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Drew Baxter - Retired Celebrant., Street, Mansfield (2026)

21/10/2026

Hello, and welcome to Wednesday

Well, I’m back from a cruise holiday so no doubt you’re expecting stories about the characters I came across and the dramas with lifts and buffets and the likes.

I’m really sorry to disappoint you but something rather unexpected happened on this trip.

I spent a week falling rather in love with an older lady.

She’s a little creaky, occasionally groans, and has one or two leaks.
But she’s elegant, welcoming, full of character and has a wonderful way of making people feel at home.

Her name is Bolette. She’s a cruise ship.

And she’s reminded me of something.

We live in a world where everything has to be new.

The latest technology, the newest fashions, the biggest and the best.

But new doesn’t necessarily mean better.

Sometimes the things that have been around a while have acquired something rather special. A little character. A few stories. Perhaps the odd scar or two.

And perhaps we should be a little more open to the possibility that something, or someone, doesn’t have to be young, shiny or fashionable to be wonderful.

After all, some of us older models still have plenty to offer.

Even if we do creak a bit.

So, no Or**sm Bob.

There were a few characters on the ship but none that eclipsed the joy of being on Bolette.

We hardly ever had to share a lift and we didn’t go to the buffet.

We just had a glorious week. Feeling able to embrace being older.

And that’s part of my Wednesday Wisdom. But there’s more…

You know, I've been thinking about my retirement and what comes next.

For much of my life, in one way or another, I've been telling stories.

On the radio, in my writing, and for the last twenty years or so, as a funeral celebrant.

But perhaps the most important skill I've learned isn't telling stories at all. It's listening to them.

Sitting with people, hearing about their lives, finding those little moments that make somebody who they are. And very often, discovering the music that goes with those memories.

Because music has this extraordinary ability to take us somewhere. Back to a place, a person, a moment in our lives.

And I suppose I've realised that retirement doesn't mean leaving all those things behind.

It means finding a different way of bringing them together.

So I've made something new.

It's called Something Comfortable with Drew Baxter. It’s a placeholder name that might change. But the idea won’t.

A little music and memories programme where songs have stories, and stories have songs.

I've recorded a pilot called A Fine Romance with an Old Lady, inspired by my recent voyage aboard Bolette. It's a journey through music, memories and my rather unexpected love affair with a beautiful old ship.

And I'd love you to have a listen. I’ll post a link below.

It's not the sort of radio that's commercial but I hope it's personal and meaningful without trying to sell you anything.

Eventually, I'd love to tell some of your stories too.

Not necessarily your favourite song, or the best song ever written, but THAT song. The one that takes you somewhere special.

A happy memory or maybe a reflection on someone you have loved, lost, but love still.

Of course, I'll be making the programme because I enjoy doing it. If other people enjoy it too, well, that's a lovely bonus.

After all, I've spent a lifetime listening to stories and sharing them.

It seems a shame to stop now.

Music. Memories. Stories.

Pull up a chair. Make yourself comfortable.

Here’s the link…and thank you for still finding time for this old fella.

https://www.mixcloud.com/drew-baxter/something-comfortable-the-pilot/?utm_medium=share&utm_source=clipboard&utm_content=show&utm_term=VXNlcjo0MTMzOTkzMQ%3D%3D

PS don't forget to send me your thoughts and feedback on this project. I'd love to gear from you.

14/10/2026

Wednesday Windy Wisdom
Wednesday 14 October 2026 — Aboard Bolette

There are mornings when the romance of life at sea is somewhat overshadowed by the realities of ageing.

This was one of them.

Bolette had spent much of the night rolling gently, although not always quietly, through the waves. The wind had been making its presence felt outside, while another meteorological disturbance was developing inside our cabin.

I had trapped wind.

Not the sort of thing you generally find mentioned in the glossy cruise brochures. There are photographs of smiling couples on sunlit balconies, exquisite food and elegant dining rooms. There is rarely a photograph of a retired gentleman lying awake in the small hours wondering whether his digestive system is attempting to escape.

The previous evening’s dinner had been rather lovely. Beef bourguignon, accompanied by a glass of Merlot. Rich, warming, beautifully cooked and entirely appropriate for a French cruise.
Perhaps slightly less appropriate at twenty past eight in the evening.

By the early hours, the beef, the w**e and my ageing digestive system appeared to be conducting negotiations. None was prepared to compromise.

There was some cramping, a certain amount of discomfort and, eventually, a modest release of pressure. Unfortunately, the discomfort then seemed to relocate, rather like an awkward passenger changing cabins.

As dawn started to quietly appear, Bolette herself was making rather more noise.

We were approaching port when a magnificent blast of her horn echoed across the water. I hurried out onto our balcony to investigate.

A small fishing boat was nearby.

Then came five short blasts.
Now, five short blasts from a ship’s horn are not simply a cheerful maritime greeting. They are a recognised warning that another vessel’s intentions are unclear or causing concern.
I couldn’t be certain that the fishing boat was the intended recipient, but I rather suspected she had just received a nautical telling-off.

I imagined Bolette addressing the little vessel in the imperious tones of a grand old dowager.

‘Excuse me, young man. I am entering harbour. Kindly remove yourself from my path.’

There may well have been a local pilot aboard by then, guiding us towards our berth. Somewhere on the bridge, sensible people were doing important navigational things while I stood on the balcony in my nightclothes, contemplating the behaviour of fishing boats.

And, of course, my own internal weather forecast.

Eventually I returned indoors to attend to the most important business of the morning.

Tea.

There is something deeply reassuring about the familiar ritual of making tea. The kettle, the waiting, the aroma, the anticipation of that first restorative sip. Whatever else may be happening in the world, a proper cup of tea suggests that civilisation has not entirely collapsed.

Over tea, I considered the day ahead.

Mrs B and I had decided not to go ashore. We have two days left of this holiday, and we intend to spend them doing precisely what we came here to do.
Resting.

There will be no rushing about, no determined pursuit of tourist attractions and no obligation to extract maximum value from every minute.

Perhaps a few gentle laps of the Promenade Deck later, partly for the pleasure of being outside and partly in the hope that a little movement might persuade my digestive system to resolve its outstanding business.

I remembered Sunday’s walk, when I managed a respectable distance despite my troublesome legs, only to be overtaken by an elderly lady with a rollator.

Bolette is apparently sailing full, yet she never feels crowded.

There is always somewhere to sit. Always somewhere quiet. Always someone happy to bring a drink or exchange a few words.

For somebody whose mobility is no longer what it was, that matters enormously.
It means the ship itself becomes the destination.

You don’t have to get off to have a wonderful day.
You can sit and watch the sea, listen to the music, enjoy a good meal, exchange a few words with a friendly waiter and simply be grateful that you’re there.

And that brings me to the wisdom of this particular Wednesday.
Like Bolette, I’m no longer in the first flush of youth. My body has developed an extensive repertoire of aches, groans and unexpected malfunctions. Some days I feel as though I’m held together by optimism, medication and a particularly determined wife.
But I’m still here.

Still finding things beautiful. Still laughing. Still enjoying good food and w**e. Still looking forward to adventures yet to come.

And I’ve discovered that an old ship can be a wonderful companion for an ageing man.

Bolette creaks. She rolls. She has the occasional leak. Her fittings aren’t all as pristine as they once were.

But she has character, warmth and a certain stubborn dignity.

I recognise something of myself in her.

Of course, there remains one particular anxiety about the day ahead.

Breakfast.

I am considering scrambled eggs, something light after last night’s French extravagance.

My only real fear is that, somewhere in the elegant surroundings of the restaurant, my digestive system might decide to announce its intentions with the enthusiasm of a ship’s foghorn.

One prolonged blast followed by five short ones.

I suspect the entire restaurant would fall silent.

The waiters would look towards the windows.
The captain might telephone the bridge.
And Mrs B would quietly request a different table.

Still, there are worse things in life.
And perhaps that is Wednesday’s real wisdom.

Ageing may rob us of a little dignity, but it need never rob us of our sense of humour.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my tea is ready.

And somewhere beyond our balcony, a small fishing boat is probably reconsidering its life choices.

07/10/2026

Wednesday Wisdom

It feels quite autumnal this morning. It's a darker morning and the rain is gently falling.

I like Autumn. The season of change...change in all of its magnificent variety.

And yet, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Autumn reminds us that trees don’t all change in the same way.

Some turn gold and red as if they’re putting on a show.
Some quietly fade.
Some hang on to their leaves for ages.
Some look a bit weathered and creaky.

And yet they are all still trees.

Ageing can feel a bit like that. One person glides through it. Another acquires a collection of noises every time they stand up. Some of us discover that our backs, knees or hips now like to have opinions.

But the changes don’t take away who we are.
They simply remind us that we’ve been standing, experiencing the seasons for a while.

So if you’re feeling a little autumnal today — a bit creaky, a bit slower, a little more in need of a careful turn or a warm chair — take heart.

You are still you.

Just with slightly rustlier branches.

Take care.

30/09/2026

Wednesday Wisdom

I sometimes wonder whether to keep writing these.

Not because I’ve run out of things to say. That seems unlikely.

But because there’s always that little voice asking whether anybody is still interested.

And then someone mentions something I wrote weeks ago.
Someone says, “I needed that today.”
Someone tells me they enjoy reading them.

Some people.

At the moment I’m still hobbling around with sciatica, which continues to be a pain in the arse — quite literally.

So life is not especially glamorous here.

There are cups of tea, jobs around the house, things that need doing, things I probably shouldn’t be doing, and the occasional muttered word when I stand up too quickly.

And yet, in amongst all that ordinary stuff, there are still these little connections.

We live in a world rather obsessed with numbers. Followers. Likes. Views. Downloads. Reach.

The bigger the number, apparently, the greater the success.

I’m not sure I believe that anymore.

If something you write makes one person smile, perhaps that matters.

If your phone call makes one person feel less alone, that matters.

If somebody enjoys the flowers you planted, the cake you made, the photograph you took or the story you told, that matters too.

We don’t always have to fill the room.

We don’t have to change the world.

Sometimes it’s enough to make one tiny corner of it a little better for the people who happen to be there.

So perhaps I’ll keep writing Wednesday Wisdom for a while yet.

Some people still enjoy them.

And, actually, some people is quite a lot.

23/09/2026

You can't keep a good man down. Even when he's struggling with sciatica.

It's Wednesday so let me tell you a story.

When I was eleven, Marvel arrived in Britain.

Not in cinemas with a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars, armies of special effects artists and a cast list longer than most small towns.

It arrived on paper. A comic book.

Replacing, for me, The Dandy and The Beano, now in full colour we had comics that introduced me to Spider-Man, the Hulk, the Fantastic Four and all those extraordinary people who lived in a universe where almost anything seemed possible.

That was 1972.

More than fifty years ago.

Since then, of course, everything has changed.

The comics became television series. The television series became films. The films became entire universes.

In 1977 I watched Nicholas Hammond climb walls as Spider-Man.

I watched the X-Men in animated form and thought they were magnificent.

I watched Hugh Jackman put on the claws, Patrick Stewart become Professor X, Ian McKellen become Magneto, and then Marvel somehow turned a collection of comic-book characters into one of the biggest cinematic stories ever told.

And now, all these years later, I can still watch a trailer for a new Avengers film and feel that same little spark of excitement.

Avengers.

Fantastic Four.

X-Men.

All in the same film.

Eleven-year-old me would have thought that completely impossible.

Sixty-four-year-old me still thinks it is rather marvellous.

We talk a great deal about what changes as we grow older.

And rightly so.

Our bodies change. Our priorities change. Our world changes. People come and go. Places disappear. Things that once felt permanent turn out not to be.

But perhaps we don’t talk enough about the things that stay.

The music that still makes us stop what we are doing.

The films we still know almost line for line.

The books we return to.

The television programmes we still care about.

The stories that first fired our imagination and, somehow, never quite stopped.

I still have Marvel.

I still have Star Trek.

And I still miss Doctor Who.

I loved Ncuti Gatwa in the role, and I miss having that strange, wonderful programme there to look forward to.

These things are not childish simply because we discovered them when we were children.

Sometimes they become threads.

They connect the person we were to the person we are now.

They remind us that although life changes enormously, some part of us remains remarkably familiar.

The boy who opened those Marvel comics in 1972 is obviously not the man writing this today.

He knew very little about life.

He had no idea what was ahead of him.

But every now and again, something happens that lets me catch sight of him.

A piece of music.

A familiar spaceship.

A superhero swinging between buildings.

And there he is.

Still excited.

Still curious.

Still wondering what happens next.

Perhaps growing older is not only about learning what to let go.

Perhaps it is also about recognising what was worth keeping.

Have a lovely day.

16/09/2026

I know I said I wasn’t going to be posting this week but that changed after an incident on Monday afternoon.

For all my supposed wisdom, and all the insight into human behaviour gained from years of watching people at close quarters, on Monday I was completely stitched up like a kipper.

What I believed was an ordinary meeting of the team who organise the Bereavement Café, turned out to be a surprise retirement celebration. Right there in the very chapel at Mansfield Crematorium, where I led that very first service 21 years ago.

I hadn’t the faintest idea.

And I never suspected a thing because, honestly, why would I?

I had never imagined that such a celebration was something I deserved.

That isn’t false modesty or an invitation to contradict me.
I was, and remain, completely at ease with my decision to retire.

After twenty-one years, I was happy to close the folder and slip quietly away; grateful that I had stopped while I could still do the job as well as I wanted.

It turned out that other people had different ideas.

I’ll let you into a secret, I am not a fan of social gatherings, parties, surprises, and the like.

There are several reasons but a good one is that my hearing is so bad these days that I struggle to hear what anyone is saying.

I am waiting for hearing aids and as far as Mrs B is concerned, I need them as soon as possible!

Oh yes, she was there by the way. The cunning minx.

She’d left me at home, supposedly to go to B&M, but secretly headed to the rendezvous along with her co-conspirators.

She had said before leaving, you’d better change you can’t go to the meeting in those baggy old shorts. Thank goodness I took her advice!

For now here I was, finding myself in a room filled with people who have shared different parts of my twenty-one years as a celebrant.

Families I had supported, funeral directors and support staff with whom I had worked, friends from the Bereavement Café.

Some had travelled a good distance to be there. Others had stepped away from very busy working days. Every one of them had chosen to give me something increasingly precious; their time.

On reflection, I think it's one of the nicest surprises I’ve ever had…considering I dislike them so much.

I won’t be able to name everyone who was there but I know some of you are probably reading this and I wanted to say that if I didn’t thank you in person on Monday then I can only apologise.

I did get distracted by the buffet…but we’ll come back to that.

There were people there whom I had supported just once, and others who, sadly, had met me far too many times. But all their love and kindness and the kind words they offered, well, that was better than anything I can tell you.

And the funeral professionals. Four brilliant companies were represented and I have to tell you these are the people I have worked with who I respect more than I can say.

Eric Townroe, with Elaine Townroe and the team, well they epitomise personal service. When I recently needed someone to help a family in a difficult situation, Eric was there. He is a gentleman and one from whom I have learned a lot.

Gemma and Will from G Gilbert Funeral Service - my association with them and others via Ivan Bramley, dates back right across those 21 years. I’m glad they could be there.

Anthony and Helen from Gillotts Funeral Directors - well I can’t really spell out in words what working with both of them has meant. We made a bloody good team I think. And Anthony was there at one of those moments when I knew perhaps my time as a celebrant was coming to a close.

Paul Brown from A Wass Funeral Directors Ltd. It was probably Paul who kept me going as long as I did. He never stopped ringing….never took no for an answer. Until now.

Each of these companies is family-run at heart, and I don’t think that is a coincidence.

Over the years, we formed strong little teams built around the personal rather than the corporate: people who knew one another, trusted one another and never forgot that a bereaved family, not a business process, was at the centre of everything we were doing.

I don’t know if others were invited and couldn’t attend but to have those particular professionals in the room meant a lot.

The staff from Mansfield Crematorium Nada and all of the team in the office, the grounds and the chapel attendants, who were consistently supportive, friendly and welcoming. I shall miss that team work which helps all celebrants do what they do.

So, the buffet, the wonderful Bereavement Café ladies had arranged it, and although I didn’t overindulge I did mange several visits to the plate containing cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks…that really made it a party I enjoyed.

There were also some rather lovely cakes from the ever supportive and brilliant Amy at PoFfles. Cakes adorned with an edible image of yours truly.

Eating your own face is quite good actually.

Now to my fellow celebrants; I was obviously not surprised to see Katie Trinder Celebrant Cheryl Cooper Civil Celebrant and Lives Celebrated - Mansfield funeral and wedding celebrant Wayne Swiffin there as we were supposed to be meeting.

I hope we have proved that celebrants do not have to be the solitary beasts that once we were. That it’s possible to be in business but remain open and to be guided by ‘the better angels of our nature’.

Seeing Mark Andrew Celebrant Services well that was a lovely surprise. I wish him continued success on his chosen path. No longer in need of a Jedi master!

And Elle Scriven, who reminded everyone how I once helped her deliver a bingo themed funeral…she and her family have a special place in my heart.

Wayne and then Elle made speeches and I tried to look modest but I suspect I failed.

Others spoke and I was presented with an award by Mrs Hook a Duck herself…officially awarding me the title of Dame Drew of Lurpak. Thank you for being so loyal Yvette Price-Mear Olm.

The generosity was extraordinary. There were other thoughtful gifts, including sherry, Lurpak and a butter dish!

Those last items suggest that some people know me rather too well.

But the greatest generosity was in their kindness: in the time they gave, the distances they travelled and the words they spoke.

They allowed me to feel something I don’t always permit myself to feel.

Proud.

I managed a little speech of my own, nothing grand or over the top. I admitted that there have been times in my life when I didn’t believe I had much value or worth.

But in becoming a celebrant, I found my place.

I found something I could do well and, on some of the most difficult days of people’s lives, I could make a little difference. I could not take away anybody’s grief, but perhaps I could help make an unbearable day no more unbearable than need be.

I am very proud of that.

I resisted the tears. Not because I was unmoved, quite the opposite, but because, in that moment, the communal hug of so many friends didn’t make me sad.

It simply filled me with happiness.

So, to everyone who plotted, travelled, rearranged a working day, prepared food, brought gifts, spoke such generous words or simply stood in that room and smiled at me: thank you.

Thank you for the surprise. Thank you for the kindness. Thank you for allowing me to see my twenty-one years through the eyes of other people.

Perhaps that is this week’s Wednesday Wisdom: we are not always the best judges of our own worth. Occasionally, other people have to gather in a room and insist upon showing it to us.

I shall forgive them all for stitching me up like a kipper.

Eventually.

OK, now that is it for a couple of weeks. Don’t forget if you do want to support this poor old retired fella there is the podcast which returned yesterday - just look for Big Skies and Small Ponds - Chapter 11…The Pond.

Now I’m going to get busy drinking sherry and bathing in Lurpak…well it’s the only way for a Dame to behave!

Drew Baxter - Retired Celebrant.

21/10/2026

14/10/2026

07/10/2026

30/09/2026

23/09/2026

16/09/2026

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