or weeks now, we’ve been basking in record-breaking temperatures—well, probably. While everyone else is out enjoying the endless summer, I’ve been busy trying to find ways of just coping. It’s great when I'm off the clock, but wearing a thick, heavy uniform in a building with a distinct lack of decent cooling turns a shift into a sticky, sweaty test of endurance.
Usually, a heatwave like this would find me eating up the miles on warm, dry roads. Instead, a broken spoke and a subsequently buckled wheel have left me grounded, depriving me of my iron steed for a week.
In its place, my commute has fallen to the bus—a mode of transport that far too many people look down their noses at. I’ve always been an advocate for public transit, though. I genuinely enjoy the whole experience, watching the world go by from a different vantage point. Well, except when they run late, of course. Fortunately, the bike shop has worked its magic, the wheel is returned, and next week should see me firmly back on two wheels.
Another big fan of buses is the country's next Prime Minister. Andy Burnham takes over the top job on Monday, replacing Sir Keir Starmer. I'm absolutely delighted with the new leadership and have high hopes of real change and progress. Hopefully, he can scale his success as the Mayor of Manchester into new prosperity for the entire country.
Away from the national stage and back on the home front, there is big news on the domestic scene. After twenty-five years of faithful service, we will soon be saying a final goodbye to our old front door. It has done a stellar job of keeping out the nasty weather, ne'er-do-wells, and general ruffians, but its watch is ending.
A shiny new frontage will soon be tasked with security duty (and keeping the Jehovah's Witnesses at bay), complete with state-of-the-art locks and a letterbox flap that promises not to rattle and flap every time the wind picks up. The order is officially in, and the grand installation should happen in a couple of months. To accompany it—and because I absolutely refuse to screw or stick plastic numbers into the new door—I’ve ordered a proper Welsh slate house number plaque to mount on the wall beside it. A little piece of Cymraeg magic to set it off.
The spirit of the Urban Viking—and the occasional absurdity of navigating the modern world—lives on in my webcomic, Northman. 
You can read the latest chapter here:
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𝖂𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊, 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖗.
ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ, ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴀʟᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴊᴏɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴄᴜꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ʟɪᴠᴇʟʏ ʙᴜᴛ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴅᴇʙᴀᴛᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴀʟʟ — ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ᴍɪɴᴅ.
ʙᴜᴛ ᴍɪɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴀɴɴᴇʀꜱ: ᴀʙᴜꜱᴇ, ʀᴜᴅᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘᴀᴍ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ꜱᴡɪꜰᴛʟʏ ᴄᴀꜱᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴠᴇɴꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ.
ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴇᴍᴏᴊɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴅᴏ — ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ɴᴏᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇɴᴄʜᴇꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇᴅ.
ɴᴏᴡ, ᴡᴀʀᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪꜱʜ.