grip on their empire.

You Work for Them, Not the Other Way Around

The biggest sign that you’re under the rule of a feline overlord is that you keep justifying their behaviour. “Oh, he’s got such a strong personality,” you say, as the cat refuses to acknowledge you for the fourth time that week. “She’s just very independent,” you murmur, as she aggressively swipes at your shoelace for no reason. These are not excuses. These are corporate survival techniques. You have been trained.

The truth is, the neighbour’s cat is not just a cat. It is your boss. It sets the rules, enforces them arbitrarily, and demands loyalty in exchange for fleeting approval. And like any employee desperately seeking validation, you will continue to serve, hoping—just hoping—that one day, they might sit on your lap and truly appreciate you.

But they won’t. Because they’re a cat. And they’ve got a business to run.

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Dwight Warner

Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.

With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.

Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.

If cats could talk, they wouldn’t. Not because they lack opinions—on the contrary, their smug silence suggests they’re brimming with them—but because they’ve perfected the art of saying nothing and leaving us to fill in the gaps. This alone qualifies them as philosophers, and possibly the most accomplished ones in existence.

Think about it. While we busy ourselves with work, worry, and wondering if we locked the door, cats spend their days perched on windowsills, gazing into the middle distance as if unravelling the secrets of the universe. What are they thinking? Are they reflecting on the futility of existence? Planning their next act of mischief? Or simply deciding whether they can be bothered to move?

Take the classic “cat nap.” Humans might strive for mindfulness through meditation apps and guided breathing, but cats don’t need any of that nonsense. They stretch out in a sunbeam, close their eyes, and exist. No worries about bills, no existential crises over whether they’re fulfilling their potential—just pure, unadulterated relaxation. If Epicurus were alive today, he’d probably be purring contentedly next to them, sharing a nap and a dream about an endless supply of tuna.

Cats are also masters of the contemplative stare. You know the one. They’ll fix their gaze on a blank wall for hours, their pupils narrowing slightly as if they’re communing with a higher power—or perhaps just judging the quality of your paintwork. It’s the sort of intensity that would make Nietzsche himself shuffle nervously in his chair. “If you gaze long into the abyss,” he said, “the abyss also gazes into you.” Cats, of course, have been doing this for centuries, only they call it “Tuesday.”

And then there’s their unapologetic indifference. Humans fret endlessly about being liked, being productive, or being on time. Cats, on the other hand, couldn’t care less. They don’t pander. They don’t compromise. If a cat sits on your lap, it’s not because they adore you—it’s because you’re warm and they’ve decided you’ll do. If they knock a glass off the table, it’s not an accident; it’s a philosophical statement. “What happens if I push this?” they seem to ask. “Ah. Gravity.” Their disdain for rules and consequences is almost inspiring, if slightly expensive.

Of course, no discussion of feline philosophy would be complete without the infamous “zoomies.” Just when you think your cat is the picture of serenity, they’ll launch into an inexplicable 3 a.m. sprint through the house, knocking over plants and startling half-asleep humans. This chaotic burst of energy is the cat equivalent of existential rebellion. “Life is fleeting!” they seem to shout, as they skid across the laminate flooring. “Let’s run while we still can!” It’s hard not to admire the enthusiasm, even as you’re picking up the remains of your favourite lamp.

Yet, for all their wisdom, cats remind us that life isn’t just about thinking—it’s about doing. Sure, they might ponder the mysteries of existence while lounging on your clean laundry, but they also find immense joy in the simplest things. A flickering laser pointer. A rogue shoelace. The crinkly delights of an empty cardboard box. Cats live in the moment, chasing their happiness (even if it’s literally unattainable) and reminding us to do the same.

So next time your cat stretches out on your favourite chair, staring at you as if to say, “What are you going to do about it?” take a moment to reflect. Maybe they’re more than just furry little tyrants with a penchant for tuna. Maybe they’re philosophers, quietly teaching us to embrace stillness, pursue joy, and occasionally knock something off the table just to see what happens. After all, life’s too short not to indulge in a little chaos.

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Dwight Warner

Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.

With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.

Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.

Ah, Christmas. The season of joy, goodwill, and the inevitable destruction of all things shiny and festive by your feline overlord. If you’re a cat owner living in a flat that feels like it was designed for the Borrowers, you face a unique set of challenges during the holidays. How do you inject some holiday spirit into your tiny home without your murderous fluff-ball turning it into a war zone? Fear not, brave flat-dweller. With some cunning tactics and a pinch of humour, you can have a Christmas worth remembering (or surviving).

The Battle of the Christmas Tree

For most people, a Christmas tree is the centrepiece of festive decorating. For you, it’s an open invitation for your cat to unleash chaos. In a flat the size of a shoebox, a full-sized tree is impractical anyway, so embrace alternatives that work with your space—and against your cat’s schemes.

The wall-mounted tree is a minimalist’s dream and a cat owner’s saviour. With a little washi tape, fairy lights, or garlands, you can create a festive tree shape on the wall. No floor space required, and more importantly, no tree trunk for your cat to climb. If you’re attached to the idea of a traditional tree, opt for a tabletop version placed on a high, stable surface. Just be prepared for your cat to spend Christmas trying to prove they can defy gravity.

Baubles, Tinsel, and Other Shiny Victims

Cats and shiny objects are a terrible combination, like toddlers and permanent markers. The moment you dangle a bauble, it transforms into an irresistible target. The solution? Elevate your ornaments—literally. Place them on shelves, curtain rods, or even inside clear jars to keep them out of reach.

As for tinsel, just say no. It’s flashy, flimsy, and practically begging to be eaten, resulting in a festive trip to the vet. Instead, swap it for fabric garlands or paper chains, which are less tempting and far safer. If you really must add a touch of shimmer, try placing reflective decorations behind glass doors where your cat can admire them safely—like a furry magpie at the British Museum.

The Fairy Light Dilemma

Fairy lights are the bread and butter of Christmas décor, but they also happen to be electrified cat toys. The trick is to use them strategically. Battery-powered lights are your best friend in a small flat, eliminating the tripping hazard of long cords and making it harder for your cat to create their own DIY fireworks display.

Wrap the lights around furniture edges or secure them behind bookshelves for a soft, cat-proof glow. You can also pop them into mason jars or lanterns for a chic look that says, “I tried to be festive, but my cat is a terrorist.”

Distract, Divert, and Decoy

If there’s one thing every cat owner knows, it’s that you can’t stop a cat from doing something—it only makes them want it more. Instead, embrace the power of distraction. Create a “decoy” festive zone just for your cat, complete with crinkly wrapping paper, a cardboard box disguised as a present, and maybe a sprinkle of catnip for good measure.

Your cat will be too busy dismantling their own version of Christmas to notice the tree you’ve painstakingly decorated on the other side of the room. (Note: This is not foolproof. Cats are smarter than they look.)

Space-Saving Cheer for Shoebox Living

Decorating a tiny flat is a challenge even without the added complication of a homicidal cat. You need decorations that are compact, functional, and capable of withstanding a feline onslaught. Opt for lightweight wreaths and garlands that can be hung on doors or along walls without cluttering precious surfaces. Flameless candles are another must-have for tiny flats. Not only are they safer than real candles (especially with cats around), but they also create a warm, festive glow without the risk of accidental arson.

For the truly ambitious, consider crafting your own mini winter wonderland. Place tiny figurines or decorations inside a glass jar or terrarium. It’s festive, adorable, and nearly impossible for your cat to destroy—unless they develop opposable thumbs, in which case we’re all doomed.

Finding Joy in the Chaos

Let’s be honest: no matter how carefully you decorate, your cat will find a way to wreak havoc. They’ll chew the fairy lights, knock the baubles off the shelf, and give you that smug, self-satisfied look that says, “This is my flat, you just pay the rent.” But isn’t that part of the charm of having a cat?

Christmas with a homicidal cat in a tiny flat isn’t about creating the perfect Pinterest-worthy holiday setup. It’s about leaning into the chaos, laughing at the carnage, and appreciating the small victories—like the moment you manage to hang a bauble without it being immediately swiped to the floor.

Conclusion

In the end, decorating for Christmas in a shoebox-sized flat with a murderous cat is less about achieving perfection and more about surviving the season with your sanity (mostly) intact. Embrace the creative solutions, laugh at the inevitable destruction, and remember: the true spirit of Christmas isn’t in the decorations but in the joy of spending time with loved ones—even if one of them is actively trying to sabotage your efforts.

Now, pour yourself a glass of mulled wine, sit back, and enjoy the sight of your cat plotting their next move. Merry Christmas!

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Dwight Warner

Dwight Warner is the quintessential oddball Brit, with a weirdly American-sounding name, who has a knack for turning the mundane into the extraordinary. Hailing originally from London, now living in the sleepy depths of Lincolnshire but claiming an allegiance to the absurd, Dwight has perfected the art of finding the surreal in real life. Whether it’s a spirited rant about the philosophical implications of queueing or a deep dive into why tea tastes better in a mug older than you, his blogs blur the line between the abstract and the everyday.

With an irreverent wit and a penchant for tangents that somehow come full circle, Dwight Warner doesn’t just write; he performs on the page. His humour is both sharp and delightfully nonsensical, like Monty Python met your nosiest neighbour and they decided to co-write a diary.

Known for being gregarious, Dwight is the life of any (real or metaphorical) party, whether he’s deconstructing the existential crisis of mismatched socks or sharing his inexplicable theories about why pigeons are secretly running the economy.

A larger-than-life personality with a laugh as loud as his opinions, Dwight Warner invites readers to step into a world where everything’s slightly askew—and that’s exactly how he likes it.