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  • Nursery, Part 1

    Illustrated seaside lighthouse converted into a children’s nursery, with cutaway floors showing play, reading and nap rooms, surrounded by a garden, playground and calm blue sea.
    August 28, 2026

    Term starts in a few weeks and I am only now starting to look, which is about as late as a person can leave this.

    Nothing is decided. My wife and I have not agreed on it, I have not agreed with myself on it, and the honest position is that we do not know whether our little boy is going at all.

    We are considering it because our schedules have closed in on us, because there is a lot happening at once, and because the arrangement we have been running is starting to show its cracks. I wish we did not have to think about it. But we do.

    Which sent me looking for an answer to what I assumed was a simple question.

    At what age should a child start nursery?

    I expected a number. Eighteen months. Two years. Three years.

    I did not get one.

    First problem: the words

    Four terms get used interchangeably here and they do not mean the same thing.

    Daycare is the one Kuwait does not really have, and I miss it. When I was studying abroad, I dropped my eldest off, he stayed the two hours I was there, and I collected him. No uniform, no schedule, no commitment. It solved a problem without asking you to restructure your life around it.

    Nursery, or حضانة, is group care for the under-threes. Meals, sleep, play, nappies, a routine. Care first, with some learning attached depending on the place.

    Preschool is for children from around three and is more openly educational, though a good one is still mostly play rather than sitting at desks.

    And then Montessori, which is worth explaining, because almost nobody using the word here means anything by it.

    Maria Montessori was an Italian doctor who opened a childcare centre in a poor district of Rome in 1907. What she developed is not a vibe. It is a demanding method. A fixed set of materials used in a fixed sequence, each designed to be self-correcting so the child finds the mistake rather than the teacher. Mixed ages, usually across three years. A long uninterrupted work period, around three hours, where nobody is moved on by a bell. The adult observes rather than instructs. No grades, no stickers, no prizes.

    That takes a trained teacher a year or two of study to run properly.

    Now the marketing part. In 1967 the US Patent Office ruled the word Montessori is generic and cannot be trademarked. Anybody can paint it on a sign tomorrow and owe nothing to anyone. In the United States, of roughly four thousand schools using the name, only about a quarter have any affiliation with a Montessori body at all.

    So here it has become a status word. We didn’t put ours in a حضانة, we put him in Montessori. As though it is a higher tier of place rather than a method a nursery either follows or does not.

    Ask the follow-up questions and it usually collapses. Are the ages mixed. Is there a three-hour work cycle. Who trained the teachers. Are the wooden materials being used in sequence, or are they on a shelf because they photograph well.

    Wooden toys and neutral colours are not the method. They are the set design.

    Which is the wider point. The sign on the door tells you almost nothing. Researchers avoid all these words entirely and use one term for everything before primary school, whatever the building calls itself.

    How young children start elsewhere

    I assumed there was general agreement that children stay home until two or three. There is not.

    Finland starts once parental leave ends, around nine or ten months. Denmark from birth. Germany from birth to three. Norway from one. And the OECD reports that in many of the systems it studied, more than half of all children are already in some form of care by two.

    So an eighteen-month-old at nursery is not unusual anywhere. That tells me it is normal. It does not tell me it is right.

    So what does the science say?

    This was the part I did not want to hear.

    There is no established best age to start nursery. I could not find good research saying a normally developing child should start at twelve months, or eighteen, or two years. That is not the question researchers are asking.

    What they ask about is quality. Hours. The relationship between the child and whoever is looking after him. How many children per adult. How much talking happens. And what the alternative at home actually looks like.

    The largest American study followed children from infancy to four and a half. Better quality care, especially care with a lot of language in it, was linked to modestly better development. But children who stayed home with their mothers did not do worse.

    That kills both arguments at once. Nursery is not necessary for a child to develop properly. Nursery is not harmful. What matters is which home and which nursery you are comparing.

    And three is not a magic number either. The evidence for good preschool does get stronger from around three, but even there the finding is not that a child needs it. It is that a good one helps. The same rule keeps applying at every age I look at.

    Which brings me back to my son

    He is not three. He is very much a toddler.

    He is still recycling the same ten words, and on some days I suspect he has decided that one word is enough and everything else can be handled through tone and facial expression. Which, to be fair, is roughly how most adults communicate anyway.

    So the question is not is nursery good, or is home good. Both can be either.

    The real one is harder.

    For a child this age, in our situation, would the nursery we can actually get be better or worse than what he would otherwise have at home?

    Which means looking honestly at both sides, rather than deciding first and hunting for research that agrees with me.

    Five parts

    Part 2, the case for. Part 3, the case against. Part 4, how to choose one, if we choose one.

    And Part 5, what we decided.

    I genuinely do not know yet which way that one ends.

    Write in the logbook
  • Inheritance

    Gouache painting of three lighthouses at different stages of age and use along a misty coastline, with two beams lit, one lighthouse unlit, and a fourth foundation barely visible in the distance.
    August 27, 2026

    It started with the Talabat driver.

    He calls, asks where the house is, and calls my son ma’am. Every single time. Different driver, same call, same ma’am.

    My eldest has not hit puberty yet, so his voice is still up there, and he had clearly had enough.

    So he dropped it.

    I heard it from the next room. The phone rang, he answered, and out came a voice about two octaves below anything he owns, saying the building name with the calm authority of a man in his forties. Then he hung up and went back to being eleven.

    Then he tried it on Alexa.

    Alexa will not let him into certain things because it can tell he is a child. His normal voice gives him away. So he used the other one.

    It worked.

    He is a tinkerer. Like me.

    I cannot leave a thing alone if it does not work properly. I see a problem and my hands start moving before my brain has decided whether they should.

    That is exactly what happened here. He did not complain. He did not ask me to fix it. He did not argue with the driver or file it under things that are simply how they are.

    He found the one thing he could change, and changed it. In about four seconds.

    Nobody taught him that. There was no lesson. He has just spent eleven years watching a man take things apart.

    And the little one is at it too

    Eighteen months old, about ten words, and on some days one.

    Which I had assumed was a delay. It is not. It is a decision.

    He has looked at the problem every adult struggles with, which is how to communicate a great deal while doing as little as possible, and concluded that one word plus a tone plus a face will cover most situations.

    And he is right. It does.

    Which makes me think about what my mother gave me

    القناعة

    She handed it over the way a torch is handed over, without ceremony and without saying anything, and I am fairly sure I was the only one who took it.

    But it did not come out of me the same way it went in. What I passed down was not القناعة. It was tinkering. Which is almost the opposite, because القناعة is being content with what is in front of you, and tinkering is refusing to leave it alone.

    So the torch changed hands and changed shape on the way.

    Maybe they will find their own way back to it, and build a version out of whatever they have lying around, the way they build everything else. Or maybe it skips them entirely and turns up in one of their children, the way it skipped everyone else and landed on me.

    Either way, I will be here.

    Because I still have my mother’s, and there is enough left to pour.

    Write in the logbook
  • Feather

    A white feather floats sharply in the foreground while a distant lighthouse stands on a rocky headland across the softly blurred sea.
    August 26, 2026

    In the adventures I run in my head, I usually play myself. Sometimes a character. Sometimes a hero, or something closer to a superhero.

    But occasionally I take on a role that is not human.

    I do it for the feeling. I want to know what an object would feel, if it could feel anything, and then I want that feeling to arrive in me.

    Sometimes I am a bird. Sometimes a dragon, and specifically Toothless, and I have never been able to work out whether I am the dragon or Hiccup, because the scene I keep going back to is the first proper flight, the one where neither of them is entirely in charge.

    Lately I have been a feather.

    You know the shot. A single feather lifted in the air, falling slowly, drifting left, then right, taking its time. And just before it reaches the ground, some force arrives from nowhere and pushes it back up again.

    That is me at the moment. Or that is what I go and be, when I need to stop deciding things.

    Because sometimes you have to go with it. Up, down, left, right.

    And letting something else take the controls is not weakness. That is the thing I keep having to relearn. There is a kind of wisdom in it, and a kind of quiet, and it costs you almost nothing. You stop spending energy on steering and the whole thing becomes lighter.

    Then it stops being falling and becomes a dance with the wind. A graceful one. More graceful than ballet, because a dancer is working. More graceful than contemporary, the kind in the Sia videos where everything is being pulled out of somebody from the inside, because that is exhausting to watch and must be worse to do.

    The feather is doing none of that. And it is more graceful than both.

    The whole of you moves. Not a part. Not an arm or a leg while the rest holds a position. All of it, all at once, in whatever direction the air decided.

    And it is not tiring, because none of it is yours.

    That is the part I like most. You are not in control. And you do not have even the smallest amount of control, not even intent. You cannot decide to go up. You cannot decide to go down. You go up because something else intended it.

    You cannot predict it either. There is no pattern. No rhythm to learn, no rule to work out, nothing to plan around.

    Just a feather.

    The world runs on effort. Do this, then that, morning shift, evening shift, study, clean, repeat. And the only thing that never has to try is the only thing that never comes down.

    A feather.

    Write in the logbook
  • Waiting

    Art Nouveau illustration of a lighthouse-shaped hourglass with golden sand falling endlessly as waves, mist, and particles circle back to the top.
    August 25, 2026

    The most constant thing a human being does is wait.

    You might think otherwise. Believe me, you are wrong.

    If you were to say thinking, then tell me what happens between one thought and the next. You wait. And when you have thought about everything there is to think about, and there is nothing left to do about any of it, you wait.

    If you were to say breathing, then breathing is just waiting with a rhythm. Inhale, wait, exhale, wait. And it is physical anyway, so it does not belong in the argument.

    Feeling. Perceiving. Wanting. Deciding. Remembering. Imagining. Hoping. Fearing.

    I have thought about all of them. And if you ask which one stretches across the largest part of a human existence, from before we understand what time is until long after this life has ended, the answer is still waiting.

    As it starts before we arrive

    Before we have a name, before anyone has seen us, we are already waiting.

    عن عبد الله بن مسعود رضي الله عنه قال: حدثنا رسول الله ﷺ وهو الصادق المصدوق:

    «إِنَّ أَحَدَكُمْ يُجْمَعُ خَلْقُهُ فِي بَطْنِ أُمِّهِ أَرْبَعِينَ يَوْمًا نُطْفَةً، ثُمَّ يَكُونُ عَلَقَةً مِثْلَ ذَلِكَ، ثُمَّ يَكُونُ مُضْغَةً مِثْلَ ذَلِكَ، ثُمَّ يُرْسَلُ إِلَيْهِ الْمَلَكُ فَيَنْفُخُ فِيهِ الرُّوحَ»

    متفق عليه — البخاري (٣٢٠٨)، مسلم (٢٦٤٣)

    Forty days, then forty, then forty. Waiting to become the next thing. Waiting for a body to finish assembling itself. Waiting for the soul. Waiting to leave a place we have never seen out of, into a world we know nothing about.

    Then we are born, and the waiting only changes shape.

    We wait to be fed. We wait to be picked up. We wait to sleep. We wait until we can crawl, then walk, then say something.

    As children we wait to be older. School to end, the weekend, the summer, Eid, the day we are allowed to stay out late. We spend the whole of childhood waiting to be adults.

    Then we become adults and find there is more of it, not less. University to end. A job. A salary. A chance. Marriage. A house. A problem to leave and something better to take its place.

    And then the circle closes.

    A husband and wife wait to know whether Allah will give them a child. Then a heartbeat. Then a kick. Then a cry. Then a smile. Then a word. Then a step.

    And the child who spent years waiting to grow up is now standing over a cot, waiting for the same thing from the other side.

    And all of it sits inside a larger wait

    Whether we think about it or not, every one of us is moving toward death.

    And death does not end it. It hands you over to the next one.

    ﴿وَمِن وَرَآئِهِم بَرْزَخٌ إِلَىٰ يَوْمِ يُبْعَثُونَ﴾

    المؤمنون: ١٠٠

    Even there, you are given something to wait for.

    عن عبد الله بن عمر رضي الله عنهما، أن رسول الله ﷺ قال:

    «إِنَّ أَحَدَكُمْ إِذَا مَاتَ عُرِضَ عَلَيْهِ مَقْعَدُهُ بِالْغَدَاةِ وَالْعَشِيِّ، إِنْ كَانَ مِنْ أَهْلِ الْجَنَّةِ فَمِنْ أَهْلِ الْجَنَّةِ، وَإِنْ كَانَ مِنْ أَهْلِ النَّارِ فَمِنْ أَهْلِ النَّارِ، فَيُقَالُ: هَذَا مَقْعَدُكَ حَتَّى يَبْعَثَكَ اللَّهُ يَوْمَ الْقِيَامَةِ»

    متفق عليه — البخاري (١٣٧٩)، مسلم (٢٨٦٦)

    You are shown where you are going, morning and evening, and then you wait to be taken there.

    And only then does the waiting that followed us the entire way finally reach what it had always been moving toward.

    الجنة أو النار

    Write in the logbook
  • Week 20 Aug 17-23 (I’m Back)

    A solitary caped figure stands on a rocky outcrop at night as a lighthouse beam shines directly toward him across the dark sea.
    August 24, 2026

    The journey started last week. The beginning.

    It is like those scenes in superhero films. The one where the hero has been hit, and beaten, and stripped of whatever made them powerful, and they are on the ground, and then it comes back.

    Sometimes it is the weapon arriving. It comes down out of the sky with lightning behind it, they catch it without looking, and the whole battlefield stops for a second.

    Sometimes it is dying first. They take the bullets, they hit the floor, everyone watching goes quiet, and then they stand back up and see the world differently to how they saw it ten seconds earlier.

    Sometimes it is being told the truth by someone older. That the power was never in the object they lost. And then the storm arrives anyway, from them, without the object.

    And sometimes it is grief. A friend dies in front of them, the ground starts shaking, the hair changes colour, and everything within fifty metres catches fire.

    But it is always the same shot. Light. Colour. An aura around them that was not there thirty seconds ago. And the eyes. The eyes go from defeated to I am back, and the film gives you a good three seconds of it before anything else happens.

    That is where I am this week.

    I can feel the aura. My eyes are doing the thing.

    No more kryptonite.

    No more Kasool sitting in the room refusing to leave.

    No more Icky on the fourth step with his bag of carrots.

    No more one more.

    And it shows up in the numbers

    Most meters filled. Most tasks done.

    Though I should be precise about what that actually means, because two of them are not what they look like.

    Keto has not started. What started was the decision. The meal plan is ordered and arrives on Wednesday, which is the first day anything real happens. Until then it is a subscription confirmation, not a diet.

    Training is worse. Training has started entirely in my head. I have the week planned, I know which days, I know what I am doing on each of them, and I have not lifted anything.

    So two of these meters are filled with intent rather than evidence.

    The reading is done, and that one is real. The writing is ahead, and that is real too.

    I have hit a hundred percent before. I know what it looks like. But the last time it happened, it happened in a week where everything else in my life was quiet enough to allow it.

    This week was not quiet. And it still filled.

    Which is worth something, even if two of the boxes are currently promises.

    And I know what comes next

    Because the scene in the film always ends the same way, and it is the part nobody talks about.

    The hero stands up glowing. Then the fight starts.

    The aura is not the win. It is the beginning of the difficult part.

    So, one week is one week. The meters reset on Sunday. I have started before and stopped before, and the pattern knows my name.

    But this one gets recorded properly.

    I am back.

    Write in the logbook
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  • The Workshop
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    • The Brew
    • The Bite
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