I got caught out at the school gate this week.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just one of those small moments where you realise people can actually read what you’ve written about yourself online.
One of the mums smiled and said, “You’re the Lapel Stick guy, right? I read your About page.”
And suddenly I remembered I’d written it like a version of myself that doesn’t really exist.
Sara put me on pickup because she said I needed to do something normal.
So there I was, standing outside the school in Ibiza, holding a bag of shopping I didn’t want, pretending I knew what time anything starts.
The twins were inside somewhere.
Leo wasn’t. Leo does not do gates.
I was doing that thing where you look at your phone but you’re not reading anything, you’re just trying to look like you belong.
The woman came over, friendly, high-energy.
“I read your About page,” she said again, laughing a bit. “You make it sound like you’ve got it all sorted.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Because the About page version of me probably does have it sorted.
He moved to Ibiza for balance.
He quit smoking cleanly.
He found the right rhythm.
The real me was standing there with oat milk in the bag because I ticked the wrong box on a school form and now we’re apparently an oat milk family.
The real me still sits in the car sometimes for ten minutes doing nothing, because the craving hits in the gaps.
Not even because I want a cigarette.
Because I want a pause.
She asked something about the kids.
“And you’ve got three, right?”
“Yes.”
“And your oldest is…”
She hesitated.
That horrible little moment.
The one where you realise you’ve probably written something slightly wrong.
Or outdated.
Or too neat.
I couldn’t even remember what I’d put. I wrote it quickly, like nobody reads those pages.
She smiled again.
“So brave, honestly. Moving countries with all that.”
Brave.
People say brave when they don’t know what else to say.
It doesn’t feel brave most days.
It feels like forgetting bin day.
It feels like Leo looking at you like you’re about to start another new phase.
It feels like Sara quietly holding everything together while you write posts about balance.
The twins came out then, running into me like small drunk people.
One immediately asked for a biscuit.
The other shouted something in Spanish I didn’t catch.
The woman looked down and said, “Well. Real life, eh?”
Yes.
That’s exactly it.
The About page is a story.
Real life is sweat at 3:15pm and trying not to think about smoking and carrying oat milk home.
On the walk back, Sara asked how it went.
“Fine,” I said.
Then, after a minute, “Someone read the About page.”
Sara didn’t even look surprised.
She just said, “Maybe you should rewrite it.”
I nodded.
But I don’t think rewriting fixes it.
The neat version isn’t coming.
This is the version.
The one outside the school gate.
The one still trying.
I got home, opened the laptop.
And I didn’t change the About page.
I just sat there for a bit.