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

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There was a time when I thought walking to my own front door was a perfectly ordinary act. Innocuous. Graceful, even, if the wind was behind me and I’d remembered to zip my coat up. But that was before I installed a Ring doorbell—before my entire sense of movement, posture, and dignity was shattered by a grainy still image captured at the precise moment I looked like I was either drunkenly lunging for the letterbox or about to be raptured.

For the uninitiated, the Ring doorbell sends you notifications every time someone or something passes by. Very useful in principle. Except every one of these alerts comes with a frozen, pixelated snapshot from the video, as if it’s trying to ruin your self-esteem one frame at a time.

I’ve started to think the algorithm is sentient—not only choosing when to notify me, but carefully selecting the most unflattering still it can manage, pausing the footage at the exact millisecond when my face looks like I’ve just realised the crushing futility of existence mid-step.

How Does It Know?

It’s like being roasted by your own house.

I walk towards the door—normal posture, no crimes being committed. I’m holding a parcel. I’ve done nothing wrong. But by the time Ring has captured me, frozen me, and served me up as a push notification on my own phone, I look like:

• I’ve just sneezed while being tasered.
• I’m in the middle of a courtroom objection.
• Or I’m delivering a Shakespearean soliloquy to the wheelie bin.

Once, it caught me with one leg mid-air and both arms half-raised, like a confused scarecrow attempting yoga. Another time, I opened the front gate and the still image made me look like I was attacking my own fence. I had to show it to someone to confirm I was, in fact, just trying to carry a Sainsbury’s bag. They were not convinced.

The Unflattering Science of the Mid-Motion Freeze

Here’s the thing: the Ring doorbell doesn’t show you a flattering video preview like you might get on FaceTime, where you can smile and wave and mentally prepare for the horror of your own face. No. Ring goes full paparazzi on you. It waits until you’re mid-blink, mid-turn, mid-nose-scratch, then clicks the shutter like a cruel caricature artist with a personal grudge.

And it’s not just me. Friends, neighbours, delivery drivers—no one is safe. I once got a notification for “Motion Detected” and the image was of the postman bent down, but the still made it look like he was kneeling solemnly in grief. Another showed a neighbour with their mouth open mid-yawn, hands half-raised like they were surrendering to a local cat.

What’s more—Ring keeps these images. As if we’ll want to lovingly revisit that time we looked like a haunted Victorian child startled by the modern world.

This Is My Legacy Now

The worst part? These stills are how my phone now sees me. My daily relationship with my own front door is a cycle of:

1. Doing something ordinary.
2. Being filmed like I’m on an awkward hidden-camera show.
3. Being notified of it via a thumbnail that makes me question whether I’ve ever stood like a human being.

It’s made me weirdly self-conscious. I now walk up to my own door as if I’m being judged on Strictly Come Doorbell. Slow, measured steps. No sudden movements. Smile, but not too much. Don’t blink. Don’t look at the camera. Keep your arms loose but not weirdly floppy.

Naturally, the result is that I look even more unhinged. The most recent still made me look like I was stalking my own letterbox, one eye open wider than the other like I’d just remembered I left the hob on.

Certainly! Here’s the additional section added to the article with James’ signature wit and exasperation:

The Evolution of Humiliation

Just when you thought the still image humiliation was the worst it could get, Ring upped the ante. Gone are the days of a single frozen frame of you mid-blink, mid-lurch, or mid-existential collapse—now we’re blessed with animated previews.

Yes. It moves now.

Now you can watch yourself walk, in glorious, stuttery, surveillance-chic motion. A two-second loop of shame featuring you awkwardly fumbling with your keys, sniffing audibly, tripping on the step, or doing that weird over-smiley wave you thought looked friendly but now comes across as mildly unhinged.

The GIF format adds a whole new layer of self-loathing:

• The loop always starts at the most damning moment.
• Your face never moves naturally—just a strange jerky bobblehead effect.
• It plays on repeat, so you’re not just cringing at yourself once—you’re cringing 20 times in 30 seconds while you decide whether to delete it or show a mate for a laugh.

Ring hasn’t made this better. It’s simply made it animated. Like a cartoon version of yourself caught mid-existential crisis.

It’s as if Ring asked:
“How can we preserve the emotional discomfort of a still photo, but make it loop, so the shame never ends?”

Mission accomplished.

Conclusion: It’s Me, I’m the Intruder

The truly existential bit comes when Ring notifies me with a message like:
“Someone is at your door.”

And it’s me.

But the image is so unsettling that for a split second, I don’t recognise myself.
“Who’s that?” I think. “Why is that person sneaking up the drive like a cursed AI model trying to pass as human?”

Then I realise:
It’s me, walking like a normal person.

Or at least, it was.
Until Ring got involved.

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James Henshaw

James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.

Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.

A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.

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