In which the author is introduced to everyone at once, rides a possessed hire bike home at twice the legal speed, and builds a pedalboard out of a bathroom accessory.

In which the author, defeated by a fifteen-letter anagram, builds a solver that is fast, plain and deliberately unhelpful, and then discovers that zip is cleverer than he is.

In which the author finds his cycling legs and then loses them again, dreams of a faithful remake, and discovers something rubbery growing under the beans.

In which the author begins a new job after five years away, negotiates with a railway, abandons his leeks to the weeds, and signs up for a maths degree at last.

In which the author explains why Elm gives him joy, confesses to a memory that once won a national competition but cannot manage a shopping list, and learns a bit about how his mind works.

In which the author sorts the many ways of being certain about machine consciousness into eight tidy boxes, supplies a flowchart, and neglects to mention which box he is standing in.

In which the author reviews Eugenia Cheng’s Unequal, enjoys the maths more than the politics, notices he finds progressiveness thrilling now, and gets extremely hungry.

In which the author, between jobs and stalling magnificently, builds an AI coach to drill the STAR interview method instead of actually applying for any.

In which the author admits to a nagging feeling that computing has gone wrong somewhere, points at a tiny algebra that maybe gets a part of it right, and starts building yet another programming language. Sorry.

In which an unexpected Christmas gift reveals the quiet delight of a rotating bezel, and the author wonders why such useful timekeeping is dressed up in such macho clothing.