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Morning friend.

On Friday morning I watched through the window of a stationary tube train a boy trying to tie his school tie.

He was standing on the opposite platform, dressed in what looked like a brand-new school uniform.

First week back, I imagine.

His shirt was crisp and white.

The arms of his deep blue blazer slightly too long.

His blue and red striped tie hung open, under his collar and around his neck.

I watched as he proudly attempted to bring both ends together into something that might resemble a knot.

Then I watched as he undid his work and tried again.

Under.

Around.

Through.

Then somehow, like a trick deceitful enough to make even an accomplished magician proud, the ends returned exactly back to their original position without any of the boy’s help.

The boy looked up and to his right with helpless eyes.

His dad was standing right beside him.

Phone in hand.

I saw the boy's lips move in an attempt to capture his dad's attention from whatever was keeping his gaze fixed on the screen 12 inches from his face.

Nothing.

He tried again.

His dad glanced sideways and down at the boy.

His lips didn't move.

Then he turned straight back to the screen.

The boy started again.

Another unsuccessful attempt.

My train was still sitting at the platform opposite.

I watched him look up at his dad and ask a third time.

Another glance down.

No words.

Back to the phone.

Then the beeps started, the doors closed and my train pulled away westbound towards Hammersmith.

I have no idea what happened next.

Perhaps his dad did put the phone away thirty seconds later and tied his son’s tie for him.

Perhaps whatever was happening on the screen mattered more in that moment.

I don't know.

I saw less than two minutes of their lives and I am not going to pretend I know anything about either of them.

But I haven't stopped thinking about that boy since.

Not because he couldn't tie his own tie.

Because he was asking someone who mattered more than anything to him, standing inches away, to notice that he was struggling.

And he couldn't get his attention.

An hour later I was sitting in the basement of a cafe on Hammersmith Broadway killing time before an important appointment.

I picked up a book from the bookshelf next to my table.

The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk.

I knew of the book but I'd never read it.

Its subtitle leapt off the page at me.

Mind, Brain and Body in the Transformation of Trauma.

It made me think about the experiences that leave invisible marks on us. Some are enormous and unmistakable. Others seem insignificant at the time and somehow stay with us for years.

The teacher who embarrassed us in front of everyone.

The coach who told us we would never make the team.

The parent who failed to notice us when we really needed them to.

That is what bothered me about the boy.

His dad might have forgotten the entire exchange before their train left the station.

His son might remember that morning for the rest of his life.

Or perhaps he won't.

That's the uncomfortable part.

We rarely know which moments really matter while we are living them.

And none of us get a ticket back in time, Eastbound from Hammersmith, to find out.

Friday brought plenty of anxiety, stress and nervous tension of its own for me later in the day.

I have chosen not to write about the details here. I have not chosen to stop writing.

That is a deliberate decision and for good reason.

But I did find myself thinking about attention in a much wider sense.

Our attention for those who matter most is finite.

So is the attention of our businesses, our communities and even the institutions we depend upon.

Every hour spent looking in one direction is an hour not spent looking somewhere else.

Every resource committed to one problem is unavailable to another.

That doesn't automatically make any individual choice right or wrong.

But it does mean the choice matters.

For brief moments on Friday as I navigated some of the most challenging hours of the last few years I couldn't help wondering, sitting there in Hammersmith, what else some very capable people might be doing with their time.

What problem might otherwise have had their attention.

What positive contribution they might have been making somewhere else.

Because even the State has to choose what deserves its focus.

And like the rest of us, it cannot look everywhere at once.

Perhaps Friday reinforced something else I already knew but don't always practise.

We don't have to carry everything with us forever.

Some things can be dealt with where they happen and left there.

Hammersmith had already taken enough from me that day.

I didn't need to give it the train journey home as well.

Or any of your time on a Sunday morning.

So I left it where it belonged, in Hammersmith, as I boarded the eastbound tube and began the journey home.

And somewhere north of London, late into the night as I made my way home to my own boys, my thoughts replayed the day.

A man who had spent enough of the day looking backwards and was ready to turn his attention towards home.

A boy who had been asking for something completely different.

Not an argument.

Not an explanation.

Just his dad's attention.

The things that demand our attention most loudly aren't always the things that deserve it.

Sometimes the things that deserve us most aren't making much noise at all.

Not the screen in our pocket that is constantly asking us to look down.

It might be standing beside us in a slightly oversized blue blazer, hoping we look up to notice them quietly making a mess of a school tie.

Perhaps the real skill for us all to learn therefore is simply recognising what deserves our attention most before the moment passes forever.

Sometimes we might be fortunate enough for it to ask us three times.

Sometimes twice.

Sometimes only once.

And then the train leaves the station.

Let’s take a moment to debrief together:

What are you giving your attention to simply because it is demanding it? And what quieter thing in your life might actually deserve that attention more?

Your mission this week (if you choose to accept it):

Before you engage with something this week, give yourself a second to choose.

Does this really deserve my attention?

If it does, give it fully.

If it doesn't, let it pass.

That’s enough for now.

More next Sunday.