The many tests of a patient waiting in patience

A Week to Fathom

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

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

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

Good News, Then Distress

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

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

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

Saturday Takes a Turn

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

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

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

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

A Night in A&E

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

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

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

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

The Weight of Being Alone

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

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

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

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

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

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Thoroughness Is Not Stalling

Caution Gets the Cold Shoulder

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

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

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

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

A Policy in the Way

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

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

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

Rushing Ahead Without the Facts

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

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

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

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

Right the First Time

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

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

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

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

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

When You Are Not Sure if It Is Serious

A Night of Unease

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

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

AI to the Rescue

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

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

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

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

Into A&E

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

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

Blood and Bedside Manner

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

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

The Vampire Association

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

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

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

Waiting for the All-Clear

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

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

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

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

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

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

Life After Radiotherapy

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

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

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

Monitoring My Progress

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

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

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

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

Sharing the Good News

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

For the boys in the room.

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

Please, take some time to check your risk.

Thanks

Check your risk in 30 seconds | Prostate Cancer UK

Take That First Test

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blog - A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

AI Serving My Blogs in New Light - Q4 2025

Discovering Audio Overviews

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

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

Finding Common Threads

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

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

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

Looking Ahead

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

Here, I present the monthly podcasts for Q4 2025.

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

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

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

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

Love, Distance, and a City Called Home

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 - Q1 2026

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.

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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)

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A Woman Archbishop: Reflections

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

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The Three Musketeers running errands blind

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!

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Heritage Without Nostalgia

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.

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