I have worked with enough people to know two things.

First, offices are not professional environments. They are adult kennels with spreadsheets.

Second, every colleague you have ever had can be accurately described as a dog breed. Sometimes this is flattering. Sometimes it explains why they respond to emails at 11:47pm with the emotional intensity of a border dispute.

This is not judgement. This is classification. A public service. A small attempt to impose order on the strange ecosystem we have built around Teams meetings, vending machines, and the shared delusion of “circling back”.

What follows is a workplace performance review of the twelve most common canine colleagues.

1. The Labrador Retriever (The People-Pleasing Generalist)

The Labrador is the colleague who replies first, volunteers immediately, and somehow ends up owning half the department’s workload out of sheer friendliness.

They will say “happy to help” even when they are clearly not happy and do not have the time.

Strengths: dependable, kind, universally liked. Will fetch anything you throw at them, including other people’s responsibilities.

Risks: cannot say no. Slight tendency to burn out quietly while assuring everyone they are “fine”.

Dwight’s note: The Labrador is the reason management believes understaffing is sustainable.

2. The Border Collie (The High-Functioning Overachiever)

The Border Collie has colour-coded spreadsheets, an alarm for “deep work”, and the slightly haunted eyes of someone who has never truly relaxed.

They are always early. They always have an agenda. They treat every project like a sheep-herding problem, and they will herd you if you let them.

Strengths: output, speed, precision. If work were oxygen, the Border Collie would be able to breathe underwater.

Risks: cannot switch off. Will reorganise your work “to help” and then look surprised when you become passive-aggressive.

Dwight’s note: The Border Collie’s idea of a break is making a second spreadsheet about the first spreadsheet.

3. The German Shepherd (The Policy and Security Person)

The German Shepherd knows the rules, knows why the rules exist, and will remind you of them at the exact moment you attempt to do something informal.

They sit in meetings like a bouncer with a clipboard.

Strengths: protective, conscientious, dependable. Excellent in a crisis. Will guard the team from nonsense.

Risks: can drift into suspicion. Not a natural fan of “fun” or “creative ambiguity”.

Dwight’s note: The German Shepherd has never said “we’ll just see how it goes” without visibly flinching.

4. The Jack Russell Terrier (The Chaos Starter)

The Jack Russell is small, fearless, and powered entirely by adrenaline and spite.

They will start debates in the group chat “for clarity” and then refuse to let them die.

Strengths: energy, bravery, the ability to ask questions everyone else is too polite to ask.

Risks: cannot drop anything. Ever. Will chase minor issues into the ground until everyone is exhausted.

Dwight’s note: If you think there isn’t a Jack Russell in your team, you are the Jack Russell.

5. The Golden Retriever (The Culture Ambassador)

The Golden Retriever is the colleague who keeps morale alive through sheer warmth. They organise birthdays, remember your dog’s name, and manage to sound genuinely pleased to see you at 9am.

Strengths: team cohesion, kindness, and the rare ability to make people feel included.

Risks: optimism can become a coping mechanism. Sometimes weaponised positivity appears: “We’ve got this!” (We do not have this.)

Dwight’s note: The Golden Retriever is why your workplace still occasionally feels like a community rather than a holding pen.

6. The Dachshund (The Passive-Aggressive Specialist)

The Dachshund is small, smart, and has an excellent memory for slights.

They will not argue. They will simply store resentment in a private archive and release it later as a polite email with sharp edges.

Strengths: detail-oriented, loyal, quietly competent.

Risks: grudges. Also, a strong attachment to being right.

Dwight’s note: If a message begins with “Just to clarify…” the Dachshund has already chosen violence.

7. The French Bulldog (The Vibes-Only Colleague)

The French Bulldog is always present, always charming, and somehow never the person responsible for the difficult bit.

They contribute morale more than labour. They are excellent at saying “that’s wild” while everyone else is drowning.

Strengths: lifts the mood. Great at softening tension. Often beloved.

Risks: a surprising absence of output. Frequently “in a meeting”. Sometimes breathes like an unplugged vacuum cleaner.

Dwight’s note: If the French Bulldog left tomorrow, the team would miss them. Also, some work might finally get done.

8. The Siberian Husky (The Dramatic Remote Worker)

The Husky communicates like they are narrating an epic saga.

They will join calls with a solemn face and announce, “Right. So. I have concerns.” Then they will describe a small issue as if it threatens civilisation.

Strengths: charisma, boldness, honesty. Not afraid of conflict.

Risks: volume. Drama. The tendency to turn every minor inconvenience into an event.

Dwight’s note: The Husky could make “the printer is jammed” feel like a national emergency.

9. The Poodle (The Polished Operator)

The Poodle always looks composed. Even when everything is collapsing, they speak calmly and write emails that somehow turn catastrophe into “an opportunity to realign priorities”.

They are often client-facing, stakeholder-facing, or management-facing, because they can translate chaos into something that sounds intentional.

Strengths: presentation, diplomacy, calm under pressure.

Risks: occasionally prioritises the narrative over the reality. Can drift into style over substance.

Dwight’s note: The Poodle can make failure sound like strategy. This is both a skill and a threat.

10. The Cocker Spaniel (The Enthusiastic Collaborator)

The Cocker Spaniel is friendly, eager, and always keen to be involved. They reply quickly, volunteer often, and bring a real sense of “we’re in this together”.

Then they get distracted.

Strengths: warmth, collaboration, energy. Brilliant in brainstorms.

Risks: focus is optional. Prone to side quests. Will start five things and finish three.

Dwight’s note: The Cocker Spaniel will ask how you are, mean it sincerely, and then forget what you said because something shiny happened.

11. The Greyhound (The Silent High Performer)

The Greyhound does two hours of extraordinary work and then disappears.

They are not interested in meetings, politics, or “visibility”. They want clear tasks, minimal interference, and the freedom to vanish into quiet.

Strengths: speed, efficiency, results.

Risks: can be hard to locate. Often assumed to be “not engaged” because they are not performing enthusiasm.

Dwight’s note: The Greyhound is a reminder that productivity and busyness are not the same thing.

12. The Shih Tzu (The Middle-Management Aesthete)

The Shih Tzu is immaculate. Their desk is tidy. Their emails are well formatted. Their calendar has “focus blocks” and they will defend them like territory.

They care deeply about process, tone, and looking professional. They also have a stubborn core that refuses to be rushed.

Strengths: polish, consistency, standards. Will stop the team from descending into chaos.

Risks: resists change. Can become the person who blocks a good idea because “that’s not how we do it”.

Dwight’s note: The Shih Tzu will approve your work, but they will also reword your subject line.

A Kennel With KPIs

Every team contains a mix of breeds. This is healthy. Ecosystems require variety.

Too many Border Collies and you get burnout and resentment. Too many Labradors and you get unsustainable goodwill. Too many Jack Russells and you get constant chaos. Too many French Bulldogs and you get vibes with no deliverables.

The secret is balance. A Labrador to keep the peace. A Border Collie to get it done. A German Shepherd to prevent disaster. A Golden to stop everyone from quitting. A Greyhound to deliver quietly. A Dachshund to remember what went wrong.

And, inevitably, a Jack Russell to pick a fight with the printer.

If you don’t know which one you are, that’s normal. Most people think they’re a calm Poodle and are, in practice, a Husky in a headset.

But I will leave you with this comforting truth.

No matter how professional the workplace pretends to be, the office will always be a kennel.

The only question is whether you’re the one barking, the one fetching, or the one quietly chewing the furniture while management calls it “engagement”.

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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.

December is parcel season. For most households, that means cardboard, deliveries, and mild worry about whether the neighbours have noticed how often the vans appear.

For ours, it means something else entirely: the shih-poo and the cockerpoo have entered their busy period.

The shih-poo is an adult male with the soul of a retired headteacher. He believes in order, routine, and being the first to know about everything that happens within a 50-metre radius of his garden. The cockerpoo is a female puppy whose hobbies include joy, chaos, and chewing USB cables as if she’s trying to bring down the entire digital economy.

Between them, fixed by the back door that leads out into the garden, sits the Ring doorbell — a small piece of plastic that has somehow become the centre of their world.

The First Chime

The first time the Ring doorbell went off in December, I was in the kitchen, standing between a pan of half-committed gravy and a stack of presents I’d sworn I would wrap “properly this year”.

The familiar chime sounded: a polite digital ding-dong that, in theory, lets you calmly check who’s outside via your phone.

In practice, it triggers this:

The shih-poo launches off his bed with military urgency, nails ticking on the tiles as he charges towards the back door, barking in full caps lock. The cockerpoo detonates into kitchen cardio, doing frantic laps around the table and island like a small, furry particle escaping a collider.

By the time I’ve put the spoon down, both dogs are at the back door. The shih-poo has planted himself directly in front of it, tail up, eyes bright, conducting a full security assessment of the known universe. The cockerpoo, powered by excitement and zero braking capacity, sprints straight into the bottom of the door with an audible thunk, reverses half a step, and pretends nothing happened.

The Ring app, ever cheerful, pops up to inform me: “Someone’s at your back door,” as if this is a manageable situation.

Christmas, as Understood by a Shih-Poo

From the shih-poo’s point of view, Christmas is essentially a logistics problem. The back door is the border, and the Ring is the alert system.

When the chime sounds, he heads for the back door with the air of a man who’s just been told Ofsted are in the car park. Outside might be a delivery driver, a neighbour, a hedgehog committing crimes, or a pigeon loitering suspiciously on the fence.

It doesn’t matter what’s being delivered. He’s not interested in the contents. He is interested in process. He inspects. He sniffs. He barks a full report. He ensures that everyone — including the sparrows — knows that he is on duty.

He is, in his mind, Head of Back-Door Security. I am the admin assistant.

Christmas, as Lived by a Cockerpoo Puppy

The cockerpoo sees things differently. For her, the Ring chime is magic. She’s still young enough to believe that every sound at the back door is a personal visit from destiny.

Her internal narrative goes something like this:

Bell.
Person.
Friend.
Back door.
Oops.
Try again.

She adores the garden. She adores people. She adores anything that moves, rustles, or even thinks about being edible. At Christmas, the combination of parcels, relatives, and random outdoor activity turns the back door into her favourite theatre.

And then there are the cables.

While the shih-poo is staring intently through the glass, giving his professional verdict on whoever or whatever has dared to approach the garden, she is quietly scouting the skirting boards and sockets for unattended USB cables.

If one has been left dangling like low-hanging technological fruit, she’ll gently unhook it, carry it to her bed, and begin the delicate work of turning it from “perfectly functional charging lead” into “very expensive piece of modern art shaped like regret”.

I have learned, over time, to recognise the precise silence that means she’s got another one.

The Ring as Interactive Advent Calendar

For the dogs, the Ring isn’t just a doorbell; it’s an interactive Advent calendar, specifically calibrated to the back of the house.

Every alert is a new window into Dog Television:

A delivery driver appears at the gate, shoulders hunched against the rain, balancing three parcels and his will to live. The shih-poo barks in professional tones; the cockerpoo bounces, convinced he’s come to audition for her fan club.

A neighbour pops their head round to ask about bins. Both dogs rush to the back door, offer advice, and smear nose prints on the glass.

A hedgehog waddles across the patio at 2am. The Ring captures it in eerie night vision. The shih-poo files a formal complaint with the universe. The cockerpoo, having slept through it, spends breakfast barking at the replay.

A leaf flutters past. The Ring senses “motion”. Both dogs treat it as a full-scale breach.

Every ding has potential. In a month where humans see a never-ending to-do list, the dogs see a never-ending series of exciting episodes.

Opening the Back Door

By the time I actually reach the back door, the shih-poo is stationed directly in front of it, posture perfect, vibrational anxiety set to Medium-High. The cockerpoo is oscillating between a wobbly sit and launching herself at the door in case it’s forgotten that she exists.

I slide the key, open the door, and there it is: the standard British December back-door scene. A delivery driver in hi-vis, already halfway back up the path. A neighbour with a card. A family member holding Tupperware and looking slightly wind-blown.

The shih-poo leans forward to inhale their entire biography. The cockerpoo wriggles, determined to greet, befriend, and ideally get inside any bag that might contain food or, failing that, another cable.

I mumble the usual apologetic script:

“Hi! Sorry, they’re very excited. Yes, she did run into the door. Yes, he always looks that way. Yes, they are friendly. Eventually.”

Somehow, everyone smiles. It’s hard not to, with two dogs auditioning for the role of Festive Welcome Committee.

Life Behind the House, Post-Chime

Once the visitor has gone and the back door is shut, the kitchen slowly exhales. The shih-poo does a final circuit to check the garden is still where he left it. The cockerpoo returns to hoovering the floor for imaginary crumbs and casting speculative glances at the plug sockets for the next tasty USB-related snack.

For a moment, things calm down. The gravy is reclaimed. The presents eye me reproachfully from the table. I tell myself that next year I will definitely train them to respond calmly to the doorbell.

Then the Ring chimes again, because it’s Christmas, and parcels reproduce when your back is turned.

The shih-poo is on his feet instantly.
The cockerpoo launches into another set of kitchen zoomies, rounds the table, misjudges her stopping distance, and bounces off the back door like a rubber ball in festive pyjamas.

The app flashes up its familiar message: “Someone’s at your back door.”

I do not need telling.

Why I Secretly Love It

On paper, it’s a lot. The kitchen tiles carry the faint scuff marks of panicked paws. The back door is a gallery of nose art. I’ve bought more replacement USB cables this year than actual presents.

But the way the dogs react to that chime — especially at this time of year — is oddly contagious.

Where I hear another interruption, they hear possibility. Where I see another delivery to stash somewhere and forget about, they see the thrilling arrival of a new character. Where I hear the cold logic of a notification, they hear magic.

Someone is out there.
Something is happening.

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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

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

Dogs are delightful creatures, full of love, loyalty, and baffling quirks. Chief among these is their complete inability to understand the concept of time. My dog greets me with the same boundless enthusiasm whether I’ve popped out to the shop for eight minutes or been gone for eight hours. It’s endearing, hilarious, and sometimes downright confusing. I can’t help but wonder if he genuinely believes I’ve been off battling dragons every time I leave the house.

The moment I step through the door, it’s like I’ve returned from a six-month expedition to the Arctic. My dog sprints to greet me, tail wagging so furiously it could generate enough wind to power a small turbine. Shoes are trampled, bags are sniffed, and I’m subjected to the kind of joyful attention that would make a celebrity blush. The funniest part? All I’ve done is nip out to buy milk or walk to the bins.

Sometimes, I test the theory. I’ll leave the house, walk around the block, and come straight back. Surely he’ll realise I haven’t been gone long. But no. Every single time, he acts like I’ve been away for years, possibly planning an elaborate heist or living it up on a desert island. Does he have no sense of the ticking clock? Or does he simply measure time in moments spent with or without me?

When I return, the full-body sniff inspection begins. His nose gets to work like a highly trained detective trying to decode my absence. “Milk?” his nose seems to say. “Interesting. And why do you smell faintly of the neighbour’s cat? Have you been unfaithful?” No detail is too small for his investigative sniff, even if I’ve only been in the garden. It’s the same routine every time, and it never fails to make me laugh.

It’s not just quick trips that get this response. If I’ve been out for a full workday, he greets me with the same wild enthusiasm: wagging tail, frantic jumping, and that look in his eyes that says, “You’ve been gone forever, but I forgive you.” It’s as if time doesn’t exist for him when I’m not around. Maybe dogs truly live in the moment. Maybe he thinks I was lost at sea and miraculously found my way back home. Whatever the explanation, it’s both absurd and heartwarming.

Every time I pick up my keys, his eyes widen in panic. “You’re not really leaving, are you?” they plead. When the door closes, I imagine him flopping to the floor like a tragic poet lamenting a lost love. But when I return, he’s entirely forgotten the heartbreak. He throws himself into the joy of reunion with complete abandon, tail wagging, tongue out, utterly thrilled by my very existence. It’s a level of emotional whiplash that I, for one, could never manage.

Even if I’m just in the next room, it’s the same story. I’ll disappear into the bathroom or the shed for a moment of peace, only to re-emerge and be greeted like a returning hero. He acts as though I’ve emerged from a vortex or the Bermuda Triangle, rather than simply fetching the washing powder. Dogs clearly don’t grasp spatial awareness any better than they grasp time.

Perhaps that’s the beauty of it. Dogs don’t have clocks, calendars, or alarms. They don’t count the hours or worry about schedules. They exist in two states: “with you” and “tragically without you.” It’s not that my dog has no sense of time—it’s that his priorities are far more straightforward. And while his complete lack of temporal awareness can be hilariously frustrating, it’s also a constant reminder of his unconditional love. Whether I’m gone for eight minutes or eight hours, the joy he shows when I walk through the door is always the same.

Maybe we humans could learn a thing or two from dogs. To live in the moment. To greet our loved ones with more joy. To forget the time spent apart and focus entirely on the time we have together. My dog’s sense of time may be completely useless, but his sense of loyalty, love, and enthusiasm is spot on. And really, isn’t that what matters most?

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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