Love, Distance, and a City Called Home

A Month On

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

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

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

From Joburg to Cape Town

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

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

What Love Brings

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

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

Never a Dull Moment

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

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

Cape Town, Our Home

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

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

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Borstal Wednesdays on Teams

The Wednesday Dread

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

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

Diktat Over Dialogue

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

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

Morale and the Pulpit

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

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

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

The Reckoning Ahead

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

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

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

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Hajrá Magyarország!

A Nation Saves Itself

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

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

Power and Its Costs

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

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

Hope Over Fear

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

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

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

Democracy Always Matters

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

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

Hajrá Magyarország!

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Three Degrees: Hailstones, Shorts, and Slippers

A Nation's Favourite Topic

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

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

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

Pelted by Hailstones

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

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

Sights on the Street

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

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

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

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Augmenting Humanity with AI Tools

AI as a Productive Tool

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

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

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

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

Refining My Writing Voice

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

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

AI-Generated Podcasts: A Revelation

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

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

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

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

Acknowledging AI's Limitations

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

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

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

Thank you.

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

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

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

Hidden in Plain Sight at Manchester Cathedral

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

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