A gentle guide to slowing down while the world gallops past
There comes a point in life — somewhere around 67, give or take a few dents and scratches — when you realise the world has become a horse in full gallop. Everyone is rushing: rushing to buy things, rushing to build things, rushing to comment on things, rushing to be outraged by things. The whole planet seems to be spinning faster and faster, as if someone has quietly turned up the speed without asking permission.
But then I sit down at my modelling table.
And the world… stops.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically. It simply stops. Time flattens out, the noise fades, and the only thing that exists is the part in front of me — a wing root, a canopy frame, a tiny piece of plastic that demands nothing except my full attention. In that moment, the world ceases its mad rotation and becomes still.
I sometimes think everyone should experience that feeling, even for a minute. If they did, perhaps we’d all treat the world — and each other — with a little more care. Perhaps we’d stop galloping and start walking again.
I once knew a Korean diplomat at university. His friend told me, with a mixture of admiration and disbelief, that he could take half an hour to peel an orange. Half an hour! At the time I thought it was eccentric. Now I understand it completely. He wasn’t peeling an orange — he was refusing to be rushed by the world’s tempo.
Perhaps his Buddhist religion or philosophy had something to do with it:
He was living at the speed of attention.
That’s what modelling has become for me. Not a race to finish, not a competition, not a stash‑building exercise. Just a slow, attentive act. A way of being present. A way of reminding myself that life is finite, precious, and best lived one careful brushstroke at a time.
Each model I make now, I treat as if it might be my last — not in a morbid way, but in a grateful way. A way that says: I’m still here. I’m still making something. I’m still paying attention.
And if the hobby has become a galloping horse, then perhaps someone needs to stand by the fence and say, “You know… you don’t need a thousand parts. You don’t need to build hundreds of kits. You don’t need to rush. You can just slow down, breathe, and enjoy the feeling of making something with care.”
A Note on Three Kits Found in a Hospice Shop
Not long ago, I found three kits in the local Hospice shop — an Italeri 1/48 Sabre, an ICM Spitfire, and a Red Arrows Hawk. Nothing exotic, nothing rare, nothing engineered to within an inch of its life. Just simple, honest kits from a quieter era, before the hobby ballooned into mega‑monster monstrosities of parts, stress, and over‑engineering.
They reminded me of what modelling used to be: a few sprues, a handful of parts, and the promise of a weekend well spent.
And one of them — the Sabre — did something more. It took me straight back to the child I was, spinning around in St Thomas Park with a little Sabre I’d found, pretending it was flying. I can still feel the weight of it in my hand, still remember the joy of that moment. Funny how a single shape, a single nose ring, can carry a lifetime of memory.
Those three kits felt like a quiet message: Slow down. Enjoy this. Remember why you started.
They’re not just models. They’re reminders of a simpler rhythm — one worth returning to.
Addendum: Three Small Summits
And since every philosophy benefits from a practical footnote, here are mine — the three modest peaks I still hope to climb:
- A true natural‑metal finish, with panels that shift subtly in the light.
- A perfect gloss coat, smooth as still water.
- A delicate Italian squiggle or dot camouflage, confident and alive.
If I reach even one of them, I’ll feel as though I’ve sat on a small summit for a moment, looking around, quietly satisfied.
And perhaps that’s all any of us can hope for: a few small summits, climbed slowly, with care.