I’d promised myself I’d send out an H6 every two weeks, and I haven’t kept that promise. This convoy, in the shape of a newsletter, is a week late. I could list a bunch of excuses to explain why, but I’ll spare you. Does anyone actually care, apart from me? 

I’m terrible at not keeping my word. People who’ve worked with me know this—right, Tiago?—. If I tell a client I’ll send them something tomorrow, I have to send it. Period. If I don’t, I feel like the worst person alive. I have no integrity. I don’t deserve to exist. Not to exist, not even to breathe.

There are situations where delivering something today, not tomorrow, is absolutely non-negotiable. Things like opening a restaurant or launching an event—stuff that’s tightly tied to a calendar, you know? But what about everything else? You’d think a day wouldn’t make a difference, right? Nope. Not in my head. In my mind, being a day late only means one thing: tragedy. It means the studio door getting kicked in, men in black dragging me into a van, and someone holding my head up in the middle of Orfila Square like it’s a lantern. 

It’s the same imagination that lets me conjure up these dramatic scenarios that also helps me unlock projects at the very last minute. I bet my neck I’m not the only one. It seems impossible, but when faced with the prospect of the guillotine, the survival instinct kicks in and activates every neural mechanism it can find to meet a deadline with more than just a passing grade. 

Because I couldn’t care less if they told me the cut would be clean and precise, and I’d barely feel any pain. Once my head’s been chopped off, it’ll stay conscious for a few minutes, fully aware of the disaster, but unable to say a word to convince you that my lateness was unavoidable. 

So, with my head hung low—but thankfully still attached to my body—my apologies. It won’t happen again.

Best regards from the H6 bus,
Ingrid