What do you choose to notice?

As a fully able-bodied person, with a sound mind, and more opportunities than most, I cannot think of anything worse than letting my life and its talent dissolve into an endless scroll. So I am arming myself with the greatest weapon against mass distraction: reading. Because when the internet and tech bros go low, I go...to the library. I am talking long-form articles, reports, and studies with the kind of words I have to Google. Books with some character even if they don't have characters. And I've recently added Rob Walker’s The Art of Noticing to my arsenal.

This book is about paying attention. It is not a lecture or a theoretical manifesto about why you need to leave your phone behind. It is more akin to a practice guidebook with practical exercises to purposefully direct your attention so you can become a better, deeper, more original observer of the world and of yourself. Given my current habits, it is the reset I have been craving. The only thing it has in common with the algorithm, is that there's no obligation to read it in order. The structure actually takes its own advice and asks you to start where your attention lands. Depending on the day and my mood, I open it at random, pick a prompt, and carry it into my day.

They come in many forms and draw on the practices of artists and some of life’s forgotten and most interesting people. Prompts like “Take a colour walk.” “Imagine a museum of everything you thought about buying but did not. What does it say about you?” “Interview an object.” My choice today was “Monitor your sonic profile,” inspired by Bernd Brunner’s essay which featured Julia Rice, founder of the Society for the Suppression of Unnecessary Noise.

I live in Dubai, where quiet, influencer-resistant residential enclaves exist but I keep gravitating toward noise and movement. Traffic with the complimentary aggressive beeps of a Hala taxi, snippets of overheard conversation, the loud celebratory cheers and house music from passing boats in the Marina are sounds I enjoy. I like sound that suggests life is being lived. Too much quiet makes me feel like the child sitting alone at the far end of the dinner table while the fun happens elsewhere. But I have rules. It cannot be all over the place, erratic, or too close by, like the neighbour who screamed every time a team won or lost a match. My tolerance pretty much stops at my own front door. Inside, I prefer people to move through my space gracefully, as if they care. I prefer to be quiet myself, and I have grown more sensitive to close-range noise as I get older.

Some prompts I have been doing instinctively for years, like Walker’s suggestion to randomise your movements. Its the result of both the very Nigerian maxim “confuse your enemies” and a need to break from monotony. I'm known to take the long way home, get off one to three stops early, and wander down streets I do not know. It is far easier to do in London, but I still make the effort here too.

Another exercise suggests talking to strangers or following where they take you. TV shows and films make this seem easier and immediately more rewarding than it often is. But if I had to choose a setting, Airports and travel seem like the perfect fit. Or not. A few years ago in Heathrow, a frail old lady asked me to watch her belongings while she "quickly" went to a kiosk. How quick could she really be? Besides, as I looked closer, she wasn't frail enough for me. So, I looked her dead in the eye, smiled, and politely declined. Nope, not sorry. She was not about to get me on an episode of Banged Up Abroad. Nobody else offered either, so I felt vindicated. But there was another time that I did get into character. On a work trip to New York, sitting in my aisle seat, I met a shoe designer in seat B. She was contemplating whether to take a job with Adidas in Germany and asked my opinion. I said yes to Adidas, I was unsure about being Black in Germany, but if I were her I would take it. She invited me out with her friends the next night, and I actually went.

The book also encourages you to notice what people say about you. My sister says I never give directions like a “normal person.” Normal people point you to the nearest street, landmark or obvious sign. I opt for food spots. “It's right next to that amazing place that does those juicy big BBQ ribs, you should try it sometime.” Make of that what you will.

Apparently, I have an eye for curation, composition, and the feel of a space or an object. Whether it is good use of white space on a pitch deck or a piece of furniture in my home, people regularly comment on how tasteful and intentional it feels. The more I pay attention, the more I can trace this back to my early childhood with my father. He loved beauty and pursued the best in everything. Electronics, watches, and even women. My siblings and I were always the first kids in our school to get the latest gadgets: a Sega, a Game Boy, a Nintendo. He was also the reason we were the first in our building to have Sky TV, and we were quick to catch people out who lied about having it by asking what channel Sky One was on. Three guesses, but it was not number 1. New was never his sole requirement though. It was even better if it was new, told a great story, and was well made. Once, he woke us in the middle of the night, told us to get dressed, and surprised us with a trip to Disneyland Paris shortly after it opened. I came back to school in a matching Minnie Mouse jumper and trousers, and nobody believed me until my teacher confirmed it. Haters.

He travelled often and rarely returned empty-handed. My favourite gift was a gold jewellery set from Saudi Arabia after his Hajj trip. While others shopped locally, he shipped in tailored suits from Italy for my brother and enormous frilly dresses that came with extra itch for me and my sisters. He understood the pleasure of a well-chosen thing, and I noticed. He had a standard which I clearly inherited and uphold, to this day.

On most Fridays, when other kids queued for the budget version of KFC, I told them I would catch up later and went to the Jewish bakery to spend all my money on a fried chicken bagel. I knew a good thing when I saw it, and I also knew when I did not. At eight, when a classmate came to school in trainers with flashing red lights on the soles, I looked her up and down, complimented the lighting, then pointed out they were not the real deal. They were not the real LA Gear lights, like the ones I was in. What a little terrorist. Decades later at thirty-six, I stopped mid-conversation in a Teams meeting to point out to my colleague that her fridge didn’t quite match her kitchen. My father would have understood.

Noticing takes work, and it is work worth doing. It is far easier to be distracted and consume passively on a device than to look with intent at ideas, places, and people. I intend to do the latter. This book is helping me sharpen the disciplines of observing, documenting, and narrating what matters. My aim is to train myself to recognise the good thing when it appears and to distinguish it from the mediocre thing that is louder, more convenient, or more readily available, without passing judgement or hurting feelings.

Right now, life is offering plenty of good things than most algorithms could ever dream of serving up. You simply have to look. Hopefully, I will be back soon with more of them to share.