Akin Akintayo

The many tests of a patient waiting in patience

2026-04-27T03:48:00.003+01:00

A Week to Fathom

What a weekend that was, or rather, let us consider the full week, because the thought of all that transpired is hard enough to fathom.

Fresh from the good news of my PSA having fallen to its lowest level, buoying my confidence in the radiotherapy for prostate cancer, I was having chest pains that led to my attending A&E first thing on Monday.

That was one unplanned visit to the hospital. The result was reassuring; it was nothing serious, just musculoskeletal pain that some bed rest could help.

Good News, Then Distress

Friday was the main day scheduled for my biannual monitoring at the Christie Hospital. Going there never ceases to be as impactful as it is critical to saving lives. It is a visit to a renowned cancer hospital to review my PSA result and discuss the attendant issues from radiotherapy.

That went well, so I stopped by Nando's for a meal and used the opportunity to call Brian. Halfway through my meal, after our call had ended, I had a choking episode. I won’t suggest this is a longer-term side effect of radiotherapy, as dysphagia, and I have not considered if it could have exacerbated it; I’ve had choking episodes going back decades.

Thankfully, I had enough napkins to contain the relief in bringing it all back up. Not a beautiful sight, and no one noticed I was in distress either. I cleaned up in the conveniences and returned home to lie down.

Saturday Takes a Turn

Whilst that should have resolved things, as I do usually have episodes of choking on food, this one was different. Some cereal before midnight did not go down, likely due to food impaction, an obstruction, or inflammation in my throat. I threw up in the toilet and decided to postpone my pills for a few hours.

The pills did eventually go down, and I had a lie-in for most of Saturday into the afternoon.

Getting up, I made a cup of tea. I thought I had drunk the full mug, but there was pressure in my throat and quite a bit of discomfort. I had to throw up again.

The tea came up with some mucous-like substance that fell to the bottom of the toilet bowl. That was concerning. I was about to return to A&E for another ailment.

A Night in A&E

Calling an Uber, I made it to the hospital soon enough, though as I alighted, I was sick in the bushes before being triaged. From then on, I was vomiting a thickened, mucous-like substance every thirty minutes or so into a sick bowl.

Just about two hours after arrival, I saw a doctor. She gave me a drink of water, which seemed to stay down. I have not vomited after that. I was then referred for a possible endoscopy and left in the Emergency Room for two hours.

Then another doctor called me in for review. We agreed on an experiment: I would have a sandwich and a drink, and if that stayed down, I was to be discharged for further outpatient review. If I could not keep the food down, it would mean hospital admission, nil by mouth, and a possible endoscopy on Monday to identify the obstruction.

The food stayed down, but it was left waiting for a few hours before I received an email notification; an after-visit message; it was sent 30 minutes earlier. Apparently, I had been discharged, and no one had bothered to inform me. I left the hospital over eight hours after arriving. It was almost 2:00 AM.

The Weight of Being Alone

I appreciate that these matters take time. Anyone attending A&E is busy juggling the precarity of their situation that brought them to the hospital with the need to keep others informed, especially if they are alone in that predicament, and that is just the way it is.

I have every reason to want a better situation, to be in a hospital with someone. Everyone else seemed to have someone with them, but as one person, you are a container of the reflexes of concern, anxiety, or even panic of others about you. You must wonder whether it is necessary to inform anyone during the crisis or only after it has passed.

There is an emotional toll involved in the desire for information and details. I have had calls whilst a doctor's stethoscope was feeling around my body, calls I have had to ignore.

My going to the hospital should be part of accepting that the right decision has been made and that I am in good hands. Not much can be helped beyond everyone holding their nerve, thinking good thoughts, and praying for the best outcomes.

Everything takes time, and the patient patiently waiting for answers and assurances, first for themselves before finding the form of words for dissemination to others who duly need to be informed, is probably the most impacted by it all.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Thoroughness Is Not Stalling

2026-04-22T15:22:00.001+01:00

Caution Gets the Cold Shoulder

I sometimes find myself receiving the cold shoulder because something I have been asked to do requires a bit more investigation and understanding before considering implementation.

One such situation came up towards the end of last week. A deployment from a utility set was being knocked out by a security policy. We did not realise this was an issue until an urgent investigation for actionable data could not be completed, as the tracker had already been removed by that same policy.

In layman's terms, take, for instance, a sophisticated radio jamming implementation that stops all mobile phones from communicating, except for selected phones with particular identities.

One essential phone is then brought into the environment, but not exempt from the jamming signal; it might appear to operate, but it goes blank when a call is about to be made. This is not entirely accurate in technical terms, but it paints the picture of what the situation was.

A Policy in the Way

We had blocked everything except for select elements, and another system was sending out an element that was not on that list. The element was installed, but within a set timeframe, it was removed because it was not on the list.

Obviously, this put my colleague in a quandary. They had to explain why information they assumed would always be retrievable was suddenly unavailable, and this stymied the investigation another team was trying to commence.

In the broader scheme of things, there was always a security policy, but for investigatory purposes, the tool needed an exemption to allow it to install and remain installed. The end-to-end facilitation chain had not been engaged, and hence, the failure of intent at that stage.

Rushing Ahead Without the Facts

The obvious next step was to remediate the issue by allowing the tool to install, but neither of us had full knowledge of the facts of what other parameters it needed to perform as required.

While my colleague wanted to rush out a fix, I was not convinced we had the right one. We had some knowledge of what should be done, but no guarantee it would work. In cases such as this, I would find a subset of users and/or devices to test the premise on, ascertain that everything works as intended, and then implement it under change management processes.

However, to my colleague, I was impeding the process and stalling rather than being proactive, despite my concerns and feeling that we did not have sufficient information to proceed.

Their next act was to extricate themselves from the communication chain, leaving me to face the pressure of urgent implementation without the full set of data required to have the confidence that we were doing the right thing.

Right the First Time

Earlier today, I gained some clarity on the fundamentals of the implementation, including what the sources were and where the conflicts occurred. With this, I was sufficiently informed to test the premise of my findings and, beyond that, gain the full information needed to fix the problem once and for all.

I recognise that I could be pedantic, and at times, some have suggested I am a perfectionist, which I would immediately deny. I am thorough, sometimes quite particular and meticulous; it is simply the nature of the responsibility this job carries.

An accidental deployment can so easily close down a business, and whilst this particular activity does not carry such a critical risk, there is one thought to always keep in mind.

I'd rather do it right the first time, even if it takes longer, than rush it now and have to fix the issues that arise because I did not devote the necessary time to understanding what was involved. For that reason, I make no apology. The world is not ending; it is impatience clouding better judgement.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

When You Are Not Sure if It Is Serious

2026-04-20T17:02:00.004+01:00

A Night of Unease

My sleep was a bit disturbed, as I had a dull ache in my chest on the left side throughout the night. At one point, the pain spread into my arm, giving the impression I had lain on it, but every adjustment I made brought no relief.

By 5:00 AM, I was in two minds: get up and go for a walk to wear away the discomfort, or acknowledge that this might be something serious and seek medical attention.

AI to the Rescue

The more I thought about it and keyed the symptoms into my AI app, the more I was persuaded to plump for the latter.

I opened my door, set the secure door on the latch, and called 999 for an ambulance, but I was exhausted by the questions and almost felt I'd be gone before we were done.

In the meantime, I had packed a bag with the essentials: a mobile phone charger adapter, a power bank, a notepad, and a pen. Critically, you need to be able to communicate with loved ones and next of kin; Brian and Kola first, then my manager at work.

On the emergency call, I was told an ambulance might take 45 minutes or thereabouts, to which I suggested I'd rather get an Uber to A&E and be seen promptly, and that is what I did.

Into A&E

I checked in, had my blood pressure taken, and was then called back for bloods and an ECG. The waiting began in the Emergency Room, and when the results were sent to me by email, neither the website nor the app was working, so I could not check what I was about to be told.

Hours later, a doctor called me into a consultation cordon and assured me there was nothing serious to worry about from the ECG and the test for Troponin T, which indicates damage to the heart muscle, but she needed to rule out the presence of blood clots.

Blood and Bedside Manner

Her attempt to draw blood was unsuccessful, and she quickly realised it might be fatigue from five twelve-hour shifts in a row. You can imagine junior and emergency room doctors are seriously overworked; the NHS is somewhat strained, and let's not visit the quality and standard of service from people doing their very best under duress, pressure, and the circumstances.

She immediately invited a nurse to draw blood; that also failed on the arm, so a further attempt was made from the back of the hand, bringing the total to four puncture wounds, whilst my left arm was already sore from the earlier abuse.

The Vampire Association

The D-dimer test result was normal. Another doctor then invited me to relate the symptoms again before ordering a second troponin test, which he said should be at least three hours from the first.

I had been in hospital for four hours by this point, so I was ready for another vampire feast. I probably should cut down on my sugar intake; three blood draws in one morning is one draw short of a venesection.

Another nurse arrived with a phlebotomy trolley, and I asked if she was from the Vampire Association. She smiled and drew blood from the already sore left arm without much fuss.

Waiting for the All-Clear

One new development that has arrived at our NHS, already standard practice in the Netherlands health service, is the use of a tube between the needle and syringe. This puts less pressure on the entry point, and I am glad for it.

Once the second Troponin T test result arrives as normal, I should be on my way home. Meanwhile, the wait continues, and the concerns are being allayed.

The doctor came to speak to me in the waiting room to confirm that the second Troponin T was fine. I already knew, as the website was working in the Ambulatory Care Unit by then; the result had fallen one unit within the middle of the normal range.

I was sent on my way, called an Uber, and settled back into bed.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Men's things XXXII: For the Boys in the Room: Why Your PSA Matters

2026-04-17T16:22:00.003+01:00

Life After Radiotherapy

Much as I have not been giving frequent updates about life after prostate cancer radiotherapy treatment, I can say that life continues with gratitude.

The usual side effects persist; the urinary symptoms are not as concerning and remain quite manageable, there is no discernible bowel issue, and weekday nocturnal insomnia gets some respite with weekend lie-ins.

My voice still vacillates between a weak, hoarse whisper and the normal timbre I am known to have. It does need checking out. When my mother first heard the weaker end of my vocal spectrum, she started casting and binding in the name of Jesus on the phone, with no exchange of pleasantries; it literally freaked me out.

Monitoring My Progress

I have a biannual consultation at the Christie Hospital with an Oncology and Urology nurse, as part of the aftercare monitoring, which may continue for another couple of years. This means that within two weeks of that appointment, I must obtain a Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) test, usually from my GP.

My most recent PSA level has now fallen to the lowest reading recorded since that first test in February 2024, which began the journey to an aggressive prostate cancer diagnosis.

I have written quite a bit about what this has involved, but may I suggest that you also listen to the AI Podcast for November 2025, where each of the terms related to a prostate cancer diagnosis is explained in detail.

An AI discussion podcast
on blogs published in November 2025
Reflections on Health, Heritage, and Humanity

Sharing the Good News

Meanwhile, I am doing fine, happy with the progress and thankful for the support and encouragement I get from my partner, Brian, my friends, and my colleagues. Upon receiving the result, I posted a comment in a wider Microsoft Teams chat, where I addressed them thus, with a link for them to assess their prostate cancer risk:

For the boys in the room.

I got some good news earlier today. Having undergone prostate cancer radiotherapy treatment about 18 months ago, my PSA is now the lowest it has ever been. Obviously, there is a hospital visit to review the situation.

Please, take some time to check your risk.

Thanks

Check your risk in 30 seconds | Prostate Cancer UK

Take That First Test

I take every opportunity to advocate for checking your prostate cancer health and going for at least that very first PSA test.

Beyond that, I try to address the concerns and fears that attend having your delicate bits inspected by medical personnel, as I have been through the whole gamut of touches and feel-ups. My verdict: nothing to fear and everything to gain, catching issues early and dealing with them promptly.

I hope you all find this helpful. Until the next update on men's things.

Blog - Men's things XXXI: Can Intimacy Be Reclaimed After Prostate Cancer?

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - Three Things I Wish I'd Known

Blog – Photons on the Prostate - A year from starting radiotherapy

Blog - A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

AI Serving My Blogs in New Light - Q4 2025

2026-04-17T14:40:00.006+01:00

Discovering Audio Overviews

One of the most fascinating things I have found in my use of Artificial Intelligence (AI) is the Audio Overviews feature of Google NotebookLM. For the year 2026, I have created a medium-length podcast of about 15 to 20 minutes on each blog post.

What intrigues me about it is the way AI reviews the source blog and weaves a narrative, whilst taking the time to explain or define obscure terms and bringing to light interesting insights that I may never have considered when writing the blog.

Finding Common Threads

I appreciate that some of these podcasts can get certain facts wrong, but overall, the thrust of each podcast is informative, reflective, and educational.

An extension to this has involved asking Google NotebookLM to produce a longer deep dive into all the blogs published in a month. This is where it truly comes into its own.

In my situation, each blog stands on its own ideas and merits, yet AI seems to find a common thread between them; that is something I could never have done, or if I did, the links would be tenuous at best.

Looking Ahead

This tool will only get better; the quality of the podcasts is based on how well you can tailor the prompts to centre the discussion. I would think that, with time, there will be a choice of accents and the ability to bring in more discussants, and though I have rarely used the interactive feature, that would be fun to explore.

Here, I present the monthly podcasts for Q4 2025.

An AI discussion podcast
on blogs published in October 2025
Reflections on Silence, Schism, and Survival

An AI discussion podcast
on blogs published in November 2025
Reflections on Health, Heritage, and Humanity

An AI discussion podcast
on blogs published in December 2025
Reflections on Sixty Years and the AI Age

Blog - Augmenting Humanity with AI Tools - Q1 2026 - Monthly AI Podcasts for Q1 2026

Love, Distance, and a City Called Home

2026-04-15T23:23:00.004+01:00

A Month On

Today marks a calendar month since I boarded the flight for the 13-hour, 25-minute journey back from Cape Town to Manchester, and yet the scenes from that visit still run through my mind as though the credits have not quite rolled. Already, I am planning the next one.

Cape Town represents more than a destination; the story began barely seven years ago, when Brian and I had our second rendezvous in South Africa. Soon after we met in Johannesburg in December 2018, I resolved to spend the next Easter with him.

It was a stroke of good fortune that in late February 2019, work dried up and, rather than loiter aimlessly waiting for a new posting, I took a next-day flight to Johannesburg. It was entirely unscripted, and yet it became the scene that changed everything. Brian joined me for ten days, which became the consummation of our relationship.

From Joburg to Cape Town

I did not cancel the planned Easter meeting. Some scenes, it seems, are written regardless of what comes before them. We were going to meet up in Johannesburg, fly together to Cape Town, and then return to Joburg for the end slice of our holiday.

Now, we just meet up in Cape Town and make home in apartments around the city and suburbs. It is the kind of story you return to willingly, knowing the setting well but always finding something in it you had not quite seen before. Each stay brings unforgettable memories as we work towards being together a lot more than being apart.

What Love Brings

What Brian brings into my life is immeasurable: love, care, companionship, laughter, shared experiences, and stories that make our uniquely special bond everything that matters to both of us. These are not trivial things. They are the substance of a story worth telling, and more importantly, worth living.

My heart is full, and I am blessed with such unconditional love that I pray daily to be worthy of the affection that someone expresses so wholly, freely, sincerely, and unashamedly.

Never a Dull Moment

There is never a dull moment. The way we seek out adventure, revisiting old haunts or discovering new places, gives the story its texture, the kind of detail that stops a narrative from flattening into something predictable.

So, Cape Town is a place transforming into a reality what is the stuff of impossible dreams coming true. Love transcends distance, endures difficulty, ekes out the best, and writes the stories we could never have imagined.

Cape Town, Our Home

Our minds walk through places we have registered so well that each recollection feels like more than words. It is like a film playing back, slowing just enough for us to keep up with everything, with no need to rewind or fast-forward; it is always at the right pace. Perhaps that is what love does to memory. It becomes the editor, keeping only what matters.

That is why we know Cape Town will be our home, our sanctuary, our nest, and our place. The story is far from over. We cannot wait to be together again in the Mother City; even time folds for the purpose of real love.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Borstal Wednesdays on Teams

2026-04-15T18:09:00.003+01:00

The Wednesday Dread

Wednesday mornings do not deliver the kind of impetus and encouragement needed to see the day through with a sense of purpose and an aim for achievement.

One is reminded of being in a secondary school morning assembly with all the trappings of a borstal; the headmaster traipsing across the platform, slapping the birch into his hand, and speaking in a booming voice of quarrelsome displeasure and pique.

Diktat Over Dialogue

For a gathering of professionals, where the distinction is more one of corporate hierarchy than any other gift or ability, the patriarchal and patronising tone of diktat over conversation rubs everyone up the wrong way.

One might want to consider that this manager is perhaps oblivious to the fact that those who report to him are indeed professionals. Besides, whilst there may be a case for certain colleagues needing some hand-holding, guidance, direction, or instruction, the broad-brush approach to generalisation over the particular and specific creates a rather toxic environment.

Morale and the Pulpit

It can be said that a majority do not leave the Wednesday powwow thinking they have been edified; it is moral-sapping, pulpit-thumping vituperation that easily slips into uncouth language, betraying both discourtesy and disrespect.

In the same vein, I appreciate that the higher-ups are under pressure to deliver results, but ruling by fear, deeming us stupid, or questioning our intelligence will get you nowhere.

We are here to do a job, not to be corralled like sheep or donkeys into some subservient role, subject to constant and unwarranted opprobrium. The borstal comparison becomes all the more telling when you wonder whether they once presided over some regimented setting and held sway over unskilled labour.

The Reckoning Ahead

In other words, in my decades-long experience of dealing with management, this one ranks, in every sense of the word, as the least commendable and capable when it comes to managing talent, and would be far better suited to commandeering a chain gang.

Heck, some of us are way past slithering up a greasy pole of obsequiousness for favours; we have had roles of greater responsibility and remuneration, and are here for nothing other than the joy of doing and giving back.

If there is room for improvement, I cannot say, because this appears to be learned behaviour from a former leader who barely earned my respect, their brusqueness unbecoming of anyone cultured. The headiness of office is becoming an aggrandisement of self, not far removed from bullying. Many will tolerate this for just long enough before the blowback makes heads roll.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Hajrá Magyarország!

2026-04-14T22:18:00.004+01:00

A Nation Saves Itself

On my mind from early Monday morning, I saw a nation that saved itself rather than sacrifice itself to the poverty in the promise of a leadership that had been in power for so long it had run out of ideas.

Hungary was hungry for change, and they went out to get it. The scale of the victory was telling: from the opposition Tisza Party not even contesting parliament at the last election, when the ruling Fidesz Party gained a super-majority and a fourth term for Viktor Orban, to the ruling party suffering such a catastrophic defeat that Mr Orban conceded within minutes of the polls closing.

Power and Its Costs

There are many analyses of these results, and they will probably continue for years with different angles and postulations to the point of exhaustion; it is irrelevant. Mr Orban, a long-serving Prime Minister who had modelled the country after a fashion, could have taken the opportunity, after any one of his electoral victories, to bow out in a blaze of glory, handing the baton to a protégé. But power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely; many men fall prey to that lure.

You could look into the history of Viktor Orban, the people who helped and mentored him, and the exposure he had to liberal democracy before he turned towards illiberal democracy, supporting such conservative causes that antagonised broader Western European values, and wonder how the quest for power and the desire to retain it made the man seem more villainous than respectable.

Hope Over Fear

That reputation for villainy over respectability, however, is precisely what made Peter Magyar's campaign such a masterclass in political messaging. Religious zealotry and Christian nationalism can only do so much when a government has run out of answers to the questions that most urgently trouble ordinary people: the cost of living, wages that do not stretch to the end of the month, a healthcare system groaning under neglect, hospitals short-staffed as doctors and nurses leave for better prospects elsewhere, and the everyday concerns of communities that had long felt invisible to those in power. These were the realities that Magyar took seriously, and that Orban could not convincingly address.

What Orban could offer instead was fear. Enemies were conjured beyond the borders: Brussels encroaching on sovereignty, migrants threatening the national character, foreign financiers orchestrating Hungary's undoing. But fear of the outsider offers little comfort to people struggling inside their own homes, pitted against each other, whilst the ruling party tilts on patronage and patrimonialism, favouring partisans and acolytes against others.

Hope and expectation over fear and trepidation, over the foreign influences of a similar nationalist ilk; an unwillingness to compromise on the fight against corruption; taking Hungary from the isolation and recalcitrance that Europe saw as backsliding to the promise of situating Hungary back in the West for advantage and prosperity, whilst building back the institutions that had lost their independence to cronyism; this was what won the people.

Democracy Always Matters

Those people, and especially the youth among them, saw in Magyar a hope and a future that, had Viktor Orban won again, would have seemed even bleaker. For Viktor Orban to have been electorally humiliated after appearing unassailable and invincible for more than a decade is a message that populism can totally run out of road and find itself at the precipice of a cliff edge, without any possibility of recovery.

Beyond the jubilation for Hungarians and the evidently hard work of fixing things that lies ahead, we all celebrate with them the realisation that democracy matters and that everyone needs to get out to vote, if they really do desire change.

Hajrá Magyarország!

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Three Degrees: Hailstones, Shorts, and Slippers

2026-04-13T12:43:00.002+01:00

A Nation's Favourite Topic

If there is anything the English can always make conversation about, it is the weather; there is always something to say about it.

I looked at my mobile phone this morning before leaving home and noticed it was just three degrees Celsius, in the middle of April. I had turned off my heating a couple of weeks ago, as we eased into British Summer Time, which is everything British, but nothing like summer, and barely feeling like spring.

One good thing: there was no forecast of rain, a reputation some people are keen to attach to Manchester more than reality suggests. It does not always rain in Manchester; it just happens to coincide with when those observers visit.

Pelted by Hailstones

Yesterday, I thought of going out for a walk. It was pleasant enough, though I had only anticipated a drizzle. When the heavens opened, I was pelted with hailstones the size of opaque tapioca pearls. Come to think of it, I have never been caught in a hailstorm before; the most I have experienced of it is watching from indoors.

Lest I forget, we also had a hailstorm a couple of weeks ago. I hope it is not becoming a regular occurrence. Then imagine my surprise, knowing how cold it was, to see someone about fifty yards ahead of me in shorts. Are you crazy? I cannot complain, though, because when I am in South Africa, my tolerance of the cold makes others think I am crazy.

Sights on the Street

Hardly had I put that out of my mind when a lady of a certain age, a sexagenarian at the very least, stepped out of her hotel for a cigarette in a white cardigan, just long enough to cover the detail. You might have to lop off three to four decades to raise any interest.

She was wearing those disposable hotel guest slippers. You want to say to her, “Oh, darling, you should never have stepped out of your hotel room like that.”

Then again, if you have a nicotine addiction, what is the cold or decency, when you need to light up and feel the warmth of your lungs filled with smoke? The sun is shining, we are in double figures, and from everything I can see on the street, there is another man in shorts whilst everyone else is behaving.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Augmenting Humanity with AI Tools - Q1 2026

2026-04-11T19:43:00.006+01:00

AI as a Productive Tool

I hope my use of AI reveals some of the beneficial elements of technology against the concerns that this development might deplete, displace, or delete the significance of our humanity in the daily narrative of human living.

For me, AI is a tool, helping my productivity at work and augmenting other skill areas as a timesaving resource that can be deployed for various activities. For instance, I would explain an issue or a scenario to an AI chatbot and ask if it had any ideas towards troubleshooting an incident or a problem.

AI would provide knowledge and background on the issue before suggesting several steps to follow towards a resolution. The kind of engagement I have, which is known as prompt engineering, is casually conversational and iterative.

At times, I might even ask AI to combine all my previous prompts in a conversation thread into a comprehensive prompt, whilst taking cognisance of other factors I may not have considered before.

Refining My Writing Voice

Besides that, I use AI as a proofreader of my blogs, adjusting for punctuation, spelling, grammar, structure, and flow of thought processes without losing my voice, the context, or the intent.

All this includes asking for feedback and ideas to extend the conversation in future writings.

AI-Generated Podcasts: A Revelation

However, where I have gained the most fascination with AI is in the use of AI-generated podcasts based on the blogs I have written in 2026. Using the Audio Overview of Google's NotebookLM, I have created podcasts discussing each individual blog with an in-depth conversation between two agents.

To garner a more thematic review, I have also had podcasts made covering the range of blogs written in each month of 2026. For the 21 blogs published in January, there is a one-hour podcast discussion, and for the 13 blogs written in each of February and March, the podcasts are under 45 minutes.

I am impressed by how AI creates a narrative arc that connects the dots between my blogs in ways I never realised were linked. It can only help me understand how to better express myself.

Whilst there are minor, aesthetic errors of comprehension (such as AI thinking I had radiotherapy in Cape Town or tea with my mother in Pinelands, from the January and March podcasts respectively), I see no need to redo them to eliminate those infractions.

Acknowledging AI's Limitations

AI can be inaccurate, and what we must not do is ignore these errors but address them through review, acknowledgement, then notification or correction where possible.

There are many other ends to which I deploy AI mechanics, but the ones mentioned here are the standout attributions for which I am grateful.

AI is giving my staid two-decade-old blog a stake in multimedia interaction; I can only hope there are readers and listeners with a long enough attention span to enjoy the experience and comment with their views.

Thank you.

An AI discussion podcast
on blogs published in January 2026
Chronicles of Resilience and Reflection

An AI discussion podcast
on blogs published in February 2026
Dignity, Deserts, and the Prostate Chronicles

An AI discussion podcast
on blogs published in March 2026
Observations on Identity, Transit, and Digital Modernisation

Hidden in Plain Sight at Manchester Cathedral

2026-04-06T19:56:00.004+01:00

Easter Sunday at Manchester Cathedral

For Easter Sunday yesterday, I attended the sung Eucharist at Manchester Cathedral, presided over by the Dean, with the Bishop of Manchester as preacher. According to the service pamphlet, the Bishop now holds the additional title of Professor.

After the service, whilst the organist played out the proceedings, I spoke with some visitors to the church: a man and his daughter from South Carolina. Later, I met another visitor, of whom I made no intrusive enquiry, but shared a few nuggets about the cathedral's history and peculiarities.

Hidden Histories in Plain Sight

As I queued for a cup of tea, I looked up and noticed a plaque I had never seen before. This is one of the remarkable features of this religious building, which has been situated, renovated, and rebuilt over the span of a millennium: it has become a reliquary of history, people, and events too numerous to see or notice, even if you have attended the cathedral for over a decade.

Moreover, I do not recall my attention ever being drawn to the two things I saw yesterday. These included a colourful set of paintings depicting the Beatitudes, which, in my fascination at the discovery (shared with other long-term congregants who were equally oblivious to them), I forgot to photograph. Perhaps the experience alone is more worthwhile than the need to capture it on imperfect devices.

The Samuel Ogden Connection

The plaque commemorated a name that labels a street close to my accommodation: Samuel Ogden. It has caused intrigue, though not enough curiosity, much like Sir Joseph Whitworth, the 19th-century engineer, entrepreneur, inventor, and philanthropist.

Whitworth lends his name to a major street from which Samuel Ogden Street branches, as well as to a gallery, a hall, and a park, all in Manchester. He also gave his name to a British Standard for screw threads and left a huge bequest to the Christie Hospital.

The plaque commemorates father and son, written in Latin inscription. With no classics scholar friend about to translate it for our understanding, I took a picture and asked AI to transcribe and translate.

Samuel Ogden was a Cambridge-educated priest who held the chair in geography at the university, even though he was not qualified in the discipline. The plaque suggests he was not equal in merit to his father; yet the documented history of the son suggests a man of great achievement and considerable fortune at his demise.

The plaque is primarily about Thomas Ogden, the father, who, according to his son's Wikipedia entry, was a dyer. I can find no other biographical information about Thomas apart from what appears on the plaque itself. It should be read in the context of 18th-century funerary plaques.

The Ogden plaque - Manchester Cathedral

The Latin transcription

M · S ·

THOMÆ OGDEN

Mancuniensis,
Indole generosâ,
Moribus suavissimis,
Sermonis comitate, lepore, modestia,
cæterisque humanioribus virtutibus adornati:
eminente inter alias Pietate;
primum erga Parentes,
quos ætate confectos,
e pluribus natis minimus,
ad se recepit, observavit, extulit:
deinde erga Filium unicum,
SAMUELEM OGDEN,
quem tractavit educavitque liberalissimè:
qui vicissim illi,
non meritis parem,
lubenti certè animo,
gratiam referebat.

Ob: Anno { Dom: 1766.
Ætat: 75.

The English translation

Sacred to the memory of
Thomas Ogden,
a native of Manchester,

Of noble character,
most gentle in manners,
adorned with courtesy in speech, wit, modesty,
and the other refined virtues;
distinguished above all for his devotion:

First toward his parents,
whom, worn out by age,
though himself the youngest of many children,
he received into his care, attended, and supported;

Then toward his only son,
Samuel Ogden,
whom he treated and educated most generously;

And he in return,
though not equal to his father in merit,
yet with willing heart
gratefully repaid him.

He died in the Year of our Lord 1766,
aged 75.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Eyes Lined Up

2026-04-05T00:00:00.005+01:00

The Art of Making Up One's Mind

I cannot recall where, but I read a quote that gave me a wry smile, probably decades ago, which said, “I put lipstick on my forehead to make up my mind.”

Make-up as applied by people could be to accentuate the positive, conceal the unseemly, or exaggerate the bizarre. I wouldn't know, as I use neither lipstick nor blusher, but I have my mind made up about a few things.

A Modern Avon Lady

After paying for groceries this evening at Aldi, I walked past a cashier at one of the checkouts and my eyes were drawn to hers, as they were marked out with dark eyeliner; you could not miss them. I thought she might be a quintessential Aldi lady, in profession and looks, borrowing the idea of Avon ladies from a time before.

Canal Street’s Spectacle

Then on Canal Street in Manchester, the centre of the Gay Village, there are lots of female impersonators or drag queens in desperately outlandish make-up, and the less said of their apparel and high-heeled footwear that would commit the sensible to the emergency room of an orthopaedic hospital, the better. They regale us with offers of cheap drinks to patronise the clubs they represent.

I am left wondering whether this is for them a profession they get paid for or just a hobby. I had a fascination for that subculture and their performances in the early 1990s, but I am much less enamoured by the spectacle today.

From Subculture to Mainstream

Yet, this genre has gained global reality television popularity in the drag race competitions started by RuPaul. One such drag queen from Manchester was a runner-up in the inaugural UK series.

In my view, no self-respecting woman would go to the extent of a drag queen, except perhaps ladies of a certain persuasion of questionable repute. Yet, in the case of the drag queen I saw on my way home, there was both eyeliner and eyeshadow that would make Nefertiti blush.

The Fine Line Between Art and Excess

The use of make-up can be abused, and it does get abused to garish and grotesque levels. Some end up quite ghoulish, enough to put you to great fright if observed in dim light. However, all we can do is be entertained from a distance. We wouldn’t want to be represented by them so closely that the association becomes difficult and inconvenient.

On Spectacle and Proximity

There's something revealing about our relationship with spectacle. We’re drawn to what's unusual, extreme, even outrageous, yet we instinctively maintain a boundary between observation and involvement. A rather blunt Yoruba saying captures this tension: “A mad man is a sight to watch in the marketplace, but not a joy to have as a relation.”

The proverb isn’t really about madness; it's about how we engage with what lies outside our norms. We watch, we’re entertained, perhaps even fascinated, but we preserve distance. It’s an honest, if uncomfortable, acknowledgement of how most of us actually behave towards those we find bewildering or excessive.

Yet this instinct towards separation deserves examination. We may counter it with the humbling reflection of John Bradford: “There but for the grace of God go I.” We are no better than the other but for grace, mercy, and fortune. What separates the observer from the observed may be nothing more than circumstance, upbringing, or mere chance.

This is not a critique or a celebration, just a neutral observation inviting conversation and opinion.

Blog - I wear lipstick (November 2005)

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

A Woman Archbishop: Reflections

2026-04-04T01:38:00.004+01:00

A Historic Moment

Watching the enthronement of the new Archbishop of Canterbury left me with both a sense of awe and the resignation of acceptance. When the last Archbishop resigned in November 2024, it did occur to me that there was a likelihood the next person appointed to the office might radically shift from the norm, a woman perhaps.

I stated then that I was not particularly ready for that kind of change when the Church of England had only begun appointing female bishops barely a decade ago. Yet, with my Pentecostal exposure, I was already familiar with women teaching from the pulpit and leading Christian ministries.

Tradition and Change

The traditions of the Church of England have a history, constancy, and stability that I felt should not be defined by speed, but by the gentle persuasion of clergy and laity alike towards necessary aims. Obviously, there have been insurmountable issues in certain provinces of the global Anglican Communion: the ordination of women priests, the issue of sexual orientation, and the blessing of same-sex unions. The conversation must continue, even if agreement remains distant.

Generally, I have accepted the ministry of women in the Church of England, as canons, priests, archdeacons, and bishops. I also recognise that at ordinations, a separate service attends to those who do not accept the ministry of women, with a flying bishop of that persuasion presiding in that setting. I must confess, I have only seen female bishops in the media; I have never met one or been in a service with them in attendance.

The Ceremony Itself

The enthronement service brought the spectacle of religion, politics, and ceremony, along with the pomp and pageantry that the English excel at exhibiting. Representatives of all the different religious communities attended, including the Bishop of Ebbsfleet, one of those flying bishops of a different persuasion mentioned earlier.

For all the acclamation and pronouncements, I was surprised that the ceremony included no laying on of hands. It was more the dainty holding of a hand.

Moving Forward

This process was one in which I had no influence, apart from individually deciding whether appointing a woman as Archbishop sat well with my belief system. There was enough precedent in other provinces to suggest this would settle down into a kind of détente that demands both dexterity and political nous from the office holder.

I know I won't be rushing out to a service presided over by The Most Reverend and Right Honourable Dame Sarah Mullally DBE, yet I wish her term is blessed with success and the reconciliation of the church in whatever way possible. May we, in our misgivings or concerns, see the grace and beauty in what we as mere mortals fail to appreciate in the growth of the church.

Blog - England: We have a new Archbishop of Canterbury, she's a woman

Blog - Losing my religion in this reformation split

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

The Three Musketeers running errands blind

2026-03-28T12:03:00.004+00:00

The Three Shopping Musketeers

The amusing appearance of the three musketeers, or so it seemed, as these three men were sent on errands by their spouses to shop at an ethnic grocery and foodstuffs store. They wheeled the trolley with the dexterity of a Formula 1 driver, but the filling of it resembled the discombobulation of three blind mice on the run after their tails were cut.

For one, they appeared entirely out of their depth, clearly in alien territory and unsure of what they needed to get. They were constantly on the phone with someone, trying to describe items to ascertain the right thing to put in the basket.

If that task were not hard enough, the banter between them at the butcher's counter, where they attempted to display their knowledge of meats, revealed more about their dilettantism than any genuine expertise.

Lost in the Aisles

I engaged them, asking why their wives were not doing the shopping and whether they were aware of the measures, weights, packaging or containers for whatever they were getting. They were lost in aisle after aisle, perambulating without the focus of a shopper with intent. If the trolley had an odometer, the mileage counter would have had someone asking if they had been to Timbuktu and back.

There they were, in full recognition of their helplessness, yet the most important thing they could have done is what deserts men when they need it most: ask a question, get clarification, seek understanding, all of which does not suggest stupidity but curiosity.

In this, The Three Musketeers had brought to light the loyalty of their friendship, the bravery of doing something outside their abilities, the camaraderie of men lost in a store, and the swashbuckling adventure with a trolley now delirious from whirling around the aisles.

All for One

Maybe I should have offered to help if they had betrayed the slightest vulnerability, but bravado was on display without any sign of winning, and I found much mirth at their expense. It would have been impolite to insert myself because they were perfectly representing the “All for one, and one for all” motto of The Three Musketeers.

As I was leaving the store, I intimated that it would be closing in 30 minutes and they had better hurry up, or they would be pulling down the shutters with nothing to show for their, what's the word now? Excursion!

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Heritage Without Nostalgia

2026-03-20T18:01:00.001+00:00

Observing Heritage from a Distance

Two events this month should have created a kind of nostalgia in me, but I seriously failed to be excited about either. I had become an observer of sorts of elements that have formed part of my identity.

Whilst in Cape Town, there was the Commonwealth Day Service at Westminster Abbey on the 9^th of March, and then yesterday came the conclusion of the first UK state visit in 37 years by a West African head of state, the Nigerian one. [The Royal Family: State Visit by The President and First Lady of Nigeria]

The first event gained significance through someone I follow on Twitter/X who had been invited to a reception at St James's Palace, though he could not attend because he was indisposed. As an activist for Nigerian immigrant causes, he had become prominent enough to be noticed and recognised as an important Nigerian diaspora figure.

For the state banquet at Windsor Castle, several people of Nigerian heritage were invited to represent the Nigerian community, many of whom have stronger roots in the United Kingdom than in Nigeria.

An English Identity

My living parents are Nigerian, but I was born in England, and though I have strong influences of Nigeria in my identity framework, I do not identify as such. To any question about where I am from, I respond that I am an Englishman, and I am originally from England.

This is reinforced by the fact that two-thirds of my life has been spent in Europe. Even for ethnic purposes, I would describe myself as Black English rather than the typical Black British or Black African.

This distinction matters to me because Black British functions as an umbrella term that groups together vastly different backgrounds and experiences, often implying a hyphenated identity or connection to a diaspora narrative.

Black English, by contrast, centres my English identity as primary. It asserts that I am English who happens to be Black, rather than suggesting divided loyalties or perpetual newcomer status.

The choice is deliberate: it reflects where I was born, where I belong, and how I understand myself. It challenges the assumption that Blackness and Englishness are somehow contradictory, and it refuses to accept that “English” is synonymous with “white.” For someone like me, whose connection to Nigeria exists more in memory than in meaningful attachment, this specificity matters.

The Outsider's Accent

I can reminisce about aspects of childhood and development that have served me well from having lived in Nigeria, yet for the simple reason that I had an accent, I was always an outsider.

That accent was no affectation; it was the sound of my formative years, the linguistic imprint of the England where I first learned to speak, to think, to understand the world. By the time we moved to Nigeria, my identity architecture was already established.

The English pronunciation I arrived with immediately identified me as different. In the playground, in the classroom, even within extended family gatherings, the way I spoke became a constant reminder that I did not belong in the same way others did.

Children would mimic my speech, adults would comment on how I sounded “British” or call me “Òyìnbó,” and I became known as “Ọmọ ìlú Òyìnbó,” the boy born abroad, or more literally, the child born in white-man’s land.

The accent was an audible barrier that no amount of time or adaptation could fully erase, a daily declaration of otherness that shaped my understanding of where I truly belonged.

The irony, of course, is that this very accent that made me perpetually foreign in Nigeria was simply part of the spectrum of English voices from the West Midlands. In Nigeria, I was told daily through reactions to my speech that I was foreign; in England, I simply was.

My parents, who moved from Nigeria to England and back, could navigate both worlds with the fluency of belonging. They spoke the languages without pronounced accents, understood the unspoken rules, carried the cultural memory in their bones. I had none of these inheritances.

Where they were returning home, I was simply living abroad. This distinction, between inherited belonging and biographical accident, crystallised my understanding that identity is not a matter of bloodline but of lived experience and genuine connection.

The experience taught me something fundamental: identity is not about where others place you, but where you place yourself, and where you are recognised as belonging without constant explanation.

Detachment and Memory

In terms of identity, whilst I am interested in what goes on in Nigeria, I am more detached than ever. The closest association nowadays depends on whether my flight between France or the Netherlands and Cape Town flies over the Nigerian landmass, where place names trigger some memory or recognition from more than 50 years ago.

In general, I have determined there is no reason to visit Nigeria since I left over 35 years ago. I have the name, I have the influences, I have the memories, but the nostalgia has fully settled into obsolescence and insignificance.

Gratitude Without Nostalgia

Yet I love that Nigeria was part of my upbringing because it strengthened elements of self-identity, self-esteem, and self-respect. For that alone, I am grateful for the Nigerian experience, as it reinforces the context and sense of who I am.

God bless Nigeria, for when things are going well in Nigeria, there is less anxiety for all of us associated, even in the remotest sense, with Nigeria.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Addressing A Marble-Sized Problem

2026-03-19T10:48:00.003+00:00

An Unexpected Medical Crisis

One situation the day before necessitated a visit to the Accident & Emergency Department of Manchester Royal Infirmary yesterday morning. A 30-minute walk home from work took the best part of 75 minutes.

I was tired, shuffling my feet, and enduring discomfort and pain in the groin area. At first, I thought it was tissue bruising or chafing until a shower inspection suggested it might be something more serious. It was hard and needed checking out.

First Impressions at A&E

On arrival at A&E, I observed a patient with what appeared to be two cannulations visible beneath the long sleeve on his right arm. He had come outside to smoke. Whilst I am usually baffled by such behaviour, I am coming to understand that the hold smoking addiction has over people, regardless of their health condition, requires extraordinary intervention to overcome.

The triage process included a referral to the Urgent Treatment Centre (UTC), with a waiting time of about 40 minutes. The nurse at reception who registered me for treatment shares the same birthday as I do, though I was polite enough not to ask about her year of birth.

We both agreed that, through the generations, getting separate presents for birthdays between 21 December and Christmas was a rarity, a trauma carried into adulthood. We had a good laugh about it.

Assessment and Referrals

At the UTC, after exchanging introductory pleasantries, I was examined on a gurney. The assessment indicated that I had a swelling, quite possibly an abscess, and I was being referred to the Ambulatory Care Unit (ACU). By this time, my bearings within the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital had been lost, though following the directions proved helpful enough.

At the ACU, the nurse examined the groin area. In all cases, the nurses were female, and I had no qualms about having my privates reviewed in a medical setting. The abscess was still quite solid and showed no indication of producing pus. However, she did attempt to squeeze it to obtain a culture sample. That was exceedingly painful, but needs must.

Afterwards, she took two vials of blood following a second intravenous insertion and wrote a prescription for co-amoxiclav, to be taken three times a day for a week.

Navigating the Hospital Complex

The pharmacy was located in the Manchester Royal Eye Hospital. The best directions I received came from a helpful porter who said, “Go on until all the signs turn yellow and you're at your destination.” After registering my prescription order (free for two reasons: I have been a registered cancer patient within the last five years, and I am over 60), I went to the toilet.

There, I was able to examine the problem more closely. It was the size of a marble, with a bit of hardened tissue extending from the ball of the abscess. This is medically known as the inguinal region or, more specifically, the inguinoscrotal region. Because the abscess sits within this crease, friction and rubbing exacerbate the pain, affecting the way I walk as I try to minimise the discomfort.

Managing the Pain

Even after taking pain medication, the pain was such that I was almost bent over double whilst walking around my flat. I tried a hot compress last night and plan to do so again this morning. However, I have been advised that if this abscess does not clear up within a few days, I should return to A&E to have it incised and drained. This is not a prospect I am looking forward to.

For now, I am indisposed and taking bed rest, having padded the area with some cotton wool.

My visit to A&E, from triage to collecting my prescription, took less than four hours.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

How Charles de Gaulle Fails Woefully at Customer Assistance

2026-03-16T00:15:00.006+00:00

An Experience Best Forgotten

My experience at Charles de Gaulle (CDG) Airport in Paris yesterday evening is one to be forgotten for all time. As someone who has used a walking cane for decades, this airport poorly manages access for those with mobility issues. The walks are long, lifts are usually out of service, and toilets are rarely situated near where you need them.

After radiotherapy treatment for prostate cancer in 2024, I have requested airport Customer Assistance for all legs of my journey, but this is the first time I have passed through CDG. In Manchester, Amsterdam, and Cape Town, beyond the issue with easily accessible toilets for those in the assistance pool, there was information, consideration, assistance, and personnel to do the job.

Unprepared and Understaffed

Even though Air France-KLM was aware of my request for almost three months, their preparedness for it at CDG left much to be desired. We arrived at the end of a 12-hour flight from Cape Town, and there was no one at the gate to collect the three of us who needed assistance. I had to ask the flight crew what the situation was.

I was assured they would be with us soon, but one lady arrived with a wheelchair to convey three of us. She applied almost octopus-like skill to laden herself with our carry-on luggage, and we basically had to walk the few hundred yards through security to the waiting area. The information was muddled and unclear, but we waited until a shuttle bus arrived.

Neither Voice Nor Agency

Our boarding passes were in the hands of the personnel, being passed around between them to our collective discomfort. Each time, someone had to ask if the boarding passes were still around. Many of the personnel we encountered at this international airport spoke to us in French. It was uncomfortable.

In the end, we resigned ourselves to the fact that we would be delivered to wherever we needed to be, because our incapacity seemed to be a debilitating disability for which we had neither voice nor agency. Delivered to the gate, my boarding pass was checked, but I was barely noticed when we were asked to board.

A Systemic Failure

From this experience, if you have mobility issues, CDG must be avoided at all costs. This is not an issue with the people at the front line delivering the service; rather, it is a management failure laid bare. Totally unacceptable and utterly despicable. "Appalled" does not begin to describe what should warrant the high point of a one-star review of this service—dishonest at best.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Essential Snobbery 101: An Event of Masticating Disturbance

2026-03-16T00:04:00.002+00:00

The Democracy of Discomfort

What air travel does for you, especially when you travel in the majority classes where affordability trumps convenience and comfort, is select companions of interest as your neighbours.

At times when means provided the exclusive choice of turning left and the courtesy of being addressed by name, a single window seat in a cabin configuration of 1x2x1, or four abreast, offered isolation, comfort, and luxuriant full reclination in the bargain of the deal.

Here, with ten abreast in a 3x4x3 configuration, all senses are stressed in the accommodation of noise, discomfort, and literal invisibility. However, even in this, one must be thankful.

The Silence of Economy

It is strange how people keep to themselves here more than in the other place, where conversation and networking suggest they are enjoying the flight. It must be in the accoutrements of first calling at the lounge before boarding, and knowing that comfort seems to eliminate self-absorption.

On my outbound flight, it was a lady slamming her tray back that I had to remonstrate. Just beyond belief. Whatever finishing school she attended did not bother to start, as there was nothing there to groom.

Now, on my return flight, a relative of the same has, by the good fortune of random seat selection, ended up behind me.

The Rustling Rodent

The peculiar noise is one of rustling, a wrapper perhaps of biscuits, but louder and incessant to the point of utter distraction. Whatever it was, the fidgety so-and-so was a nuisance. To top it up, she began eating, and each crunch of her mandibles was a cacophonous clatter that made me imagine a rodent gnawing at some discarded waste. If only I had a mousetrap to put an end to my misery.

Indeed, the imponderable seating arrangement does juxtapose you with surprises in the most polite assessment of things.

Brief Respite, Then Resume

Once the food trolley had laid out the food with wooden cutlery that delivered an osmotic extraction of the remnant taste in aircraft food, the rustling stopped. The rodent, with a bellyful of contentment and just the hum of the aircraft engines, signified peace at last.

Halfway into our 12h20 flight, the rustling began again with the accompaniment reminiscent of feeding time at the zoo. The munching of Capuchin monkeys picking at a snack brought the sudden recall of 'The Vulture' by Hilaire Belloc that I could have passed to the lady in smart calligraphy on card, a lesson to us all, changing the pronouns for effect.

The Vulture eats between her meals,
And that's the reason why
She very, very, rarely feels
As well as you and I.

Her eye is dull, her head is bald,
Her neck is growing thinner.
Oh! what a lesson for us all
To only eat at dinner!

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Riding Reclined: Cape Town Transport Tales

2026-03-12T07:29:00.003+00:00

Cape Town Adventures

Last week, Cape Town reached the climax of preparations for the 109 km Cape Town Cycle Tour 2026. The weekend before saw Cape Town Pride, with us all congregating after the march at the Green Point Track. What a beautiful day it was.

However, I bring up cycling because something about our Uber rides around Cape Town reminds me of recumbent bicycles: those reclined, lumbar-supported seats that seem to make a statement rather than suggest healthy reasons.

The Recumbent Tendency

I haven't seen one around town, but this tendency has caught my attention. I sit behind drivers when travelling with Brian, and I have noticed that nearly all of them recline their seats as far back as legally permitted. It makes me think they want to be riding recumbent bicycles.

To my memory, only one driver kept their seat upright; we rode with him last night. You might assume the reason for reclining seats is to accommodate larger drivers, and some could do with weight management.

However, even the apparently fit and trim have adopted this relaxed habit, reclining comfortably at the expense of their passengers. I could ask the driver to adjust their seat, but I would rather have a comfortable driver enjoying their music and being happy with their settings than interfere and create an awkward situation. It is within my rights to request this, but I prefer not to.

MyCiTi Bus System

Beyond Uber, our main transportation option, we tried the MyCiTi mass transit bus system for the first time. We travelled from Woodbridge to the Waterfront. The bus took its own route, avoiding traffic, which was a marvel. It was safe and comfortable, and as I boarded, someone gave up their seat for me.

All it required was tapping in at the bus station and tapping out when we alighted. I suspect adventure might take us to other places as we explore the different bus routes around Cape Town. The MyCiTi system does not yet serve Pinelands, but Brian pointed out that bus stop signs indicate that the service is coming this way in the not-too-distant future.

Coastal Exploration and Train Journey

On Tuesday, which turned out to be the hottest day of our sojourn (bar yesterday, when residents were advised to stay indoors), we went out to Muizenberg. Starting from Sunrise Beach, we walked all the way down to Muizenberg Beach. After a meal, we continued past Rhodes Cottage Museum to St James.

Just seeing the traffic on the main road was dispiriting enough to rule out hailing a cab back home. The ticket office was closed as the train arrived. Without any clear knowledge of the network, we boarded a clean, though busy, train all the way to Observatory, as it was the only place we recognised on that route to Cape Town.

We kept track of our journey using Google Maps as the train indicators were not working. Nineteen stops it was, and it would have cost us ZAR 12. Unfortunately, there was no one to either check tickets with or purchase them from, so it became a free ride. [ZAR - South African Rand ($1 = ZAR 16.59) (£1 = ZAR 22.20)]

As we alighted at Observatory, I saw the penalty notice: ZAR 40 for not having a valid ticket. We had a good excuse. The St James ticket office was open longer hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but on other weekdays, it closed at 13:30. We boarded that train at 17:28.

Final Thoughts on Public Transport

Getting on both the bus and the train has been something we have considered during our previous stays, but reviews of the services suggest dangerous and safety concerns for non-residents.

In our experience, it was safe, comfortable, and affordable: something worth trying where the service exists, especially during the day. At night-time, though, I would have my misgivings.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

How AI Helped Me Update My Ancient Blog Template

2026-03-11T08:43:00.005+00:00

Modernising My Blog Template

This idea had been on my mind for a few days. I was encouraged to go ahead with it after I read that the CTO of Microsoft Azure, Mark Russinovich, had reviewed some assembler code he wrote for the Apple II 6502 processor in 1986 using Anthropic's Claude Opus 4.6 AI model. It had read, analysed, and then found bugs in the code. [ZDNet: AI is getting scary good at finding hidden software bugs - even in decades-old code]

That was enough for me to consider reviewing the Google Blogger template that serves my blog. Though I started my blog in 2003, I started publishing on Google Blogger around 2007 and migrated the content from an old hosting service between 2010 and 2012.

Blog - Brick by heavy brick (August 2010)

The Analysis Process

I grabbed the HTML code with all its CSS yesterday and asked Anthropic's Claude Sonnet 4.6 to examine, analyse, and explain it before recommending how to update and optimise the code.

The codebase was 2,307 lines with 94,125 characters. It identified the time frame in which the template was created, from the code patterns of that era, breaking down the elements into ten sections and identifying what function each performed. It then analysed the different versions of HTML used, and I had code from HTML1 to HTML4 littered throughout the template.

Key Improvements Implemented

About ten minutes later, it addressed thirteen elements as shown below:

Suggested Changes to my Google Blogger Template

Then I asked it to integrate all the suggested changes into a comprehensive new code to use as my updated template:

Remove duplicate legacy _gaq analytics block at the bottom
Remove gtag('config', 'UA-7677511-4') from GA4 block
Remove Alexa verification tag
Remove IE9 compatibility tag
Update Twitter embed format
Fix HTTP email icon to HTTPS
Make description meta tag dynamic
Add Open Graph and Twitter Card meta tags
Update Google Custom Search script
Remove obsolete Google Stars code
Remove obsolete CSS vendor prefixes (the -moz-border-radius, -webkit-, -goog-ms- prefixes)
Remove revisit-after and keywords meta tags
Update language translation widget to Google Translate Widget

The Result

With comments inserted to show where changes were made, I ended up with 2,272 lines and 87,382 characters. I have 1,000,000 points allocated for my monthly subscription to Poe.com, and I was charged extra points to process this activity. The initial analysis cost $0.17 (5,765 points), the integration was $0.65 (21,721 points), and the final user interface and experience element was $0.17 (5,765 points), totalling $0.99 (33,251 points).

Fine-Tuning the Translation Widget

What I was given from the Google Translate Widget was a list of all languages without the possibility of scrolling to the right after languages beginning with the letter M. I asked the AI model to review the code, first explaining the situation and posing the question: "Is there a way to select a language by typing in the first letter and then being given a list to select from?"

This was fixed by adding the option to start typing letters from a language name; the user is then presented with a list of languages to translate to.

Safety and Verification

Obviously, as a precaution (because I have read about AI causing problems like wiping out databases and such like), I made a backup of the template before I started anything, and I have made copies over time to ensure I can revert to status quo ante.

The Google Blogger Theme customisation tool also has a preview function. Critically, I wanted to retain the look and feel of my blog, regardless of the changes made. This meant I could check that everything was in the right place before committing to changing the template.

Conclusion

I suppose the time and cost that using AI has saved in updating the template is the key point here. This was all done within 30 minutes for $0.99 (£0.74), which is remarkable.

There is increasing trust in using AI models and tools, but you must always verify, check, and reverify before using AI-reviewed code in any environment, whether personal, experimental, or production.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Sipping the Hazards of Earl Grey

2026-03-10T07:22:00.003+00:00

A Chance Encounter

It must be a kind of hazard going shopping with your mother, or that is how we felt for the young man yesterday as we stopped for a pot of Earl Grey tea and a slice of too-creamy carrot cake.

We took the table beside two white ladies who wouldn't look out of place at a seaside café in Eastbourne, England, and we have seen quite a few ladies in Pinelands that remind me of home.

It is that quiet sophistication of a Laura Ashley print dress, very sensible shoes, hair somewhere between Margaret Thatcher and the late Queen, lip-defining lipstick without drawing too much attention, and costume jewellery giving airs of pearl for a necklace and earrings.

The Retired Teachers

Every younger lady who walked by seemed to know them. Without trying to be a Miss Marple, I suspect they were retired teachers, as you do not become that well known without being invested in the community. If I had wanted to engage them in conversation, I might have used the angle of familiarity to start one.

The only exchange between us was them asking if we had enough space to sit at the table. However, I could not grasp any snippets of their conversation except when they interacted with passers-by.

An Overheard Exchange

Just before our tea arrived, a middle-aged lady with a tallish young man came by, and beyond the greetings a longer conversation unfolded. From what ensued, one could surmise that he was her son. Quite soft-spoken and almost sheepishly shy, we soon found one of the ladies updating her database of facts about him.

We learnt his name, that he had just completed a master's degree, and that he had a British passport. Yet in the context of that exchange, even with the apparent privilege of being Caucasian in South Africa, there was the feeling that this country did not offer him a promising future. This young man was to set sail, though not on an Elder Dempster ocean liner, to the United Kingdom to seek his fortune.

Contrasting Perspectives

I contrast this with the idea that I seek to set up home, live, and retire in South Africa, as I see opportunities and possibilities where the locals appear not to. However, the broader point, as summarised by my partner, is the danger of meeting old ladies in a public space.

Before you know it, a catalogue of your life is revealed to strangers who might make a blog of it. Poor Joseph.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

The Carties: Cape Town's Informal Waste Economy

2026-03-09T08:54:00.003+00:00

An Unexpected Urban Economy

For the first time, I have noticed the clip-clop of horse hooves at the places we have stayed, including one brief, unintelligible interaction with a member of a three-person team sitting on a horse-drawn cart.

In Rugby, they rode along the streets from the boisterous commercial areas to the quiet residential zones, keeping to the slow lane on busy roads. The horse moved at a canter, not at speed to reach any particular destination, but at a measured pace suited to their work.

The Carties of the Western Cape

The old British term for such operators is rag-and-bone man, but here they are called "carties", and they are apparently quite prominent in the Western Cape. What surprised me was that the horses were blinkered. These carties collect waste or scrap, or offer a collection service, then sell their findings to processing or redemption centres.

This is quintessentially informal trade. The carties operate outside formal business structures, yet perform an essential service within the waste economy. They navigate a curious space between spontaneous enterprise and regulated activity; waste collection, even when conducted informally, is subject to stringent regulations.

Survival and Welfare

My interest in this was sparked by wondering how these carties survive and what provisions are in place for animal welfare. Our concerns were allayed when we discovered the Cart Horse Protection Association, which provides equine welfare and veterinary services to this informal industry.

Beyond my curiosity, this represents an acknowledgement of a trade structure that operates in the margins yet deserves support for both the people and the animals involved. I would hope there are opportunities to create pathways for progression for those who have worked in this informal and difficult sector for generations.

These operators have built a livelihood from what others discard, creating an economic network largely invisible to formal commerce. Yet it provides both income and environmental service, quite different from council-operated domestic refuse collection.

Then Back at Home

Whilst the rag-and-bone trade no longer exists to my knowledge in Great Britain, the opportunities to dispose of domestic goods, electricals, and furniture are quite fraught, expensive, and punitive. Making individual provision for such disposal leads to the unfortunate illegal activity of fly-tipping.

Perhaps what Britain lost when the rag-and-bone men disappeared was not just a quaint tradition, but a functional safety valve for household waste that formal systems have failed to adequately replace.

Regulating Informal Waste Activities in Cape Town [PDF]

GroundUp: Putting the horse before the cart

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Trafficking Suspicions on Sunday Morning

2026-03-08T20:56:00.001+00:00

Morning Preparations

Getting up early this morning for church, we had a few things to do before leaving, like preparing the apartment for cleaning. The owner was coming whilst we were out to change the linen and sort out the Wi-Fi password, amongst other things. What a job she did when we returned.

However, following my last blog, I might be persuaded to act, though I am still considering the implications. This is the situation.

Blog - Flies on the Wall of Evil

An Unusual Pickup

We hailed an Uber Comfort cab to take us to church. Upon confirmation, it was to arrive in seven minutes. When it arrived, it did not drive up to the pickup point but parked further down at the junction with the main road. I had to send him a message asking him to drive up the road.

Meanwhile, Brian walked up to speak to the driver, only to find that he was not in the car; he had stepped into the corner shop to get something. By then, I had walked up to the car, and the driver told us he had gone into the shop.

In an ideal situation, the driver should have come to pick us up and then asked to get something from the shop, or sent us a message saying he was delayed before picking us up. Parking the car down the street without following clear Uber directions and not informing us was rather off.

I did not question his need to go shopping, but where he stopped bothered me, since every other Uber that has picked us up or dropped us off at our residence has always driven up the road to the apartment block entrance. Apart from his explanation, there was no apology.

Falling Short of Comfort Standards

Now, an Uber Comfort cab is supposed to be a better car: well-maintained, usually air-conditioned, and driven by someone you can engage in conversation with. The slightly higher cost is not just a luxury proposition, but comfort and ease with some personality.

Yet here we were in a car with a nonchalant driver. The vehicle was not clean, there was no conversation or engagement, and the driving was just passable. Evidently, this driver did not own the vehicle.

In appearance and demeanour, we had every negative feeling on this ride experience, and that is as much as was volunteered to me in our conversations on the passenger back seats. From the music playing on the radio, it was again Shona, and from his manner, this was probably someone from the rural areas of Zimbabwe.

A Troubling Possibility

Putting two and two together, could we have just met someone trafficked from Zimbabwe, driving for a syndicate of gangmasters who are exploiting the vulnerable for profit? Every indication would suggest that to be the case. For that reason, I could not give him a low rating, and even if he were tipped, the money would probably not end up in his pocket.

The options in the Uber app to “Report safety issue” do not include the kind of concern I want to raise. It does make me wonder if Uber is in any way aware of the issue covered in my other blog post about syndicates registering vehicles with fake identities and trafficking drivers to South Africa to work for slavery wages.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Flies on the Wall of Evil

2026-03-05T08:20:00.001+00:00

Discovering Hidden Routes

We too easily see a place through one perspective, but last week, because of our proximity to Century City in Cape Town, we decided to walk a network of routes from Rugby to the Canal Walk Shopping Centre, which had been the focus of our visits many times before.

After visiting the shopping centre, on our walk back, we bought MyCiTi bus passes in anticipation of using the public bus rapid transit service that we had been shy of approaching in the preceding seven years of staying in Cape Town. However, it was a panel of pictures showing how Century City had evolved since the 1990s that caught our attention, though we were too tired to explore further.

Century City: The History of Century City

A Second Chance

In our move to Pinelands, we could have dismissed this opportunity again, but proximity once more compelled us, not so much to walk it, but to get an Uber from Pinelands to the shopping centre, explore the walkways of Century City, and then walk through Rugby and Milnerton to Woodbridge Island.

It was during this plan that we became flies on the wall of two encounters that left us saddened by the malicious and malevolent intentions of others.

An Uncomfortable Ride

The Uber that took us to the shopping centre was supposed to be a cool, comfortable ride, but for the duration of the journey, the driver was in conversation on the phone. I did not understand anything of what he was saying, but could hear bits about sums of money being pushed about. You could immediately recognise he was involved in some sort of deal.

His name was Trust, but I would pray that no one, and especially Uber, should be trusting him. Had we known what he was up to, we would not have trusted his picking us up either. Whilst we were delivered to our destination safely, he was speaking Shona, one of the major languages of Zimbabwe, which he probably assumed none of us understood, but Brian did. With whoever he was chatting to, they were planning a number of exploitative and manipulative schemes.

Schemes of Exploitation

The first was to register a number of cars with fake identities on the Uber platform, then traffic people from rural areas in Zimbabwe to drive the cars with the aim of paying them poverty or slavery wages as they drove endless hours to bring money home for these chaps with pretensions to being crime bosses.

In the words of Trust, and I paraphrase, "Just put a plate of food before them and they'll be happy as Larry." They had every intention to mistreat, abuse, exploit, and deal wickedly with whoever they were able to entice with the bright lights of South Africa.

A Difficult Decision

I learnt all this after our ride, to which I suggested Brian should have exited with a greeting in Shona, just to let him know we were onto him. Obviously, there was no possibility of us giving him five stars for his service, even if he did not carry out his evil intentions, but we were left in a quandary as to whether to report this encounter to Uber and how to frame what we understood had happened.

Another Overheard Conversation

No sooner had we begun our walk beyond the territory of the shopping centre into Century City proper than there was another wheeler and dealer on the phone. I do not think he was planning a new magic trick for his next performance, but he probably works in one of the offices in Century City. He confided in his interlocutor on the other end of the call about how he had to try to make four million South African rand disappear.

I doubt we'll recognise him, as we only heard him as he walked by us in the opposite direction, and the disappearance of the money can only pertain to him having view of, or access to, that money somewhere in an organisation and scheming to thieve or embezzle it.

The Audacity of Evil

It did make us wonder about both the audacity of calumny and the recklessness of incriminating conversations that others think no one is hearing. These are thoughts that should never emerge as words spoken when there is a conscience alive in us, even if barely so. In both cases, we saw the clear sign that the love of money is indeed the root of all evil.

It is quite likely there are many instances of human trafficking, people exploitation, and embezzlement as we visit places around Cape Town that we are totally oblivious to. Yesterday, I gave a tip to a server in an establishment where the personification of Cruella de Vil superintended with vicious verbiage; the server's deep gratitude would suggest something I am unready to countenance.

The question is, who will stop these evil people before they implement their rotten plans?

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Thought Picnic: Success, Suffering, and the System That Fails Both

2026-03-02T10:45:00.006+00:00

The Illusion of Success

Sometimes, success appears to be a façade amid emotional turmoil, the vulnerabilities that are part of life's struggle that no one else sees. There is an assumption that if you have the means and cachet to buy anything, then you are suitably supplied to purchase your salvation.

Society simply does not recognise the struggle of the successful as legitimate. There is little sympathy for those who appear to have everything, and this dismissal creates a terrible sense of isolation in which high-achievers quickly learn that their struggles will not be taken seriously.

Misunderstanding Resilience

There is also a misguided understanding of resilience. Indeed, many of us do exhibit herculean feats of resilience against adversity, fighting storms of life that threaten to overwhelm us, but something inside refuses to give. Belief, faith, grit, or sheer guts: we are bowed but not broken, attacked but never defeated. We become the narrative of possibilities that once seemed insurmountable.

Yet this very resilience can become a trap. High-achievers are often driven by perfectionism, a relentless internal standard that demands excellence in all things. Mental illness does not respond to willpower or determination in the way that professional challenges do.

You cannot work harder to overcome depression. You cannot manoeuvre your way out of bipolar disorder. For someone whose identity is built on achievement and competence, seeking help feels like failure, an admission that you are not as capable as you believed yourself to be.

Recent Tragedies

Two stories in recent times have got me thinking that many mental health struggles are barely addressed or are given the stiff-upper-lip treatment of “you'll pull through as you always do”. We give just enough space not to interfere, and then the news drops: those stalwarts of stoicism, or what appeared to be that, have taken their own lives.

Robert Carradine, 71, died by hanging last week; he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I am in South Africa, and I have just read the news that Ian von Memerty, 61, who was Zimbabwe-born and a South African entertainer who hosted some popular television shows, had died by his own hand in Johannesburg. He had long written about the desire to take his own life.

The Reality Behind Success

None of this brings any comfort because these are successful men who had tasted the kinds of worldly success that many could not even dare to dream of, and yet it is their demons that have driven them beyond the edge of despair to suicide. The fact that these men are quite close to my age range also indicates that you probably do not grow out of the things that ail you.

Success often brings its own form of isolation. As you rise in your field, the pool of people who can truly understand your experience shrinks. Your old friends may feel the distance growing. Your new peers may be competitors rather than confidants.

The high-achiever becomes trapped in a gilded cage, surrounded by admirers but profoundly alone. This loneliness compounds mental health struggles, leaving fewer people to turn to, fewer spaces where vulnerability is possible, and fewer relationships where you are seen as a whole person rather than as your achievements.

There are also practical fears that make seeking help feel dangerous. Will your employer question your ability to perform? Will clients lose confidence in you? Will colleagues see you differently?

Despite progress in mental health awareness, significant stigma remains in professional environments. For high-achievers whose identities are deeply intertwined with their professional success, the risk feels existential.

When the System Fails You

Moreover, even when they overcome these barriers and seek help, they often find the available support inadequate for their specific needs. Therapists may struggle to understand the unique pressures of high achievement: the constant scrutiny, the isolation that comes with leadership, the weight of others' expectations.

The two times I have used therapy, because I presented none of the symptoms of depression, suicide, or a mental health crisis, it was felt I was trying to abuse the service. Yet, I had a compelling narrative. I was recovering from cancer, mounting debt meant I was about to lose my home, and my status was rock bottom.

Surely, with such a catastrophic change in life, I was a candidate for therapy. I guess because I had a modicum of coping mechanisms and I was too articulate for my situation, only shocking assertiveness could pierce into the needed support framework.

The scheduling demands of high-achievement careers often conflict with traditional therapy models, yet their chaotic schedules are often part of what is driving their mental health crisis.

Bridging the Gap

It is impossible to tell how much help, consideration, or support Carradine and von Memerty got through their struggles. For their survivors, bridging the gap between the sorrow they feel and appreciating the release that death brought to the suffering of their beloved ones is something you cannot begin to fathom.

Perhaps the most fundamental challenge is the myth of self-sufficiency that high-achievers internalise. They have succeeded through determination, intelligence, and hard work. This creates a belief that they should be able to handle anything, including their own mental health.

Cultural narratives about success emphasise individual agency and resilience, celebrating the self-made person who refused to give up or give in. These narratives leave little room for vulnerability, little space for acknowledging that sometimes, despite all your strength and capability, you need help.

A Personal Reflection

Even with my encounters with suicidal ideation, which I have written about as recently as a month ago, my only prayer still is never to be presented with no other option but to end it all. This is not said from any position of strength, ability, or capacity; rather, it is a recognition of human frailty and vulnerability. We are faced daily with a spectrum of mortality, but for the grace of God, there go we.

Addressing these challenges requires a fundamental shift in how we think about success and mental health. We need to recognise that achievement does not immunise against suffering, that success can indeed be part of what drives mental health crises rather than protecting against them. Until we can create space for high-achievers to be vulnerable, to admit to struggling, to seek help without fear of judgement or professional consequences, we will continue to lose talented, accomplished people to the silent epidemic of mental illness.

The deaths of people like Robert Carradine and Ian von Memerty should serve as a stark reminder that success is no protection against despair. The answer is that success and suffering are not opposites. They can, and often do, coexist. Recognising this uncomfortable truth is the first step towards ensuring that achievement does not become a prison from which the only escape seems to be death.

May their once-bothered souls rest in eternal peace.

Blog - Suicide When Academia Forgets Its Humanity (January 2026)

Blog - Thought Picnic: I think I need therapy (March 2011)

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