Thought Picnic: Are We Protecting Them or Ourselves?

Seeking Protection

I often reflect on interactions and conversations I have experienced. Sometimes it relates to what I have written, and I wonder if there were better ways to present my ideas or express myself.

These reflections are about how others see us or how we wish to be seen, and the circumstances that unintentionally create an impression different from what was intended, through omission or commission. As a result, we fail to represent ourselves as openly, honestly, and transparently as possible.

Even more problematic is the influence of assumptions that limit or constrain the image we project in others' minds. You vicariously suffer for assuming they cannot handle certain facts because of your perspective on their frame of reference or worldview. The question then becomes whether we are bravely protecting them or fearfully protecting ourselves.

Curb Your Loquacity

This causes us to steer clear of issues amid the complex mix of norms and differences that clash between inquiry and response. The direction of the conversation becomes less certain as we aim to conceal rather than reveal. It would have been better to directly tell the inquisitive to mind their own business rather than be teased into volunteering more than is comfortable.

Navigating the intersections of cultural settings is an art. In the broad spectrum of communication, knowing when to be cautious and disciplined enough to steer the conversation away from the curiosity of others cannot be an afterthought.

Yet, you cannot predict how a conversation might develop, and then you wonder how such exchanges in certain communities follow the same pattern of overly curious questions.

When Dame Anna Wintour appeared on The Rest Is Politics, beyond the lines of enquiry from her interviewers, her self-possession reflected discipline gained from responsibility, brand, and institution, shaping her responses. In the end, she was asked what Donald Trump would need to do to be invited back to the Met Gala. She paused, took a sip, and said, “Thank you for inviting me.”

Ideas from AI

I went on to ask AI, What are techniques for redirecting overly curious inquiries?

Drawing from your reflection on protecting oneself whilst maintaining composure, here are practical techniques for managing intrusive questions:

1. The Graceful Deflection

Acknowledge the question without answering it directly:

• "That's an interesting question, but what I find more relevant is..."
• "I appreciate your curiosity, though I'm more focused on..."
• "That's quite personal, but what I can share is..."

2. The Anna Wintour Pause

As you noted in your piece, sometimes the most powerful response is strategic silence followed by a polite exit:

• Pause deliberately
• Take a breath or sip
• Thank them and change the subject or conclude the exchange

This creates a boundary without confrontation.

3. The Gentle Boundary

State your limits with warmth but firmness:

• "I prefer to keep that private, but thank you for asking."
• "That's not something I discuss, I'm afraid."
• "I'd rather not go into that, if you don't mind."

4. The Question Reversal

Turn the inquiry back towards the questioner:

• "Why do you ask?"
• "What makes you curious about that?"
• "That's an unusual question—what's prompted it?"

This often reveals whether the question is innocent curiosity or something else, and sometimes makes people reconsider their intrusion.

5. The Humorous Redirect

Use light humour to deflect whilst maintaining rapport:

• "If I told you that, I'd have to kill you!" (with a smile)
• "Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?"
• "Ask me no secrets, I'll tell you no lies."

Humour must suit your personality and the relationship; otherwise it can seem defensive.

6. The Minimal Answer

Provide just enough information to be polite, then move on:

• Give a brief, surface-level response
• Don't elaborate or provide follow-up details
• Immediately ask a question about something else

7. The Honest "No"

Sometimes the most respectful approach is directness:

• "I'm not comfortable discussing that."
• "That's not something I'm willing to share."
• "I'd prefer not to answer that question."

This works best in relationships where mutual respect exists.

8. The Professional Shield

Reference external constraints or responsibilities:

• "I'm not at liberty to discuss that."
• "That's confidential, I'm afraid."
• "My position doesn't allow me to comment on that."

9. The Reframe

Answer a different question—the one you wish they'd asked:

• "What I think you're really asking is..."
• "The more important question might be..."
• "Let me put it this way instead..."

10. The Time Boundary

Defer without committing:

• "That's not something I can get into right now."
• "Perhaps another time."
• "Let me think about that." (with no intention of returning to it)

---

Developing Your Technique

As you noted in your reflection, navigating these moments requires:

Self-awareness: Know your boundaries before entering conversations where intrusive questions might arise.

Practice: These techniques become more natural with use. The first few times may feel awkward.

Cultural sensitivity: Different settings require different approaches. What works in a professional environment may not suit a family gathering.

Confidence: Your discomfort with a question is legitimate. You needn't justify your boundaries.

Reading the room: Assess the questioner's intent. Are they malicious, thoughtless, or genuinely interested? Your response can vary accordingly.

The key insight from your piece about Dame Anna Wintour is particularly relevant: her discipline came from responsibility, brand, and institution. Developing your own personal discipline around what you share and what you protect is equally important. It's not about being secretive; it's about being intentional with your vulnerability.

Remember, as you wisely observed, it's better to directly challenge the inquisitive than to be "teased into volunteering more than is comfortable." These techniques give you the tools to do exactly that, whilst maintaining grace and composure.

To be bedecked in Yoruba attire

The Chinese are coming too

Yesterday, it occurred to me that it might be a clever idea to make an appearance on my birthday dressed in something different and traditional. So, I went online, searching for “Nigerian clothes shops near me.” You can buy many things online, but this requires visiting a clothing store.

I could have gone to Bolton, about 18 km away, but you needed a booking, and what was displayed on their website seemed like it might be a wasted journey. Other websites or online presences suggest many still have not fully appreciated the need for a useful online presence.

Strangely, the Chinese are also involved, mass-producing African clothes in China, but none of the shipping would arrive until after Christmas. That is as widespread as you could get on Amazon. Besides, heaven forfend you get something and find it so ill-fitting that the only person you can call is a ghostbuster.

Ethnic Moston Lane appears

Refining my search a few times did not lead to better guidance, but one area kept coming up: Moston Lane, Moston, just about 5 km from Manchester city centre. Everything African, or specifically Nigerian, seemed to be dotted along the lane like an ethnic suburb, with the sounds, smells, and sights of a faraway land.

Having never been that way before, even after almost 12 years of living in Manchester, getting a bus there seemed a bit adventurous. I was not going to count 22 stops to my destination. It was more sensible to take a taxi. The driver was a chatterbox and on his way to the mosque in Moston. What a coincidence.

When I got off, I headed to the address of the shop I had found from my Google search. The address was a barber's shop; I couldn’t see any clothes on display. One disappointment, but I felt I was on the right street for what I needed.

Dressed without distress

About six doors down, there was a shop full of dresses, shoes, and fashion accessories. It was also a tailor's shop. I stepped in, and the proprietor, sitting at her sewing machine, asked what I was looking for. There was plenty of material on the shelves, but asking a tailor to create something bespoke this close to Christmas would likely lead to disappointment.

She said she had ready-to-wear costumes: bùbá (top tunic), ṣòkòto (drawstring trousers), agbádá (billowing top gown), and fìlà (cap). That set makes a complete outfit, called Yoruba attire.

I was shown three complete, ready-to-wear sets. I chose one and asked for the price, which at first seemed steep, but I don’t think I had much choice. With a matching cap, I scored a good find.

We started speaking in English, then switched to Yoruba. Certain inflexions from me betrayed a foreign accent, but I held my own enough to be praised for my Yoruba fluency.

She was inquisitive to the point of interrogation: my interests, women, sex life, children, and much more. But what can you reveal to a prophetess of a white garment church before you’re seen as on the road to perdition?

Proposed friendship from here on

Her persuasive manner left you unprepared, and next, she showed me a restaurant. I paid for something to take away while I settled on pounded yams and ẹ̀gúsí stew. I returned to her shop to find her trying to fix a gaudy sequined dress so flashy it was an eyesore.

The woman who needed the dress came in, and I could have suggested she find something better than trying to squeeze into this corset that belonged to a burlesque troupe. I even helped attach the clips at the back of the blouse-cum-corset. Some jobs you should avoid, even on a slow day.

She gave me directions to a bakery where I bought two loaves straight from the oven. However, the traffic into town, which was gridlocked that evening, meant the loaves were cool by the time I reached home. We exchanged numbers, and she called. I might return to Moston Lane, but it cannot become a regular haunt.

Blessed and fortunate is who I am

The Quiet Event

I have been asked several times what I am doing for my birthday, and the honest truth is, I am not doing much; perhaps only if something happens that I probably have no part in. The sense of occasion seems to overwhelm me; I would prefer to withdraw into solitude rather than participate in some celebration.

The last significant event surrounding my birthday was when I turned 49. It was all arranged by a young friend, and there were many guests, most of whom were acquaintances rather than close friends. As the celebration reached its peak at my friend's apartment, I withdrew to rest. I was already in dreamland when the last guest departed.

Yet each revolution around the sun does call for a celebration. I mark each one with thankfulness and gratitude. I am profoundly fortunate and blessed, which I recognise without dispute or argument.

A Dreadful Condition Loomed

When I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in June 2024, I was advised to commence active treatment. I told the doctors I had other plans: I was going on holiday, and it was only after returning that I would begin to consider what lay ahead.

My plan at that time was to spend time with Brian, but it was also a difficult period. I was reading correspondence between doctors about my case, and besides learning of the cancer diagnosis over a week before meeting with the specialist (due to mishandling of my records), I also saw that their chatter suggested the cancer was malignant.

To a layperson like me, I did not realise that all cancers are considered malignant in medical terms. Though in reality, the meaning wasn’t far off: it was evil, malevolent, dangerous, invasive, and possibly aggressive as well.

Batting and Battling in the Mind

Not only was the prospect daunting, but it was also frightening. I had to take control of the thoughts rushing through my mind and fill my listening with sermons about healing and living. Sometimes a creeping cloud would interfere, emboldening thoughts I was trying hard not to entertain: the idea that this cancer, which I could neither see nor feel, had the capacity to kill.

I fought off these invasions of morbidity and mortality, encouraging myself that I would see the better end of this ordeal. I would walk through the valley of the shadow and fog of cancer to emerge into the brilliant light of the sun, into green pastures and beside still waters.

The goodness and mercy of God, along with faith in the same, restored my soul and gave me hope. It was not going to be a journey without support for both the good times and the bad.

Looking to the Best Ahead

As it turned out, after completing radiotherapy, I took an extended sick leave and spent seven weeks in Cape Town with Brian. I had wished to celebrate this occasion with him; my hopes did not turn into concrete plans, but I do not view that as unfortunate. Opportunities once lost can be reclaimed, even after a temporary setback.

We will do more of this, not just in visits and fleeting moments, but also in the near future of living together, where absence would be reserved for the mundane and routine daily matters, such as work and university.

Every morning will begin with a smile, a kiss, and a prayer, and every night with gratitude, a kiss, and joy in our hearts. We live to tell better stories, and my mouth is full of testimonies of such stories.

Thought Picnic: Getting inspiration from within

Look inside, not up

Writing is an art of spontaneity, one for which I have not planned much before I begin to type. As Laurence Sterne wrote in The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, “I begin with writing the first sentence, and trusting to Almighty God for the second.”

Somewhere between the ceiling and heaven, I might look for inspiration, then I realise God lives in me. As with prayers, a Christian need not look to the hills from whence cometh the help of the Psalmist in the Old Testament (Psalm 121:1) when Jesus said, “Abide in Me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in Me” (John 15:4).

We so easily forget the nearness of the divine already dwelling in us. Rather than using our inner ears and spirituality to listen and hear from the inexhaustible well of inspiration of the Holy Spirit, we look outward for a sign somewhere apart from us.

Just so connected

This is a blessing of connection that we miss because we do not tune in to the frequency of the spiritual radio that God has placed in us. Instead, we look to seemingly unintelligible and indecipherable data from extraterrestrial life forms of which we have barely any concept.

I can attest to the many times when the best ideas, insight, and inspiration have come from the quiet of meditation rather than from someone else. Sometimes, I step into the shower befuddled and step out enlightened.

Elsewhere in the Bible, we read, “For ‘who has known the mind of the LORD that he may instruct Him?’ But we have the mind of Christ” (1 Corinthians 2:16). We have the mind of Christ, the Anointed One and His Anointing. That is just mind-blowing, a truth that has long escaped us, abandoned to the traditional hymn that suggests, “God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.” [Hymnal.net E675]

Use God’s library

Indeed, God is omnipotent and omniscient, and every wonder the hymn avers is an attribute of the divine. However, God is not hiding Himself from us, no, not at all.

Rather, He has made the library of His knowledge and wisdom available to us, indwelling our beings and giving us the Holy Spirit to teach us the truth, provide us with understanding, and guide us in all the vicissitudes of life. We are the most equipped for success in life, and we are totally oblivious to that gift.

From the basic things, such as beginning to write the first sentence, to the life-changing decisions of extreme consequence, we have the best resource that the universe has to offer. We can develop the ability to tap this resource by knowing we have it and affirming it from the Word of God, The Bible; His how-to manual.

Living the breeze of Cape Town

Cape Town on My Mind

I might miss Cape Town this December, but when I look back on the last seven years, I have spent a bit of every month of the year there, except for February and March.

This city brings me more than joy. I get to spend beautiful moments with Brian: walking the promenade, shopping at the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront, eating and dining in friendly restaurants, feeling the breeze on long stretches of beach that seem to have no end for miles, attending cultural events, and basking in the nature and beauty of Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden.

If we wander away from Cape Town, it is to a wine estate, though we have not done that in a while. We live and desire Cape Town as the destination of our dreams. We can be as occupied as we can be idle, but every moment is fulfilling. Nothing beats the yearning to return and have an extended, or even permanent, stay there.

The Cape Town I Know

After Brian met my best friend in Pretoria last month, Kola left for Cape Town, where he saw the city through my eyes and my knowledge of the places he went to, as if we were there together.

Such is the familiarity and sense of belonging that we, Brian and I, have acquired. However, we need to cultivate stronger ties and relationships beyond just knowing the city: to have friends and become part of the community.

In some ways, Brian also needs to take the initiative on planning and scheduling, rather than suggesting outlandish ideas that he would never attempt, like hiking up Table Mountain or paragliding from the mountain to the Sea Point lawns. He uses these crazy ideas as a tactic to get me to suggest something less dangerous.

Cape Town in Our Hearts

We rarely do anything on the scene, just as I have no such interest in Manchester, but there is much to gain from engagement in the churches we attend.

We seem to attract both interest and curiosity, and for most of the time we have met with a very welcoming and enriching atmosphere. Brian, though, would rarely attend church alone, usually after I have left, when being there could provide some succour for the feeling of separation.

Cape Town exudes that vivid quality of pictures, memories, events, and feelings, all too real in my mind. Even from 9,900 kilometres away, I feel the warmth, hear the waves, and could touch the wooden slats of the benches at Nobel Square, watching the clouds billowing over Table Mountain and listening to the marimba bands performing as we sip Mango Bang fruit smoothies. We do love Cape Town.

The prescient December clues

When birth is due

December speaks of dreams and beauty, the surprise of my nativity which for me as a person was not earlier than I expected, especially when others tend to stay longer than necessary. I can remember the many times I have never needed to fulfil a quota; when what needs getting done is done.

To many, I was preterm. However, I was ready when I arrived, just after Michaelmas. That they brought in cavalry to sustain my arrival was a responsibility placed on those who cater for such things. I simply rode the wave because it was there for my pleasure.

If I had chosen January, I would have slipped into another year for which I could lament the inexplicable. The Hilary Term would never have suited me. I could hardly be considered a spring baby, yet, as provenance would have it, one was conceived in the Trinity Term.

Silent in the light

In the advent of the diamond jubilee, I have scarcely prepared much. I hope to mark it without much fanfare; I am exhausted in crowds and flailing in the company of many. It is something to celebrate without trumpeting, but I would scarcely be afforded that luxury.

It is a time for contemplation, reminiscence, thankfulness, and gratitude. The journeys, the companions, the supporters, and friends that have made it auspicious leave me astounded at the wonder and the gift of living.

Mastering the interest in interesting

Interestingly Misunderstood

I have always been fascinated by how the English are viewed by others. There are websites and social media pages devoted to the fact that we are frequently misunderstood: what we have said may not necessarily represent the truth of what we mean.

One such word comes to mind: “interesting”. It does not essentially mean I am interested; it could readily mean I am bored and disengaged.

Then, on the matter of interest, I have had people who have shown interest in me, but their interest in me does not automatically become mutual. Whilst I am entertaining your interest, I would rather you were also engaging and developing my interest in you too.

Interestingly Selfish

What irks me most about these kinds of interactions is that they ask all the questions and volunteer nothing about themselves. I notice this quite easily and urge them to engage in a form of information exchange, hoping that self-awareness would prompt and convict them of selfishness, so they relent without further persuasion.

My patience, however, begins to wear thin, because dialogue is always better than being the cynosure. At least I hope I am not so vain as to need the klieg lights focused on my façade and bearing.

Interestingly Boring

In one such encounter where their interest was overbearing, but after all the exchanges I had learnt nothing about them, I combined the polite with the direct and asked, “What really makes you interesting?” Their answer was, “I like you.”

That kind of flattery might work for most, but if my question were to be properly interpreted and translated to the understanding of the person who was very much an Englishman as I, what I meant was, “You are boring me; please make an attempt to make this conversation worthwhile before I make my excuses.”

Fortunately for me, they failed to grasp the import of my veiled impertinence. When I made my excuses, I also intimated that I had better things to do with my time. In resignation, they said, “Okay!” as I rescued myself from an untenably excruciating and forgettable encounter.

Interesting, you might say, but I was so uninterested I was driven to the arms of disinterest, and it could not have happened to a nicer interlocutor, as they find someone else to bore to death.

Twenty-Two years of blogging

Blogging the story within you

You may have read somewhere on this blog that it was started in a Berlin hotel room on 8th December 2003. After a few years, I began writing an anniversary blog, especially now that the whole art of personal blogging has fallen out of fashion in favour of trendier and more engaging podcasts and skits.

I'll be the first to suggest this medium suits me best, and I think writing will always have an enduring quality over all other means of expression. Even in the case of music, before we had recordings, it was putting all that creativity into musical notation that has given us the joy of listening to classical music today.

There is no need to write a long treatise about blogging beyond relating to the view expressed in this quotation: “If a story is in you, it has got to come out” (William Faulkner). I think we all have stories, and too many of us never let those stories get out. That is a shame.

This is a quiet celebration of 22 years of blogging, and I'll keep doing it for as long as I can. I am thankful for the readers, even the large language models that have been trained on it, my loyal audience, and the people who take the time to comment on my blogs. Here's to more words coming together in stories you'll enjoy.

How I do religion

Religion saves me

I was asked the other day whether I had taken religion. Because I do not wear it on my sleeve, people might wonder why some of my views carry religious undertones. I have always been religious or spiritual, even when things have lapsed.

Religion is foundational to my existence and wellbeing. I owe everything to the grace, mercy, and love of God, even as I usually stumble in the walk of faith, because the concepts of Christianity and the workings of it that I believe in are much deeper than I give expression to.

Whilst my devotion in terms of church-going is Anglican, my beliefs lie at the evangelical and Pentecostal end of things, where I find a personal trail of conservative liberalism: an entertaining of the human perspective of biblical experiences that inform the wonder we see in lives.

How I think

Like Abraham, who left Ur of the Chaldees with at least seven generations of ancestors still alive, he heard from God, and I am sure he had to convince many people of that fact before he could leave.

Also, why have all angels, with their observation of human beings, not learnt to knock on doors instead of just appearing and comforting those they encounter with "Fear not!"?

However, this is no place for an exegesis. I have experienced different perspectives of religion (good, bad, strange, and just baffling) all from around the age of three. I am always excited by Bible study; there is never just a single story in what is read. Thank you.

Thought Picnic: Sitting pretty and bringing calamity

Sounds for moving back

It was interesting to see a large vehicle reversing and, beyond the rear white lights, just in case another driver or a pedestrian did not notice the vehicle coming towards them, a safety feature had been added in the form of an announcement: “Attention! This vehicle is reversing.”

It made me wonder whether it is necessary to have a warning system before sitting down. For instance, I once mistakenly sat on a pair of glasses, but not to the point of totally damaging them, because I felt something that made me check what I might be sitting on.

Little Miss Muffet and the Case for Situational Awareness

Little Miss Muffet, the star of the nursery rhyme, could have faced the danger of sitting on a spider which might have stung her on the backside. That is, if the tuffet was a grassy mound, like a tuft. However, we must assume it was a small stool. So, when the spider abseiled down its thread of web and sat down beside her, it must have been a display of arachnid politeness that she mistook for danger.

My case for the tuffet being a small stool rather than a grassy mound rests on this: the spider would not have been as obvious in the grass as it would be on a stool. Depending on which version you have committed to memory, the spider either came down from above or walked along some surface, probably underneath the stool, to settle beside Miss Muffet.

The Perils of Sitting Without Looking

Then, as I accede to William Cobbett's aphorism to "sit down to write what you have thought, and not to think what you shall write," sitting down takes on the need for awareness of where one should set one's derrière. Obviously, far from where spiders and creepy crawlies can frighten you away, and definitely not on some fragile thing that is not part of the seat.

In light of that, I always consciously put my glasses on a table, with the remote controls close by, but usually on a raised cushion, and never place a laptop on any readily available furniture to sit on; the same goes for my mobile phone. Having these things in plain sight, on tables or shelves, would, for all intents and purposes, prevent avoidable grief.

What great mishaps have been wrought by backsides set on the wrong thing, wreaking havoc and becoming, for want of a better phrase, a weapon of arse destruction. Initiative schools before gravity pulls, and the backside fools you into breaking things left on stools. We all know when we’ve allowed our backsides to rock the boat violently.

It's A Wonderful Life

Help is coming

Sometimes, it is not clear what things people are going through: demands, pressures, trauma, psychological issues, unmet goals, unfulfilled dreams, or just the humdrum of daily life. In all this, one must continue to live and seek to thrive, because that is what living is all about.

I just finished watching an abridged version of the 1946 film, It's A Wonderful Life, on Amazon Prime Video, which would form the themes of our discussions in church during the Advent season that started last Sunday, but was deferred for the silver jubilee of our bishop's enthronement as a bishop in the Church of England.

There were times when I shed a tear while watching the film, which, on its release, barely broke even at the box office, but over the years, has become a Christmas staple of generosity and redemption against the odds. The need for a life partner, for prayer, and knowing you have a guardian angel can make all the difference to an existence bordering on despondency.

“Senior Angel: A man down on Earth needs our help.
Clarence: Splendid. Is he sick?
Senior Angel: No, worse. He's discouraged.” A conversation in heaven from the film.

Under the darkest clouds

The concept of being discouraged stems from various factors, including losing confidence or hope, feeling that one's efforts don't make a difference, or believing goals are out of reach. These issues meet us in different places and affect us to varying degrees.

There may be the kind of resilience that helps one see beyond the present, or sometimes one can get overwhelmed to the point of seeking an outlet. Either way, this represents the fragility of our humanity, which is difficult to explain to people who see us as stalwarts and leaders, in thought and deed.

In the last few months, even as I seem to have powered through a lot of things in health, at work, and in general relationships, I am drawn to the realisation that I might be exhausted. Feeling a lot better after cancer treatment, whilst grateful for the developments and progress, does not make it less impactful. It was a daunting situation, with support coming from just a handful of people.

The safety of withdrawing

Apart from the two weeks' break I had in August and September, I have worked since the first working day of the year, returning from sick leave and hardly structuring the return to work. In terms of family, most just thought it was another headache; only two of my siblings kept engaged from when I was diagnosed through my treatment.

I began to cut down on my social interactions and withdrew into my shell, my engagements mainly limited to my partner, my best friend, my church community, the work environment, and a few friends. I need the time to myself without shouldering responsibilities or fielding issues. I have done enough for the purposes of legacy, if that matters at all.

Even at the emotional low points, I must encourage myself. I see possibility within the flux and the fog, knowing the dark clouds have to shift for the sunshine to give light, warmth, and life.

Most of all, I am truly fortunate, exceedingly grateful, and amazingly blessed. “No man is a failure who has friends.” I am thankful for the friends I have; they pray for me, support me, encourage me, give me hope, and restore my faith, showing me such undeserved, unconditional love. It is indeed a wonderful life, after all.

Related Blogs

Blog - Thought Picnic: Sometimes forgetting cancer is tough living

Blog - A realisation of poorly availing oneself of support systems

Blog - Radio silence as good therapy

Blog - Junk the funk

Writing Well: Craft and Wellspring

Well, it’s tough

“Of all those arts in which the wise excel, Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.” This quote is attributed to both John Sheffield, 1st Duke of Buckingham and Normanby (1647–1721) and André Breton (1896–1966); however, I do not intend to make any issue of the results of my internet search.

Writing well can be viewed as both a wellspring and a craft. At least, this became my reading of the quote, not as a sign of wisdom, but as a recognition that the willingness to express oneself and the choice of expression have won changes in areas that seem intractable.

Over the last few weeks, the teams in which I work have found themselves subject to management's pressing inclination to seek statistical successes with little consideration of the effort involved that does not show up in the figures. It has been nigh on impossible to communicate the difficulties in our battles to tackle the problems we have encountered.

Well, Bad Faith

At one point, in what was clearly a breach of trust and confidence, we were both threatened and bullied. It was a particularly low exercise of managerial control, oblivious of everything but meeting some arbitrary target. It rankled so much that I even found my voice fading in agitation, anger, and angst whilst challenging the various ungallant uses of office.

Much as I appreciate that people in authority might be caught up in the illusions of power and demands, they cannot defy the reality of the practical elements necessary for achieving what they want. It is against this backdrop that I entered the fray of another push for targets without a sense of effort.

My goal, expressed a few days before, was for management to reward those putting in the most to achieve the target, even if the seemingly impossible target could not be met and the goalposts shifted in the meagre rewards they were offering. A difficult exchange ensued that first challenged the premise, then conditioned the situation, before adjusting the focus.

Well, Write Well

Fetching from the writing well of wisdom, gauging the time to interject and pressing the case, I first exposed the numbers malady before setting the perspective. This was presented in an inadvertent comment from a manager; my response was a case of writing well for effect.

It put the purpose on the defensive and led to a reassessment of the goal, but I held back from responding further. The ordered use of words is a skill demanding the scalpel blade of teasing rather than the machete of chopping. What ensued included receiving a slight rebuke, but the bruises of battle are part of being in a fight, though it rarely feels like one when the other party needs to exert authority.

The initiative eventually came without my suggesting it directly. Whether the target is met or not, the best-performing member of the team will be adequately rewarded. This should have been done the week before, beyond empty platitudes. Is it any wonder morale is so low?

Well, Just Write

The writing well is a resource from which I have dug deep to fetch the fresh water of writing well in the art of persuasion. The wounds matter less given the many victories won through time. I don't even bother to celebrate the wins, except in appreciation of the gift of writing well.

I suppose this is why this blog exists. Of all the mediums of expression available to engage us, writing has the potential to exist long after interest has been lost in hearing and watching people perform.

Caught in the act of keyboard bashing again

The incurable itch

There are times when I delude myself into thinking I am a writer, but the reality might suggest that all these years of blogging are pretensions to an ability I barely possess. "An inveterate and incurable itch for writing besets many, and grows old in their sick hearts." The Roman poet Juvenal's Satires X.

However, the translation from Latin suffers from so many kinds of paraphrasing and interpretation that it has become the more popular variation: "Writing is an incurable itch that affects many." Whilst I might have that occasional itch, it has become quite benign. I cannot be bothered to scratch it, nor is it so serious that I need a salve for it.

It is like learning to live with an infirmity; the inadequacy rings loud in your head, urging you to stop and pursue something else that belies a modicum of talent. On the other side, perhaps persistence counts for something. You do it long enough, it becomes practised, and you grow better at it. You gain the confidence that the little you manage to express can pass muster.

When I woke up just 25 minutes ago to think of something to write before the day's end, I felt it might be a jumble of incoherent words landing in an order that might suggest lucidity, but is clearly a malady bordering on insanity. Who really cares? Just bash the keyboard with your thoughts and see how itchy you really can get.

A whoosh moment

Coffee Gets Milky

The wind lifts the leaves and sends them dancing. What a thing it is to feel that sea breeze against your face, salt-sharp and bracing. This is Cape Town in all its contradictions: the water we adore from a distance, too dreadfully cold to ever step into, lapping at shores of the beach we walk but never wade.

Morning breaks, and somewhere in a sanctuary, someone reaches for their second cup before the first is fully drowned. Here, beneath vaulted ceilings that will echo with songs, the beans speak their own benediction, at hands one mirroring another.

The milk froths to an airy resurrection, poured into waiting darkness until the black turns cloudy with grace. It's communion of a different sort, but no less sacred for its secularity.

Notes Get Windy

In the dreaming hours, when consciousness drifts between waking and sleep, a figure moves through half-lit streets. From her handbag tumbles a scatter of notes, and in that suspended moment before she reaches down, the wind stirs with intention. You call out, to warn of the loss she's about to suffer, as dream-logic speaks in your voice.

Then the child appears, whimsical and wild as wind itself. From his lips comes a sound, a playful whoosh that blurs the line between breath and breeze. The notes lift, caught between gravity and air, between currency and sound, everything suddenly, impossibly airborne.

It's the kind of moment that clings to you after waking, vivid and strange, the sort of thing that makes you wonder if wind has always been this mischievous, this alive.

The shibboleth of fluency

Strangeness in the familiar

The languages we use in communication can determine how our use of words, structure, grammar, and style makes us winners or losers.

Conversation is a kind of interaction where we innately know the rules that confer belonging, distinguishing us from those who fall foul of them. However, it is placenames that defeat the foreigner in ways almost insurmountable.

When I lived in Holland, it was the beach town of Scheveningen that set the allochtoon apart from the autochtoon, until we eventually mastered the pronunciation. Any American visiting London would easily stand out whilst looking for Leicester Square or Southwark. When I do not hear 'southern' as 'surthen', I know who has travelled from afar.

Twinning the dissimilar

In South Africa, my Dutch exposes my foreign background; the placenames I pronounce in Dutch are barely recognisable to the locals.

This is where the identical needs closer observation to notice the difference. The twin test works like a linguistic shibboleth. Present someone with two nearly identical siblings and ask them to distinguish between them. The local spots the difference immediately; that distinctive mole, that particular smile, whilst the outsider sees only sameness. A casual glance reveals similarities, yet that tiny detail remains the tell.

So, it is with language. Just as twins operate in near-perfect synchrony, bewitching you with their sameness, you might navigate an entire conversation in flawless grammar. But stumble over 'Scheveningen', and the shibboleth has caught you. South Africans hear my Dutch-inflected Afrikaans and immediately spot what doesn't belong, differences imperceptible to my ear yet glaringly obvious to theirs.

Speaking so good

Tongue-tied to the point of speechlessness, you imagine running your hand through their curly hair. They smile and suddenly, as if possessed, or rather inspired, the utterance from your lips is a fluency in Afrikaans for which a shibboleth would fail to ensnare. Sometimes attraction trumps the test; inspiration defeats the very mechanism designed to expose you.

Language draws the pictures in the mind, and even if we say the words wrong because an accent defeats us, there's probably enough in it not to be misunderstood.

Men's things XXVIII: Shame, no national prostate cancer screening

An Unexpected Conclusion

I catch up on the news through the refined medium of chat shows, so I was unaware of the day's developments when my friend called to get an opinion. It was the news that national prostate cancer screening has not been recommended for men in the UK.

Whilst I am disappointed by the development, the science and research might suggest it could cause more harm; men could be diagnosed and overtreated for something benign. Because the usual growth rates for prostate cancer are quite long-term, stretching into more than a decade, immediate intervention is not always needed.

I appreciate all those arguments, but I can only share my own experience.

Pushing for Action

Firstly, the decision to get a PSA test was primarily at my own instigation and insistence. My GP had blood test results suggesting I had an anaemic deficiency for over two months, and did nothing about it until I asked why a reading was off the scale. During that investigation, I tacked on the PSA test.

As a black man aged 58, I fell into the cohort of those who could be affected by prostate cancer. Then my father indicated that he had it too, though I could not conclusively ascertain the facts.

The urinary symptoms of incomplete emptying or urgency I had attributed to the expected rather than the unusual. I was not expecting anything untoward.

Towards a Cancer Diagnosis

In early February 2024, the PSA reading was borderline on the high side of the normal range at 3.5 ng/ml. The other issue was that I had folic acid deficiency anaemia. I got a prescription for folic acid supplements and returned for another blood test at the end of March 2024.

By then, my folic acid levels had fallen outside the normal range, but the more concerning issue was the PSA at 4.0 ng/ml over the course of seven weeks.

The doctor then took the initiative to invite me to discuss this reading and conducted a digital rectal examination (DRE). His conclusion was an enlarged prostate gland with no nodules, but we needed to determine why.

This led to a referral to a hospital urology department, which, within weeks, scheduled a multiparametric MRI (mpMRI) scan at the end of April.

Challenging the Orthodoxy

At which point, I was reading up about tests, results, and indicators in the diagnostic path for prostate cancer. I then got an appointment with the urology department to discuss the MRI scan results.

We had barely exchanged greetings when the specialist literally blurted out, "We need to do a biopsy." No assessment, review, or discussion before telling me that. I pushed back and asked what the reasons were behind the decision, as the whole thing was both shocking and a surprise. The specialist would win no prizes for bedside manner.

Along with the many questions I asked, the answer that made me acquiesce was when he told me the PIRADS score was 4.

That result meant there was something concerning that had to be checked. There was no comfort with the ultrasound-guided transperineal biopsy of the prostate; even the lidocaine injections were painful, but I braced myself.

Cancer of the Prostate Gland

I had an appointment to review the results in mid-June. But my medical data in another hospital was merged into another assessment in early June, and there I learnt of the diagnosis of adenocarcinoma of the prostate gland.

When I met the urologist at the urology department, I told him I already knew, and we should cut to the chase. It was Stage 2 cancer, a Gleason score of 7 (represented as 3+4), contained in the prostate gland, and immediate treatment was recommended. I opted for radiotherapy.

In the process, I consulted with Prostate Cancer UK. I realised I could only be put on the longer hypofractionated radiotherapy over 20 working days, as my prostate was too enlarged for surgery to consider what could be saved of any sexual function, and brachytherapy could lead to serious complications.

You Always Excise the Cancer

Prostate Cancer UK felt I should have opted for active surveillance, but I had come so far in the medical analysis to back out. Apart from the fact that, besides the recommendation to treat it, I was not going to endure the presence of cancer in my body, waiting to see what it might do in years or decades.

Whilst the side effects were close to debilitating, they were manageable with good advice from the cancer health nurse consultant that my company recommended as I began treatment.

As prostate cancer leads the cause of deaths from cancer in men in the UK, and it impacts black men twice as much, the decision not to recommend national screening is quite unfortunate.

Get Screened and Scream Too

Even those with the BRCA gene mutation that suggests greater susceptibility to cancer will not find that out unless they are screened for it, probably in a separate medical checkup.

Reviewing all my medical notes, I cannot find any indication of any BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene mutation, and yet I have had two episodes of cancer malignancy in the space of 15 years.

Obviously, it means men must have a voice in their individual medical situations and advocate for the necessary interventions towards the best outcomes.

From my perspective, every time I have a platform to speak about men's health, I will say: if you're a black man over 45, you need to get the PSA test and go the full course until you are satisfied everything is fine.

Then, if anyone in your family (and that is mother, father, sister, or brother) has had cancer, get checked too. Demand to be seen as a person before you become a statistic.

Putting your health first, above any cultural, societal, or personal embarrassment, is paramount. Prostate cancer is treatable, especially when caught early. The lack of a national screening programme does not make it less incumbent on every man to step up and be part of ensuring that prostate cancer is no longer the biggest cause of cancer deaths in men.

Thank you.

BBC News: Men's things XXVII: The inconvenience of incontinence

References

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

Blog - A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XVIV - I Just Can't Wait

Blog - Men's things XXVII: The inconvenience of incontinence

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

Key

The PSA unit ng/ml is nanograms per millilitre.

In a year of remembering Dr Willy Legg

In a year of remembering

I never met Willy, but we had many conversations on WhatsApp and when he moved into a nursing home, there were bits of interaction when Brian went to visit him.

Last year, as Brian was about to leave for Cape Town to help me recuperate, he visited Willy and part of what transpired was Willy had a premonition and said he'll be gone before Brian returns to Bulawayo.

We were only about three weeks in Muizenberg, near Cape Town, when the news came that he had passed on. There have been snatches of memory and recollections since, many quite interesting and fond too.

I share one such memory below, which was a comment to the blog I wrote in tribute to Willy, a year ago. Unfortunately, the contributor did not leave a name.

The tortoise she birthed

To add to your fund of Willie stories: In amongst all the normal activities of being a clinical student in Harare Hospital, Zimbabwe, occasional remarkable incidents stood out.

One day, someone mentioned in the tea-room that there was an especially unusual case in the maternity unit. It was definitely worth going to see, and it involved a tortoise. Along with Willie Legg, with whom I was then sharing a house, I went to have a look at this 'most unusual case'.

In one of the small side wards holding the recently delivered mothers and their babies, we found a perfectly ordinary young mother in her bed; the adjoining bassinet contained a somewhat dusty but otherwise perfectly ordinary adult tortoise, complete with a few lettuce leaves.

Luckily, Willie spoke perfect Shona, so he asked the mother what her exact story was. She told him she had gone through her pregnancy without any real problems and had an apparently normal delivery in a district clinic. She had been greatly distressed when she was then presented, not with a swaddled baby, but a swaddled tortoise.

According to the established protocol for such things, she was transferred with her new and very obviously 'abnormal' baby to our teaching hospital, as this was a most unusual complication.

It appeared impossible to either of us that anyone could ever accept this story, so we asked the young midwife working on that ward what she thought of the story. She said, and I quote: “No, it could not possibly be true. I have examined the tortoise and noted that its umbilicus is fully healed.” I took this as a valid point, but not a completely satisfactory answer.

Naturally, we were nowhere near the end of the story, as the police were already on the case. It was soon confirmed that the clinic midwife had accepted a significant sum of money to give the newborn baby to a well-off local woman who was infertile.

The tortoise had been substituted for the baby, with the hope that this unsophisticated young mother would just accept this reptile as her unhappy lot. Luckily, this never had to happen, and justice was eventually served.

Blog - Dr William George Wykeham Legg (Willy)