Akin Akintayo

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)

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Cape Town Apartment Chronicles

2026-03-02T06:15:00.005+00:00

Making Do in Cape Town

As a writer of blogs, I could write a review and start a travelogue of all the apartments we have stayed in, the restaurants we have visited, and other venues, whether for tourists or not. However, I suspect you are more interested in your holiday than in a commentary, especially about things not going right.

We checked out early from a place in Rugby to take another apartment in Pinelands. This is something we usually do: splitting our living arrangements in two and having an overlapping day to move from one location to another. Only once have we not done this, because the new place was just 200 metres away and the host had agreed to an early check-in.

The Rugby Apartment

The place in Rugby was one we liked after a few adjustments, including a visit from the host to try to make amends. However, the critical issue, as Brian noted, was that the place lacked a feminine touch. Broadly, it offered just the practical things for essential apartment living. For days, this niggled until the microwave played up and I had to use a mug to scoop food into another pot.

So, I wrote to the host to highlight the issues rather than complain, and this reflects some of what we have experienced with apartments in Cape Town.

Hello, I'm staying at your apartment with my partner. At first, I thought we could manage, but I need to inform you of a few things before I write a very honest review of our experience. It is a lovely place; we are comfortable and feel safe. However, you cannot manage a property from a lock box.

We are very domesticated people and are usually in Cape Town twice a year, sometimes for more than a month, staying in places as varied as Camps Bay, Sea Point, Foreshore, Muizenberg, and Bloubergstrand since 2019. We have a good idea about apartments, service, and the quality of accommodation.

First, we asked for a spare set of keys, which, as I informed you, we have always had with other places. Then, the size of the apartment is about half the over 600 square feet advertised on Booking.com.

Basic stuff: not enough hangers in the bedroom, many crooked. That's manageable. You have a kitchen but no kitchen knife; we bought one yesterday, just as there are no kitchen scissors. The Power Defrost and Power Level buttons are not working on the microwave. This was the last straw for me, because the prawns for our stir-fry ended up cooked, or we would have had to wait hours for a proper thaw.

The clothes rack should have been replaced; it is full of rust, and we can't hang clothes on it. We could use the clothesline, but we are strangers here. There is a litany of things I could list about the homeliness of your place, but we can manage. As I have said, you will need to visit your apartment to see that things work or are right. Having a lock box is not a substitute for that responsibility. Thank you.

We ended up buying a proper kitchen knife, and this is the third time we have had to do this. It could have happened many more times if Brian had forgotten to bring the typical kitchen utensils we had acquired over time: spatulas, a sauce ladle, and some deep bowls.

When the host came to visit, some 30 minutes behind schedule, he brought a set of ten hangers and a bottle of plonk that might have passed for cooking wine, if Brian's taste for alcohol had not got the better of him.

Moving to Pinelands

After church yesterday, we packed up for this new place in Pinelands, which backs onto a Jewish cemetery just about 150 metres away and is clearly visible from the seventh-floor window. You can bet my vivid imagination is under serious curtailment, and I hope the rational will overwhelm the irrational, as I do not intend to lose my mind in the process.

We encountered the usual issues again. People do not cook, hence the kitchen setup is lacking. Once, we had to buy a pot, and this place has just one pot for cooking. There is no kitchen knife, but we already have one. Surprise: there is a pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer.

There is a thriving takeaway and fast-food culture in South Africa, where ingredients for food can be organic, fresh, and healthy, but people are not cooking, except when they have a braai.

Two bedrooms, not really the size that was advertised, but that is a minor point. There is a worktable from where I am typing, but no centre table in the living room, as if we should eat off our laps. In the fire escape, we found two stools and a floor mat that matched the one in the apartment. I think we can consider ourselves resourceful.

Making the Space Work

We had to change the orientation of the bed, as it was just wrong. When our hostess returned that afternoon, she agreed that the realignment was better. However, what I cannot understand is the dearth of sockets in these apartments. We had to get extension leads with dual sockets to have somewhere to plug in our devices.

She cannot remember the Wi-Fi password, as the two she provided did not work. Meanwhile, I found a way around the issue. The Google TV box connected to the television has a Wi-Fi hotspot feature, but when switched on, it disables the Wi-Fi connection. Usually, the WPS (Wi-Fi Protected Setup) button on the router should work, but we failed to get a link.

I connected the Google TV box to the router with an Ethernet cable and set up the Wi-Fi hotspot. That way, we have Internet connectivity without the fuss, or we would have had to wait until Tuesday to get that sorted.

Meeting Miranda Priestly

We joined her in the lift and, whilst she understandably refused entry to another resident with a shopping trolley (though there was enough space for all of us), it was the mother holding a baby that she barred, which left us stunned. Her explanation: "I am the Miranda Priestly of this apartment block." The funny thing is, on my first visit to South Africa in May 2015, I did watch The Devil Wears Prada on my outward flight. I did not expect to meet her in real life.

We have different panoramic views of Table Mountain, and just a glimpse of the sea, even though it is almost seven miles away. For that alone, I am not so forlorn this far inland in Cape Town.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Finding Dignity at Zeitz MOCAA

2026-02-28T06:27:00.002+00:00

Finding Kindness

Having done some shopping at Woolworths in the V&A Waterfront, I walked to Silo District past the Nelson Mandela Gateway to Robben Island to hail an Uber back home. The Friday evening rush hour, combined with the impending weekend, meant it was quite busy. However, leaving from this end of the V&A Waterfront cuts out a good deal of the traffic involved in exiting Cape Town.

I did not get an Uber for eight minutes, and when a driver was found, he was ten minutes away. Then he cancelled three minutes into my waiting time. Uber began looking for another driver, just as I realised, I had chosen this location to get me home on time, before getting caught in the traffic I might encounter if I had hailed a cab from the Breakwater end of the V&A Waterfront.

A Pressing Dilemma

It became a battle in my mind: should I wait for a cab or seek the use of facilities? The nearest one was about 250 metres away, up flights of steps that I am usually supported in navigating. But I was alone in town with two heavy bags of shopping and a walking cane I could not use if I needed to balance the load.

My better judgement intervened. I cancelled the Uber and decided to try my luck at the Zeitz MOCAA, the Museum of Contemporary Art Africa, which was behind me. As a total stranger, I would not have been able to just walk into any establishment to ask to use their toilets. Or maybe I have never really had the courage to. Besides the museum, there were two hotels nearby, but we had been fully paid-up members of the museum before COVID-19 struck, and I knew where the entrance was.

Navigating the Process

The first thing was to get my Just Can't Wait card up on my mobile phone, which was running out of battery. I had to put it on Power Saving mode to ensure I could at least call an Uber before it died. I showed the card to security at the door, requesting to use the toilets, and she directed me to reception.

At the reception desk, one of the staff took a picture of my Just Can't Wait card on the phone and then gave me directions to the toilets, which were in the basement. My explanation that I needed urgent use of a toilet because of a medical condition was sufficient.

As I walked to the lifts, another security guard stopped me. I believe he checks for entry tickets, and I did not have one. I explained my situation, and he even offered to have my shopping bags deposited at the check-in desk. But I did not have the time; I needed to be at the toilets immediately. Even the lifts were slow in arriving, but I was soon where I needed to be, as relief and gratitude welled up in me.

People Over Things

My experience with this organisation reminded me of the spirit of their Executive Director and Chief Curator, Madame Koyo Kouoh, who passed away last year after a recent cancer diagnosis, even as she was about to serve as the artistic director of the 2026 Venice Biennale. In the museum's tribute to her, she was remembered for her belief: "People are more important than things," and for quoting the African proverb, "If you want to go fast, go alone. But if you want to go far, go together."

We live in communities shaped by experiences and circumstances. Some are so fleeting and yet significant in simply having empathy and understanding for invisible yet critical human vulnerabilities and responding to such encounters without question or judgement. People do not even have to have walked a long, hard mile in another's shoes. Even in South Africa, where basically no one knows of the Just Can't Wait card, a human story becomes the willingness to help rather than the fear of losing one's job.

Not that I want to remember what happened barely a month before, when I was refused the use of facilities with all the desperation written across my face, in my own Manchester, of all places. Thank you, Zeitz MOCAA, for simply being human. It meant a lot to me.

Blog - The Just Can't Wait Card Test

Zeitz MOCAA Staff Tribute to Koyo Kouoh

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Long After The Sahara Was Green

2026-02-23T07:51:00.002+00:00

Crossing Africa: An Unexpected Route

This passage over Africa was different, as the plane veered east, deviating from the typical western route over France and Spain. We headed towards Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, leaving Genoa to the east to cross the Ligurian Sea, with the islands of Corsica, France and Sardinia (Sardegna), Italy, also to the east, before making landfall over Africa at Skikda, Algeria, a coastal city whose port has been a gateway between Europe and Africa for centuries. Constantine, the dramatic "City of Bridges" perched on a limestone plateau, shows prominently on my map, but it lies much further west of our route.

Pretensions to slumber never came, and one feature of the in-flight maps was missing: the detailed "Flying over..." section that leaves me mesmerised for hours on end. It offers snippets about places up to 250 kilometres away that I may never visit, yet I remain intrigued by their histories, geography, culture, and the people who have made those places their homes.

Above the Sahara

Soon, about four hours into the flight, we were already over the Sahara Desert. I expected to see an ocean of sand without form, stretching into the horizon, but I was in for a surprise.

This place looked as if it were once verdant, the land carved through as rivers sculpt landscapes, as if Eden decided to relocate to the Amazon, took its goods, but left the house bare. I have since learnt that this intuition was remarkably accurate: the Sahara was indeed a green, fertile landscape during the African Humid Period (approximately 11,000 to 5,000 years ago), supporting rivers, lakes, forests, and diverse wildlife before orbital shifts and climate feedback mechanisms transformed it into the desert we see today.

Yet a barren landscape it is not. The circles that resembled cylindrical containers, arranged in patterns clearly indicating human intervention, were in fact irrigation systems in the desert, humanity's ingenious attempt to recreate what nature once provided across the entire region.

I did not spot an oasis from above anywhere from Algeria into Niger. This is a harsh place, where daytime temperatures can soar to totally uninhabitable levels.

Settlements and Landforms

My map showed named settlements within 50 kilometres of our flight path: Djanet, known for its proximity to the UNESCO-listed Tassili n'Ajjer plateau with its ancient rock art; Ghat, a Tuareg town near the Libyan border that has served as a trans-Saharan trade post for centuries; and Tamanrasset, the largest city in southern Algeria, as we flew towards Agadez in Niger, once a crucial caravan centre and sultanate on the trans-Saharan trade routes.

I see alpine landforms, but not of ice. These are gullies eroded by winds rather than water, dunes drawn by the hand of nature, moving as if alive, and they surely are.

A Desert Redefined

A desert is more than its definition. It offers another perspective: the presence of hardy species of flora, fauna, and animal life that thrive in what we might consider impossible conditions.

As we continued south, the landscape gradually shifted. Flying over Nigeria, I caught sight of place names that stirred something deep within me: Jos, the highland city built by tin miners; Bukuru, where I attended primary school; Rayfield, where we lived; and Vom, the veterinary centre where we took a school trip. These are places emblematic of my childhood, each one a marker of memory suspended between earth and sky.

Now, flying past Douala, Cameroon, to catch a sight of the Gulf of Guinea, I realised something striking: from over 30,000 feet, some nine kilometres in the sky, there had been no clouds above the Sahara. Not a single wisp dipping its toes in that vast expanse. I suspect I need a deeper understanding of the ecology of that extraordinary place.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

When Schedules Don't Matter: Between Flight Times and Body Times

2026-02-23T07:44:00.004+00:00

Journey Times and Assumptions

Now that I think of it, these things should not be left to guesswork. The assumption I had, and the reality were different things, even when traversing time zones. How I could have missed that timing escapes me, especially for a journey I have made so many times. This time, I saw it plainly: the flight information stated 11h25, not the 10h30 I always had in my mind and when talking to people about it.

I am looking forward to a long journey watching Africa displayed before me as my kind of long-haul flight entertainment. As aeroplanes do not get given speeding tickets in the air, we did Amsterdam to Cape Town in 10h28. The scheduled duration and actual flight time rarely align, yet I still find myself calculating based on what I think I know rather than what the timetable actually says.

The More Immediate Concern

Before settling into my seat, though, there was a more pressing matter to address. Using the customer assistance service meant I was one of the first to board the aircraft, and I went to the toilets first before returning to my seat to check the journey duration. It was then that I noticed the discrepancy in flight times.

The flow is low and feels constricted. Whilst the urgency is pressing, the initiation starts late and the duration is long, much longer than usual. However, there are times when it suddenly seems to unclog with the greatest ease and relief. I have noticed this in the past couple of days, and it elevates concern.

The trouble with bladder plumbing, a consequence of prostate cancer and radiotherapy treatment, is one I cannot ignore, even if I seem to manage it well. Though on Saturday, as I walked back home, I found neither refuge nor respite, no place to flash my "Just Can't Wait " card. Consequently, I wet myself. The incontinence underwear was no match for the torrential release.

A Saving Grace

The cover of darkness and the length of my winter overcoat became my saving grace, concealing the wet patch on my bright red chinos and sparing me the shame and embarrassment. What a relief when I eventually got home.

The usual dearth of facilities for people with conditions like mine is something I navigate daily, but Saturday reminded me how fragile that management can be. We make assumptions about many things: flight times, the availability of toilets, our own bodies. Sometimes reality has other ideas.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

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

2026-02-19T02:52:00.009+00:00

Full Disclosure

Despite what you read in this blog, I believe the choice to undergo hypofractionated radiotherapy as my treatment option for malignant adenocarcinoma of the prostate gland (prostate cancer) was the right choice.

After the ordeal of a prostate cancer diagnosis, gruelling radiotherapy, and years of dealing with lingering side effects, you would think I am done with reading up on issues around prostate gland health.

Now, I am glad to say it was caught early. I believe I received as good care and support as could be given by advisory and medical teams, and I am convinced that I chose the best medical outcome for my situation.

Unsolicited Advice and Misinformation

In the same vein, I am usually offered tips, hints, and advice about prostate health; mostly information shared on social media, none peer-reviewed by experts in either urology or oncology to prove their efficacy. The impressions are mostly anecdotal.

My father, for instance, has mostly been swindled or scammed by snake oil salesmen offering miracle potions to treat his prostate problems that medical science has been at pains to prove he ever had. We are left humouring him when it might be prudent to sternly upbraid him. He is educated and had a high-profile professional life; he should know better.

The Prostate Clinic Revelations

Recently, I have been following The Prostate Clinic, a YouTube channel hosted by Dr Charles Chabert, a urologist in Queensland, Australia, and it has taken a few days to properly digest what he had to say.

In July 2024, I met with consultants in surgery and radiotherapy for prostate cancer. Later, I spoke to a support worker at Prostate Cancer UK who opined I should opt for Active Surveillance or Watchful Waiting over the active treatment suggested at diagnosis. Even after reading up on extensive material and sharing my journey in a series of blogs, I had to manage my consumption of information to avoid being overwhelmed into stasis.

The Question of Sufficient Information

The question then becomes: how much more information, detail, reports, studies, and research should one access before knowing without any shadow of doubt you are making the right decision, all things being equal?

You are told so much going into treatment but not nearly enough about the aftermath, it would seem.

Three Hidden Problems

The Australian urologist addressed the aftereffects of radiotherapy on the prostate that could leave you concerned about several things, of which sexual dysfunction has been a recent blog topic. He called them “3 Hidden Problems With Radiation Treatment for Prostate Cancer”, suggesting why we should not opt for radiotherapy.

When the prostate gland is irradiated, it could damage the surrounding tissue connected to the bowel (radiation proctitis, very graphic, the pictures can cause distress) and bladder (radiation cystitis) systems. Irradiating the prostate gland shrinks, scars, and can make it fibrotic, leading to two other consequences: limited salvage options or progressively reduced sexual function.

Complications and Salvage Treatments

Complications might arise if there is a local recurrence of cancer, making salvage activity quite difficult. This portends more impactful consequences for the patient and radical alternatives for bowel movements. Salvage treatments are better managed post-surgery than post-radiotherapy, where options are severely limited.

The state of the prostate gland after irradiation means that sexual function will increasingly diminish. This touches on erectile dysfunction and reduced ejaculatory performance. These are weighty matters that make you wonder if you had known all this before you commenced treatment, whether you would have made that choice.

Managing Side Effects

Again, the issue with choosing any treatment comes down to how you perceive you can manage the side effects. For surgery, they are immediate, whilst for radiotherapy they are progressive.

The possible loss of total sexual function, because the consultant surgeon had already indicated my prostate was too enlarged to guarantee the salvage of any nerves, immediately made that option a non-starter. I was not going to wait and see what a malignancy was going to do in my body through Active Surveillance; it would never have been an option for me.

My Choice

Choosing radical radiotherapy was the most comfortable choice in my circumstances. Though having an additional prayer point before I had my prostate gland zapped might have made this discovery less of a surprise and caused less concern.

Ultimately, I believe I did the right thing and will make the best of the good fortune I have to enjoy life and write better stories, with cancer behind me. I thank God.

Check your Prostate Cancer risk in 30 seconds.

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

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 Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Taking Praise to the Bank

2026-02-17T21:22:00.006+00:00

The Grace of Acceptance

In life, whatever you do, whether by nature, through practice, or by good fortune, compliments do not come easily. Perhaps they do for others; however, what matters most is having the grace to accept those encomiums when you have been appreciated.

Yet sometimes familiarity makes praise seem either mundane or biased. I am occasionally embarrassed by how Brian compliments me; the thought crosses my mind that he cannot possibly be talking about me. His words can be effusive and quite adoring. I suppose a sense of modesty suggests it is too much, whilst a feeling of inadequacy implies I have not yet reached the standard for which the applause has been loudest.

An Unexpected Exposure

Then this afternoon, a work conference segued into a conversation between two. Idle banter touched on many things, and then she said, “I found your blog.” She had been searching for information when the results led her to my blog. Shock and surprise on my part brought the realisation that I had been exposed.

However much we try to compartmentalise our lives through secrecy, segmentation, or even sequestration, we can only be so successful when we leave footprints online. I got my first email address in 1994, just as I began a subscription to CompuServe. My identity number is just about to slip from memory in the present — I remember it now.

The Weight of Recognition

Not only had she learnt a great deal about me, in blogs spanning almost 23 years, but she also appreciated my writing: my use of language, and the ease of reading. She enjoyed everything she had read and pleaded with me not to stop blogging. Amid this deluge of compliments, I was close to blushing.

There is no day when I do not receive compliments, usually from strangers, and I respond with thanks. It is different when a colleague at work, who knows you in a particular setting and character, sees another side of your expression and acknowledges, commends, praises, and compliments that aspect of your art. You want to take it to the bank and cash it.

Cashing It In

In this case, I have taken it to the bank of this cache of over 4,250 blogs and cashed it in as an acknowledgement. Brian has always maintained that I can make a blog out of the simplest moments or interactions. This is one of those instances. Thank you—you know who you are.

The Evolution of my Blog from 2003.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - LXXIX: Reading the Signs We Miss

2026-02-15T21:56:00.002+00:00

The Streets of Manchester

The fascinating people that live in this city or visit it never cease to captivate me. Whilst I do attempt to be inconspicuous, I nearly always fail to blend in, but the attention usually brings compliments that I am glad to accept with gratitude.

The streets of Manchester bring both the familiar and the revealing. Looking at the health dashboard for the north of England, there have been outbreaks of measles and other respiratory viruses, but COVID-19 remains six years on.

I take Coronavirus vaccine boosters twice a year because it is an evolving virus with strains, we have literally forgotten to keep track of. I'm on the take-your-jabs side of the debate.

An Arresting Entrance

Attending a function yesterday, someone arrived late enough to be noticed in more ways than one. First, it was her blonde hair with red highlights and bows to the left and right, very much as one would have imagined Heidi would look, or a traditional Kellnerin (beer maid) at Oktoberfest.

Her dress was purple and slightly body-hugging, and her shoes were platform boots, the type that makes your gait look like a plod. Each footstep was an ungainly stamp, not so much soldiering but what you might observe from a horse in canter.

Her face had a chubby, childlike quality, but it left us wondering if she had left a face mask on, because it seemed unlikely that this was the result of make-up application.

A Mystery Unfolds

An intriguing personality, you might think. You had the urge to introduce yourself and then found yourself tongue-tied, unsure which of the thousand questions coursing through your thoughts to ask first.

After she sat down, it became obvious that she was unsure of what to do. I plucked up the courage to walk across the room to tell her that food was being served around a corner in the longer part of the hall. She seemed to prefer a sprint to a walk, even in this enclosed space, displaying an unnecessary urgency that drew concerned attention.

Even after several people tried to engage her, none came away with her name, who she was, where she came from, or who she was wearing for either fashion or make-up. I doubt anyone paid compliments, and if anything commendable were said, it might have been along the lines of, “You're quite brave to leave home like that.” Everyone wondered who had broken all the mirrors and reflective surfaces in her home; I dare not say care home.

Reading the Signs

In retrospect, many of the signs were there. The sprint across the room when a walk would do, the inability to engage in small talk, the preference for group activities that required no conversation, even the styling choices that perhaps made perfect sense to her but read as incongruous to others.

These weren't eccentricities designed to provoke or performed awkwardness for effect. They were markers, perhaps, of someone navigating a neurotypical social space with a neurodivergent compass.

The unnecessary urgency, the difficulty with eye contact and introduction, the retreat into structured activities like dancing where the rules are clearer and the social demands more predictable; all of this suggested someone for whom these gatherings are both desired and exhausting. Someone who wanted to be there but lacked the social scaffolding that others take for granted.

The Enigma Departs

Later, she got involved in the dancing and some other activities you could do in a group without having to chat to anyone. She remained a mystery, an enigma of sorts, and we left nonplussed. She might have decided on being the girly doll version of Chucky.

She was Black.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

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

2026-02-12T05:47:00.003+00:00

The Unspoken Battle

It is the unspoken conversation, one I have barely had with myself and definitely not with others, including my partner, my medical and cancer support teams.

When I was diagnosed with malignant prostate cancer in June 2024, the first physical urge that left me was sexual desire, as though someone had just kicked me in the balls. It wasn't pain, just a numbness of confusion and incapacity.

Preparing for the Obvious

Even for a man with African heritage and no need for machismo, I have been open about the bowel and bladder issues. I was quite read up on them and ready to attend to the matters concerned. I didn't want a catheter insertion for whatever reason, but incontinence underwear? I was ready to model it for men of a certain age and body, if necessary. I do like my underwear, and I have used linings too; the situation is manageable.

However, on the sexual part—the big mammoth in the room—I have ignored its presence and viewed it as part of the weight-bearing structure of that space, insignificant if it played dead and never moved. But 17 months after radiotherapy, with all things looking good, the mammoth is awakening from its imposed hibernation.

Weighing the Options

If I wanted sex, and I enjoyed sex, this diagnosis exacerbated and crystallised the ideas of sexual dysfunction in my mind.

In choosing the option for treatment, I first spoke to the consultant surgeon about the radical prostatectomy procedure. A year before, a men's advocate who had undergone it explained that the expert surgeon was able to save the nerves necessary to retain some sexual functions.

The surgeon was quite candid with me: my prostate gland was so enlarged that he couldn't guarantee anything could be saved of my nerves until he was in there conducting the surgery.

Imagining the Aftermath

As this procedure is conducted under general anaesthetic, the prospect of waking up to a surgeon trying to express happiness and sadness in the same facial expression was one I was not intent on seeing.

His professionalism and years of experience might have given him the skill as a comic piece, but it would have been a joke at my expense. “Mr Akintayo, we successfully removed the prostate gland. However, your sex life is gone; you're impotent. But we can make some interesting toys for you, to have some sensation and other elements of pleasure.”

I'd be crying tears of joy for being free of cancer, catheter inserted as there is no urinary control for months, finding where my pelvic floor is, and living happily ever after.

Then I ask, even if this smacks of medical paternalism: should surgeons be more proactive in discussing sexual health outcomes?

Learning from Others

Another friend had undergone the procedure a few years before. He, a straight man, came to me to seek advice about the kinds of sex I know. Much as I could have helped, I felt he needed to join a men's support group to appreciate the experiences of men in similar circumstances before thinking of this, because his views were explorative to my hearing, rather than developed.

From that surgery discussion, I knew it was not for me. At the same time, I needed that cancer excised because, whichever way you look at it, dead men do not have sex.

Another question arises: how do cultural expectations of manhood affect seeking the essential prostate health check-ups first, before considering the treatment decisions and recovery?

Radiotherapy and Its Consequences

As I took radiotherapy, the immediate and enduring side effects have been bladder related, with a few bowel issues. My sex drive is depleted by being unsure of ability and compounded by lacking confidence. It is also not something that can be addressed with bravado.

As you can read, I am tackling this issue alone because I do not understand this vulnerability enough to appreciate the kind of help I need.

The Medication Dilemma

Yes, I can get erectile dysfunction medication and pop pills like sweets, but that not only becomes a prop; it does not address the emotional and mental issues. Rather, it becomes a legalised version of chemical sex, getting a prescription from a pharmacist instead of illicit drugs delivered by a dealer.

The question then becomes, how many highs can I have before drug-induced priapism or severe hypotension with the risk of death is the danger?

Furthermore, because it has been offered, is the medical establishment over-reliant on pharmaceutical solutions rather than psychological support?

Rethinking Intimacy

As men, we are fixated with erection and penetration as the full expressions of sex; the absence of either or both feeds a kind of sexual frustration for the person and their partner. Does sex become a distant memory rather than a present experience with a hopeful better consummation, or are damaged goods being repackaged for a partner with different expectations?

For gay men, where physical intimacy and sexual expression often form central parts of identity and connection, the loss can feel particularly acute. The dynamics of same-sex relationships, where both partners understand male sexuality from lived experience, can create a unique space for empathy and shared problem-solving.

Yet it can also mean both partners acutely feel the absence of what was, and the uncertainty of what might be possible. The fear of being seen as “broken” or inadequate in a community that sometimes prizes sexual vitality can compound the isolation.

For straight men, the challenge often involves navigating conversations with partners who may not fully grasp the psychological weight of erectile dysfunction on male identity. There's the added pressure of traditional gender roles and expectations around male performance.

Meanwhile, bisexual men face both sets of pressures, depending on the gender of their partner, alongside navigating healthcare systems that may not fully recognise or address their specific concerns.

Regardless of sexual orientation, the fundamental question remains: how do you maintain intimacy and connection when the language of physical expression you once spoke fluently becomes halting and uncertain?

Confronting the Fear

Yes, I have literally thought through all this with a clear indication that I probably need to re-engage with a support system that would address many of the pertinent issues after treatment for prostate cancer. The questions are not abstract; they are real issues in existing relationships.

You might wonder, if I have managed the bowel and bladder issues that well, why am I struggling with the sexual one? Whether we like it or not, it defines, to a certain degree, manhood, manliness, performance, and self-esteem. Maybe, just maybe, this is part of the fear that stops us black guys from talking about men's things.

One last question: are Black men receiving adequate support and information about sex, sexual health, and sexual expression after cancer treatment?

Moving Forward

Yet we need to talk. Prostate cancer cannot be the last story, and navigating a way to fulfilled sexual satisfaction after prostate cancer treatment must not be greeted by the shock of the experience, but by the hope of new possibilities through therapy, support, and understanding.

How intimacy changes in relationships is a journey that has no clear answers for both parties, and that might not be the prospect a partner desires in what looked amazing before cancer struck and stole our virility.

Check your Prostate Cancer risk in 30 seconds.

Blog - Men's things XXX: Let's talk Prostate Cancer

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 Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

The Bottleneck Paradox

2026-02-11T12:35:00.004+00:00

Breaking Free from Groupthink

The tendency for us to participate in groupthink can lead to stifling our ability to see things from a different perspective. Then sometimes, I suffer from an inclination to see things from a different perspective first, before seeing the blatantly obvious.

As readers of my blog might have observed in my debunking of the half-glass-full or half-glass-empty debate, this only matters in what is in the glass. You cannot judge my sense of optimism or pessimism from the notion of the glass without examining its contents.

The Contents Matter Most

If the glass contains fine wine, it would likely be half empty because I am enjoying the drink and, by inference, it will remain half full, or full, if I cannot abide the taste, quality, or bouquet of the wine poured in it.

My wine example could spark debate about whether I am proving my point or demonstrating confirmation bias, yet it is in what the glass contains that we can deduce the state. Just as if I knew the glass contained poison, it would remain half full.

This morning, in an engagement with a colleague, he expressed concern that an activity might cause a bottleneck. Here again is the tendency in all definitions to see a bottleneck as a problem.

Reframing the Bottleneck

According to the AI Overview my browser provided, “A bottleneck is a point of congestion in a system—such as production, software, or computing—where a single component's limited capacity restricts the overall speed, throughput, or performance. Similar to the narrow neck of a bottle, it causes delays, reduces efficiency, and creates backups, often requiring the slowest part to be upgraded or optimised to improve the entire process.”

Without thinking twice about it, I responded, “Bottlenecks are good; they make the difference between getting the drink in the glass and spilling it everywhere.” Surely, that is a beneficial feature of bottlenecks and the reason why we do have real bottlenecks, as opposed to bottlenecks in application, production, or business processes, on computers, or in networks or traffic.

Those versed in systems thinking might, in this case, distinguish between designed constraints (intentional bottlenecks), which follow my response, and emergent ones (system failures), which engender the broader definition.

Reconsidering Received Wisdom

There might be other situations where the restriction of flow helps direct and concentrate resources to achieve an aim. These are worth considering further.

The other argument might suggest that the definition of bottleneck has evolved well beyond its original meaning. Just remember, when happy and gay literally meant the same thing.

Yet the situations where received wisdom suggests the negative deserve review from another perspective. There is often more to it than what we have been schooled to accept as the only truth.

Blog - Half of a quarter full of an eighth empty (October 2004)

Blog - Pour the wine and don't you whine (May 2024)

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Essential Snobbery 101: Letting Mother Help You Choose Good Friends

2026-02-08T20:31:00.002+00:00

The Wisdom of Maternal Instinct

Mothers of my generation who happened to be in the UK during the 1960s seemed to acquire a turn of phrase associated with that exposure, which we, their children, sometimes had trouble understanding. However, with hindsight, many of their observations were insightful, intuitive, and prescient.

When your mother said, "This friend of yours is too good for my liking," whilst she was not commanding you to break the friendship there and then, she expected you to find ways of extricating yourself from that relationship.

Usually, this meant bringing new friends into your orbit and having something aspirational within those friendships against which she could compare you, urging you to do better. As our parents cannot essentially make our friends for us, they exercise a kind of judgement on our decision-making in the best interests of our protection, even if we cannot see why.

The Mirror of Association

Another saying of foreboding is, "Show me your friends, and I will show you who you are." Association becomes a marker for discernment, character, and principle. Choose and keep the wrong associations, and watch your own reputation go up in flames, even if you are neither involved nor culpable in the nefarious activities of your chosen friends.

Moral judgement, a good conscience, along with a sense of knowing when something is wrong, are instincts we should all have. Beyond that, we need to be aware of when we begin to think that status and means provide immunity for impunity, creating an aura of invincibility bordering on being untouchable. It is the most dangerous cocoon of existence in which a man can find himself.

It is in this light that I have wondered how wise counsel deserted men of wealth and power concerning Jeffrey Epstein. Firstly, the evil and wickedness he inflicted on young, vulnerable women for his pleasure and that of those he corralled into his circle of influence is unforgivable. Lives were ruined and damaged beyond any form of redemption. The most public of them, Virginia Giuffre, took her own life last year.

The Voiceless Victims

For those still living, I can only hope that they find the love and care to give them not merely the will to live, but a purpose that can help them craft a better story regardless of their past. They remain the voiceless in this atrocity, in which he gave himself the easy exit of suicide rather than be held accountable for his actions.

His accomplice, Ghislaine Maxwell, is in prison but hardly languishing in a gulag. She probably holds a bargaining chip of influence and blackmail that could ease the severity of the punishment she truly deserves. However, apart from these two principals in this influential harem of inordinate abuse, almost rivalling the court of Caligula, no one else has faced the remote prospect of indictment, let alone prosecution.

A Global Web of Complicity

The names on Jeffrey Epstein's Rolodex and roll of shame reach into a global Who's Who of money, power, royalty, politics, and academia, touching the once respected, revered, or adored. We have begun to question our own sanity, yet one can only be in awe of how he networked to create a veneer of respectability over his disreputable and criminal enterprise. Those involved became inadvertent enablers, and within that bubble, they were mesmerised into the suspension of disbelief.

The taint of association has claimed scalps and led to disgrace in many spheres. It started with a CEO of a global bank losing his job, the marriage of the richest man in the world for over a decade collapsing, a prince losing his titles and honours, an ambassador sacked with the prospect of losing his peerage, and today, the chief of staff to the Prime Minister resigning for just being a friend of a friend.

That list is not exhaustive, but it is indicative of how a mother's observation could have saved the reputations and honour of some who have now become part of Epstein's story.

Heeding the Warning Signs

It is obvious that we need to regularly review the kinds of friendships we keep, no matter how influential, rich, and connected that person might be. I know those people my mother took exception to; there are two who never became good friends. One of them became involved in criminality in the UK, such that his history stood against his ability to practise law there.

Sometimes, I hear my mother's voice in my head. There are times I hear her in my own speaking, too. In both cases, I am glad there is that premonition to avoid some people.