A World Cup: No Wine, Only Years

A World Cup Postscript

It is only prudent that a postscript be written at the conclusion of the FIFA World Cup 2026, which was hosted in Canada, Mexico, and the United States of America. Unfortunately, England did not bring the cup home after 60 years; rather, it was Spain taking the glory for the second time in 16 years, in both cases not being the hosts.

For all the matches played, I watched only the last two or so minutes of the final. For the other matches, including all of England's games, there was a recurring goal-score notification on my phone, whose provenance I could not verify, that kept me updated, if I cared to look, or if a sprite of curiosity consumed my indifference.

The Weight of Years

The final between Argentina and Spain included a half-time show, and what the passage of time does to us all can be interesting. Madonna, at 67, was playing the part of 27; she was driven onto the field by the Brazilian World Cup winners Ronaldinho and Ronaldo, the latter looking as though he had never been a superstar footballer before.

Age, when it comes to the human body, does not mature it like wine, for we saw Lionel Messi, 39, try to shave a few years off in pursuit of his verve, to no avail, just as it was for Cristiano Ronaldo, 41, of Portugal.

These men were not like Moses of the Bible, who saw God and wrought miracles, and of whom, when he died at 120 years old, it is recorded that "His eyes were not dim nor his natural vigour diminished." One preacher suggested it meant Moses was all there everywhere, including, well, let us not go there.

More Than a Talisman

There were flashes of footballing genius from these two, their teams built around making them shine; but you do not win the World Cup on a talisman.

You need a team of skill and cunning, and Spain, through the whole tournament, conceded only one goal, so much so that the Golden Glove went to their keeper, as did the player of the tournament and the young player awards too.

Controversy, lots of it, was littered throughout the tournament, with referee decisions sometimes favourable to the favourites or downright questionable to the spectator. An intervention from a president even got a red card converted into a suspended sentence in favour of the United States, but it only made their drubbing by Belgium ever so sweet. No fault of the players, but the deathly touch of him; the president was totally unhelpful, in the end.

Knowing When to Bow Out

A profession in sport might have a shelf life, and there can be no greater wisdom than knowing when to bow out in a blaze of glory, rather than find oneself reduced to a global spectacle of human frailty, seeking the elixir of youth for prowess long gone.

We get egged on by the applause, forgetting we are not the person we once were, in strength, in agility, in ability, in facility, or in capacity. We might get close, but that is only how far it gets; we rest on our laurels, hoping for that last-gasp fairy-tale narrative that may or may never happen.

The Final Whistle

This World Cup brought the curtain down on some big names, as we were introduced to new ones. Whilst I am glad it is over, and it is indeed over now, there is no doubt in my mind that the best team won. England came third, and the Golden Boot went to the captain of France, as his team placed fourth.

The spectre of changing the format to a 64-team World Cup, from our first trial of 48 teams, does not bear thinking about; but the FIFA president always has a scheme to secure support for a life presidency by throwing crumbs to the football minnows. Kiribati, lace your boots.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Thought Picnic: On refusing to be defined by cancer

Like an impatient patient

I became a cancer patient long before I had the option to consent because every cancer diagnosis in the UK gets put on what is essentially a national cancer registry. I was informed only as a matter of courtesy that this had been done. I would think it was weeks before I had a conversation with the consultant, and I had known of this diagnosis because of the poor sequestration and handling of information within my local NHS trust.

Beyond this, you strain every sinew within you not to be defined as a cancer patient, yet that is somewhat taken out of your control, my spirit, strong and commanding, willing with strength over the deprecations my body exhibits in symptoms of both the cancer and the treatment of it.

Chief among these side effects is fatigue that results in tiredness, irregular sleeping patterns, nocturnal insomnia, and a weakened timbre of voice in speaking, the urinary tract is slightly irritated, and bowel movements seem rather restricted.

Willing against bodily handicaps

Having determined I would attend church today as I could not last Sunday for the simple reason that I hardly slept the Saturday night before, the same was happening today. Unlike a fortnight ago, I knew I wouldn’t be walking to church, it was best to do this by Uber.

As the alarm clock went off, I did not bother to put it in snooze mode, I stopped the alarm and pondered whether it was beneficial to grab the sleep I could or rise to the challenge my body was unwilling to meet, but my spirit ruled against.

I rose and went to the bathroom for the essential ablutions. I bedecked myself in the apparel I wore for my last radiotherapy appointment on Friday before hailing an Uber ride to church. I arrived as the processional hymn was sung and sat beside a steward friend.

I only stood up for the gospel and for Communion, the collects in my saying lagged the congregation and no attempt was made to sing any of the hymns, my voice just could not modulate toward tuneful expression, it would have taken all the strength out of me.

The community, our church is

My absence last week left many quite concerned and I received messages and calls asking about my welfare. I was also not aware that many other members of the church knew I was having cancer treatment, and some were praying for me. I sometimes forget how closely knit our church community is.

If I had not attended church today, I would have had people at my door checking up on me, in a sense it is lovely to be noticed and missed. Next week is the Judges’ Service signifying the opening of the legal year. In other circumstances, I would have attended to steward the proceedings as it is a civil service, I think I’ll have a lie-in and recoup my strength.

Another Uber ride back home even in infirmity, let the weak say I am strong.

Body talk and blessings

The things that wear well

About a week ago, I got sent a picture taken at an event I attended about 3 decades ago, I was both shocked and surprised as I did not know the picture existed.

How I have changed, in all that time and remain more or less the same. I guess one of the things striking about the picture was the jacket I was wearing then and to think that I not only still have the jacket, but it also fits well, I wore it to church just 3 Sundays ago.

That is durability for you, the good sense of spending money on good quality that lasts. Clothes, shoes, hats, umbrellas, or accessories like a pair of binoculars, and I can point to stuff that I bought in the 90s that is wearable or useful today.

The measures that remain true

The other matter is the body, how our bodies change or the way we work on ensuring the body remains fit and trim if you can put the essential work into it.

It is my weight that bothers me more than anything else and then the need to ensure my tummy does not distend and become protuberant.

Except for when I lost 25% of my weight during a bout of cancer, I have kept my weight within 5kg of 83kg, preferring to weigh on the lower side rather than the upper side for a height of 183cm or six feet. In the shops, it appears they do not expect someone with a 32” (81.3cm) waist to be tall, I need according to our UK measurements, a 34” (86.4cm) inside leg.

It is a great blessing

It is a struggle to find that fitting off-the-peg, Brian who is trimmer and taller can wear my trousers, he just needs one more hole in the belt, I think. He always looks so cute beside me.

I do wonder how people cope with the excess that they carry around, the belaboured breathing and other encumbrances that are associated with tending towards obesity.

Maybe I have just been blessed with a body that sticks close to form, even my neck has stuck to 16.5” (42cm) for as long as I can remember.

In everything, I am thankful and blessed be the name of the Lord.

Opinion: Getting good medical outcomes is a fight to be heard - II

Up against the system

When I wrote last week that my NHS rating is a 6 on a scale of 0 – 10, a series of conversations with users of the service and most especially, my personal experience highlighted issues I have overlooked rather than pursued.

Blog - Opinion: Getting good medical outcomes is a fight to be heard - I

There are organisational inefficiencies that consequently impact the patient at the point of contact and the bureaucracy demands those who people the establishment that they need more time to address issues and where they do, they should be more attentive.

In some cases, those who choose to address ineffective processes that result in poor outcomes are deemed, termed, and labelled difficult and troublesome. The person's suffering is forgotten as the Hippocratic oath of service becomes a perfunctory recitation without heart or mind involved. The patient is a customer on a fast-moving conveyor belt to the exit than to wellness.

Organisational failings that fail us

In my other blog, I talked of when I had to relay my medical record to a doctor because my file was not available to check my notes for the consultation. It would appear, every patient that visited on that day, if they were not as clued in and read up on their condition would have received attention below par.

I have high praise for the department that has taken on my case for almost 8 years, but they are not perfect and not all the consultants I have met give due heed to the wider issues of who the person they are seeing is and I can understand their limitations. However, one has to question how with that knowledge of who was attending for the day the essential documentation was not provided to the consultants for review and understanding as they met their patients.

It might have been a one-off situation, but I have the feeling there is a rot that pervades the system that is seething and creeping almost unaware to those with the responsibility to ensure things work better for the desired outcomes of their patients.

Seeing but not perceiving

Then, it was the lassitude that greeted my need for treatment of a co-morbidity condition that they knew of for more than two years, but never sought to address until I challenged the thinking in the department. You could almost feel they were more ready to express sympathy after your demise in the knowledge you were one less problem to deal with than face the complexity of the person-problem conundrum.

When they advocated for the change of my drug regime for a new medication, the consultant inelegantly let slip that the decision was being made on a cost basis as my medication was still under patent protection. This was reinforced with a contrived neurological test as I did mention absences in thought that could be side effects on my memory, much of which I had compensated for as I noticed changes in how I remember things, especially in the short-term memory space.

The struggle of outlay over outcome

The new medication was a hellish 7-week experience that they were keen to fix me to after the second week which I thought was too short a period to understand its effects. I dare say, one of the side effects that was on a label you could tear off from the packaging included sudden death. Each day, I recorded every funny symptom from tingling in my extremities, to insomnia and nausea – those were the prominent ones.

I walked into the department with 42 pages of side effects recorded for each of the 42 days and demanded I be put back on my old medication that I had tolerated well for over 8 years. The year after this sordid experiment, there were generics of my medication available, and I have been on those since then.

Obviously, there is a cost to medical provision, and I cannot ignore the towering cost of the 12-week medication for treating the co-morbidity 7 years ago with new drugs for which I am grateful, but it is never comfortable to be in the hearing of cost rather comfort and outlay rather than outcomes.

Being there but not with me

It was my last consultation that inspired these blogs as my doctor’s notes created on the day of my visit or thereabouts get sent to both my GP and me. Now, after that consultation, I was given a survey to fill in about attending the consultation that day. After receiving the note, I would like to review my earlier commending comments.

This is for the simple reason that I discussed a number of issues with the consultant that should have superseded the talk we had 6 months ago. On review, there is little of what we discussed in the new note, I can also put it down to either the consultant being distracted or inattentive. That conclusion is easy to arrive at as when he said he had refilled my prescription, it was one of two medications that he prescribed, and I had to return the next day for the other medication.

The notes can be consequential

Doctor’s notes might hold no particular significance as a simple administrative process, but when one is engaging with the system and some decisions are predicated on what the doctor’s perspective is of you and your situation, there can be no room for error or variance between how you describe yourself and your doctor's observations. I can only wonder what it would take to rectify this without creating a crisis of confidence and trust within that team of medical personnel.

Indeed, I do make demands on the NHS for better outcomes which have much room for improvement, but there are only so many things you can overlook before you realise something radical is needed to ensure you do not become a mere conveyor belt statistic.

It is a fight to be heard and listened to, beyond which you hope that they would respond and act on the situation, with your interests to heart and in your favour.

Opinion: Getting good medical outcomes is a fight to be heard - I

Not operating at full potential

On a scale of 0 – 10, I would probably put the quality of the service I get by default from the National Health Service (NHS) at a 6. If I want better outcomes, I need to challenge the system and the process to do much more.

Comparing my experience with those of others who interact with me about their issues and challenges, I seem to be getting a much better deal than them in the responsiveness of the institutions and establishments and more particularly from the personnel that man the points of access I utilise.

General practice without practicals

I do have a GP, but I never met her even though I have been registered at the surgery for close to 8 years, the only times I visit are usually to get the annual flu jabs if I need anything else; it is impossible to get through on the phone and when you use their website, my most recent application took 10 days to get a response and that was to ask me to pay for a possible referral from the GP who was to call me in another 3 weeks.

Ah! The GP in whose docket I was, retired from the practice 18 months ago, and it was when the surgery contacted in the response that I found out who my new assigned GP was. My main engagement with the NHS is actually elsewhere, my GP just gets informed of and updated on the observations and recommendations.

It is my body first

As I have had to fight for better personal outcomes in pain management, suggested treatments, and delayed intervention both in the Netherlands and the UK, the lessons I have learned personally and from others reviewing issues with healthcare delivery can be useful to others.

One key point I always make is, “It is my body first, before it is your guinea pig.” That was what I told a team of consultants and an insistent neurologist when after months of chemotherapy they wanted to perform a lumbar puncture, which I was not keen on. They relented.

At another time, the pain medication was insufficient, and I had to disabuse the notion that black people have a higher pain threshold and can endure much more suffering that the medical establishment defaults to think we are becoming junkies rather than people who need simple relief. Yes, after the consultant expressed some bafflement, he did increase the dosage of my Fentanyl patch and the pain considerably subsided. I was grateful for it. It is documented research that there is racial bias in pain management for black people. [NIH: Racial bias in pain assessment and treatment recommendations, and false beliefs about biological differences between blacks and whites]

Be forthright without fear

I lived with a diagnosed condition for more than 3 years that presented a co-morbidity, and each time I went for my biannual check-ups, it was noted but not dealt with. Everything with done around the periphery of it but not the essential action required. At one such consultation, I said to the consultant, I am very aware of my morbidity that you have observed and done nothing about for years, what do you intend to do about it as you all know it is getting worse.

I guess he was shocked by my forthrightness that within a month I was put on the latest medication and the condition was eradicated in less than 12 weeks. I have found I need to ask questions, seek satisfying answers, and deliberately go over a review of my test results to observe trends and mitigations to attain outcomes.

You cannot use the NHS from a stance of passive participation, you need to understand your condition fully, be knowledgeable and clued in on your medical notes as well as the medical personnel. There was one visit where my file was not available, when I finished, the doctor commended me for giving a detailed situation as good as a medical file. You need to read up and understand everything along with studying developments concerning your medical profile.

This might well help you

Anyone who needs access to the healthcare establishment, they should listen to the Reith Lectures delivered by Dr Atul Gawande on The Future of Medicine that covers topics like, Why Do Doctors Fail? and The Problem of Hubris, amongst others. I believe there are many tips and ideas you can gain about attaining the best outcomes in your engagements. [BBC: The Reith Lectures: Dr Atul Gawande - The Future of Medicine]

I started this blog to write about why I have not received some of the outcomes in service, attentiveness, or understanding of my requirements. Whilst some of that is covered in this blog, I feel I need to review how to write the second part of this topic.

Thought Picnic: In the struggle to resume as I

A fog in the head

It is strange that only recently I wrote about being stuck on the absence of desire, I concept that might well be quite seriously misunderstood when it is seen as physical rather than a head and consequently a mental health issue.

Blog - Thought Picnic: Stuck on the absence of desire

There is no doubt in my mind today that I do need therapy, there are knotty issues that are affecting my flow, I cannot seem to get a grip on several things that I would have thought a few months ago would have happened without any need for encouragement or inspiration. I really do feel somewhat stuck that something radical needs to happen.

The therapies I require

Indeed, some physical therapy can come in useful in the form of spa treatments and a sports massage, however, fundamentally, mental therapy would reach down into the depth of what seems to ail me, a few sessions of psychotherapy and psychoanalysis, a professional helping me unravel the pall of infirmity that inhibits aspects of productivity and expression.

The catharsis of writing is not enough and though having a conversation with my best friend might have helped things a bit. In myself, my confidence is shaken and the kind of focus that appears as sure-footed maturity is not particular manifest. It is like I am at my most vulnerable when I need support and most misunderstood that places the burden of patience on others.

Seeing more of me

I have no idea of how much time I need to get back either to my old self or to arrive at a manifestly improved self, I am just taking each day as it comes, hoping that in the process things either fall into place or I find that essential support I need.

It is inauspicious that this is happening at a time when I am with my partner, and we have ahead of us some consequential plans. Oh, I can be quite moody if not boring, these are realities that probably need to be experienced and appreciated along with everything else people know about me. What I do not know is if my human frailties can find enough allowances in the frame of reference of those on whom I depend as much as they depend on me.

Then there is a responsibility that I bear in all this, the need for others to see the 'for worse' of me when they are distracted by the 'for better' at commitment, and feel deceived about all the components of my evidently fragile being and nature.

A review of the kilo howler

Scales fall as weight rises

It is the rudest occupant in my bedroom, beckoning me on sight without proper address, not averting a gaze when I am in nuditate and indeed blurting out figures with no regard for my figure. As it considers itself modern it gossips the secrets to everyone listening and logs it in a journal as a tale of my excesses.

No, you are not allowed your own opinion or thoughts, for the facts hit you right in the face and the truth, bitter as it might be is served up right up the nose.

The scale of the damage is weighty, the pending disaster is best avoided. Yet, he goes by the name Huawei Scale 3, if you'll like to make an acquaintance.

A smartwatch I bought,
This came for free,
All escapes we sought,
Are blocked from thee,
For all that you ought,
Just count to three,
Everything we are not,
It says with glee.

It's walking and it's working - VI

What they see I don’t

Brian will say when we are on our WhatsApp video conferences that I have noticeably lost weight and so will my other friends. I, however, have not been convinced that the weight loss is that appreciable. Yet, I cannot deny that stepping on the scales in the past two mornings has given me two readings below 80 kilogrammes and my lowest weight in probably a decade.

What it signifies is I am shifting the pounds, albeit, quite slowly as it is taking a lot more exercise and effort to show results. I can still pinch a good chunk of flab in the front even if the love handles have shrunk away. Maybe, I will have to do some abdominal and leg workouts to trim the belly fat to a better frame.

The optical illusion that forms in the shadow from the light cast from behind almost suggests one is getting a figure-8 midriff, but that will be wishful thinking and the stuff of dreams. I have a lot more work to do.

A warped rhythm of the walk

Whilst it is not the goal, I am usually pleased if I get 7 kilometres done within 60 minutes, though getting it at 63 minutes which is an average of 9 minutes to the kilometre is not entirely bad. Getting 10 kilometres done in under 90 minutes is a worthwhile achievement with over 13,000 steps in it.

My pace much as it seems regular and constant in terms of body rhythm sometimes leaves me wondering how I could have slowed down when I have not stopped at all. 10 minutes to the kilometre when in the same session when I might have done it in just over 8 minutes is something difficult to fathom. I can even get 170 steps to the minute and I am not jogging.

I satisfy myself with the notion that I am making progress, the results will not be instant but show over time and I feel quite fit and happy. I enjoy the exercise regardless of the conditions, I need to plan for how I would keep it up in Cape Town. There is a count down in motion. Yeah!

Blog - It's walking and it's working

Blog - It's walking and it's working - II

Blog - It's walking and it's working - III

Blog - It's walking and it's working - IV

Blog - It’s walking and it’s walking - V

In a shocking pair of shorts

It is a work in progress

There are things I am probably not yet ready to acknowledge about the way my walking as exercise might have changed aspects of my fitness, my girth and my weight. Brian, for instance would protest until the cows come home that I have lost weight and I am looking trim, I would retort with a vehemence that he is only being biased.

I cannot say he has been that much help in an objective manner because only days ago, he acknowledged that my concerns about my weight that he regularly dismissed as inconsequential before I embarked on my walking regime was quite valid. I was looking like I needed to do something, but he was not going to leave me feeling that I must do something until I started to do something about it on my own, for which I have received enthusiastic partner encouragement.

He is perfect beauty

Now, Brian would most likely ask that I slow down, tone it down a little, get some rest, or something along those lines. Obviously, I do not want to harm myself with excessive workouts that I have considered I might need some deep tissue massage.

Conversely, and definitely, not inversely, I do find Brian quite attractive as he also expresses concerns about filling out places that I think are amazingly perfect as if crafted by a sculptor of incomparable talent. There is no excess, he is man-perfect or all-man, as I would tell him, trim and better than Michelangelo’s David, if I added sexy to the description, I have not even begun to give credit to the form and beauty of art that he is.

Maybe there is some bias in my appreciation, I am attracted to trim and slender men, yet, it appears, we both are caught in degrees of body dysmorphia about how we would like to change some things. In all honesty, the work has mostly been on my part to rise from a sedentary lifestyle to one of moderate to intense activity acquiring a level of fitness, especially for my age. Brian is nature’s perfect form, the model for musculature that you will teach your biology and anatomy on.

There are signs, I admit

Getting up this morning, after a long lie-in, I needed to grab something to wear and as I reached out, it was a pair of shorts that I would have strained to get round my waist just over a month ago. They would be called hot pants as to be illicit or even termed indecent dressing in conservative places. They slipped on and fitted with effortless ease, I think we are getting somewhere.

It reminds me of that nursery rhyme as we prepare for the opportunity to meet up soon within our domesticated set up in Cape Town. I, the personification of Jack and he like the wife or vice versa, which is no reference to roles we play for we are both men in a same-sex relationship without any of that heteronormative stereotyping.

Jack Sprat could eat no fat.
His wife could eat no lean.
But, together both,
They licked the platter clean.

That is the story, he is trying to put it on, I am working hard to put it off, however, we have to agree, we love good food. Then despite the occasional subjective view of how I look, I am grateful that Brian is the greatest and best supporter of my quest to fitness.

I am beginning to look quite good for my age from my perspective even if others have arrived at that conclusion long before me. There is still more working out and walking about to do, to get to the body I am happy to stand in front of the mirror and smile at.

Thought Picnic: To the gym for a Jim?

Sweet tooth dilemma

I cannot deny I have always had a sweet tooth, a characteristic of which has gone to war against my dentition from decades ago. Whilst I count myself more a tea-drinker than a coffee-quaffer, the beverages have required sweetening and milk.

Then I started changing elements of my diet out of concerns for my health at first and to address some fears of body dysmorphia that might accompany a certain age. I have thankfully never been fat, but I am a bit troubled about things getting out of control, like bundles of unexplained tissue at the back of the neck and a tummy ballooning into an embarrassment.

My medication can change the physiology that some people can be susceptible to lipodystrophy where fat deposits show up in parts of the body to cause discomfort and possible deformities.

Figures and numbers

Maybe if I spent a bit more time in the gym and took up swimming as I have always wanted to, I could bring that and the other under control. When I had cancer some 8 years ago, I lost a quarter of my body weight, having had a 32” waist for as long as I could remember, I was down to about 28” that my doctor in discussing the change to my physique wanted me to gain back all that I had lost and a little more.

I have never been comfortable to gaining back all of it, I would rather I was 10% to 15% short of my peak weight. Besides, I have too much of a head for the numbers in checking the Body Mass Index (BMI) or making metric comparisons between height and weight where I imagine you are fit if your weight in kilograms is less than 100 units taken from your height. So, the comparison for a typical height of 6 feet which is 183cm should carry a weight of 83kg or less.

I guess that thinking, especially for males, belies a predilection to physical attraction defined as slim, slender or skinny, which would put the weight at lower than 75kg. On matters of body dysmorphia, one can suddenly be quite fickle, for both oneself and others.

Changes to diet

On my diet, I started with taking the Maggi essence out of my cooking completely, I am good enough in the kitchen to make tasty food without enhancing it with additives. Though it is not what I would get from eating out. One radical change was when I stopped putting sugar in my tea and consequently stopped having it in my coffee too.

It was not an act of the will of determination, I just decided to try it and then concluded, it was doing me no harm. It has not knocked the kilograms off the scale, but I am a bit happier for it. My next activity has been reducing salt in my diet too. Along with this change, I rarely take fizzy drinks, drink more water and where I make yoghurt shakes, I use honey as the sweetener.

To the gym for a Jim?

I probably can shed a lot of weight by doing more exercise, my three months in Edinburgh involved walking to my office, sometimes up to 2 kilometres each way, even if I could get a bus. I thought it was good exercise.

However, the struggle remains to maintain a fitter body into my 50s without getting obsessed with the way I look. This blog shows I am a bit concerned, I just don’t want it to take over my life. That is my fear of body dysmorphic disorder.

Thought Picnic: A weighty bother

What great bother

As I close on half a century of life, I have begun to bother about things that did not concern me much until recently.

In general, I am not given to exertion if I can help it, I can tire easily, yet if I am engaged in some serious mental task, I can keep awake and alert for as long as it takes to satisfy myself that things are in hand.

The last time I sported a rectus abdominis muscle look, I was on chemotherapy having lost a quarter of my weight, that is what cancer and the treatment for cancer does to you.

The weight of gratitude

I have regained all that weight which if I was still seeing my consultant in the Netherlands would have made him happy and more, but it does not fill me with any comfort that I am close to the heaviest I have ever been.

On my consultant in the Netherlands, I was quite apprehensive after the Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 crash because he could easily have been one of the experts to attend the International AIDS conference in Melbourne, Australia.

I was glad to read that he was fine, yet saddened by the loss of one of his very close colleagues Joep Lange, whose expertise within the highly-skilled team and the body of knowledge that addressed my illness saved my life.

Between Jim and the gym

We have a matter to hand, it is concerns about my weight and obviously that relates directly and superficially to my body.

I would rather I was at least 10 kilograms lighter than I weigh now, and that is the difference between going to see Jim and going to the gym. I do wonder what motivation I need to regain control of my weight and to do that well before I begin to lose confidence in myself because of my looks.

This issue hits you daily, in advertisements that fill our television screens where just the blemish on the skin or the hair growing naturally, but in what we have been programmed to consider the wrong place becomes the whole difference between being ourselves or trying to be someone else.

It is a bother

Thankfully, I have not reached the point of wanting to be someone else, I just want to be a better version of me in thought, in outlook and hopefully, in looks too.

That an estate agent never expected me to be the age I am, but much younger, is a compliment, but compliments do not work off the flab, rather it serves to complement the comfort of doing nothing and thereby tipping the scales on the wrong side – usually, yours.

The psychology of the wash

A bath or a shower

When I owned my own place, it is strange that the decision to buy my apartment could have hinged on the bathroom having a bathtub instead of the installed shower unit.

There were times during the negotiation process where that was a niggling thought at the back of my mind, the place became a stronghold, a refuge, a kind of security from the things that ravaged my life and worth many years later. I spent ten and a half wonderful years there before I sold up.

The shower was a special place, the feeling of water cascading down my body, the temperature of the water set to just about bearable, but very comfortable, the floor of the bathroom heated such that the cold of winter was barely noticeable.

The wash for something

Indeed, there was something about the wash; I could adjust the showerhead to deliver the spray as a soft rain through to a pulsing massaging hosing down.

The quest for cleanliness also offered a cubicle of meditation, but there were times when I spent much longer in the shower as if I could get rid of a dirty thought or a feeling of a grimy existence not cleansable with the shower gels scented for seaward ambience and greenish blue hues.

We all have a predilection for some sort of wash, especially we of African descent, whilst those of other cultures might have concoctions to drink and possibly ointments or powders to rub on our skins to provide protection, fortify us for the formidable or empower us from some nondescript daring-do, we have the wash.

The ritual of the soap

I have prayed over waters and bathed in the strangest places, using soaps that would not pass the science of reasonableness to be applied to the skin.

Yet, the soaps, black or any other colour purported to grant powers for the favour from all mankind or defence from the dark arts are well sought for by the many who publicly appear rational but privately can be found in grottos ministered to by shamanic priests, fetishists or witch doctors.

The wash is not limited to these events, Christianity talks of the wash too, the washing away of sins as much as it pertains to baptism as a sign of faith, the Mohammedans perform the wash of ablutions before their prayers as a sign of purification before approaching their deity in submission and supplication.

Ritual purification is a function of many belief systems as Hindus will wash in the River Ganges, and the River Jordan has significance to both Judaism and Christianity.

The wash is deeper than the skin

For the holiday, the wash is in a swimming pool or at sea, we have an affinity for water caressing our bodies with or without particular reason – we cannot deny that regardless of who we are, the wash is critical for our presentation and thereby it determines how we are accepted.

We find that the whole context of clean and being clean is defined by the wash, the health of the body, the mind and the spirit might we be affected by the wash too even though the water only really touches the body, but the effect is much deeper than what we see or feel.

Thought Picnic: Traversing a wilderness to wonder

Estranged in stranger places

As the morrow comes, I will be seeing two strangers, people who I have never met before but will have enough knowledge about me to hopefully help and care, even though that appears to be what they get paid to do.

However, there is more to it than getting paid to do a job, the sense of sympathy, probably empathy and dare I say compassion comes from the inner recesses of our humanity, it is not what determines remuneration but it can endear the person to whoever they interact with and that is a good thing.

A difference in manner

Even though I did receive a very professional service when I sought help in Wales, there was something quite impersonal about our engagements, the meetings were not properly broken up and even though I received all I asked for, I was left with a sense of uneasiness that I just determined to endure because I could not change the circumstances.

Compared to when I used services in the Netherlands, my consultant who basically is a world-renowned authority in his field, exuded a very comforting bedside manner that always left you at ease, the decisions completely involved me to the extent that I was given choices, information and references.

It’s my body, first

Beyond that, where I was uncomfortable with a course of action, the situation was reviewed for the most convenient accommodation on my side; it determined the number of chemotherapy sessions I eventually had and it countermanded the demand for a neurosurgeon to perform a lumbar puncture I was not convinced was necessary.

I am no medical expert, but there is one inalienable truth, it is my body first before it is a specimen for medical analysis and that was quite well understood, appreciated and respected by everyone I dealt with in the Netherlands.

Let’s see what’s up

Now in the UK, upon meeting these strangers, I will have to determine what comfort levels I will have in allowing these experts to take over my medical care to the extent that they can provide medical, emotional, psychological and sociological succour in the ordinary times and at the less than salubrious times.

I am open-minded though a bit apprehensive going into these meetings, my bloods have told stories, my notes have painted a situation and all need urgent attention.

For the day after looms with wonder and wondering, where will I find to lay my head in peace? And after all that, will I be happy or will I be sad?

My body will not suffer

From trouble to resolution

Another long day at work, it started at 7:00AM, a simple change that should have ended in 2 hours had us clutching at straws well after 3:00PM.

Whilst we did not have full knowledge of the multi-faceted system, it was quite difficult to guide the troubleshooting systematically.

A lot of people are a lot more computer savvy than I am, I concede that but sometimes the background from which you have come into Information Technology can be of interesting significance.

Very few people I know have come from an engineering background and there is a particular discipline and rigour that is lacking from other fields in terms of deduction, analysis, building and dismantling components of systems, abstraction and other nuanced thought processes about inputs and expected outputs at different stages.

It is almost a frustrating exercise in trying to align the thinking and analysis but I have learnt to adapt, interject the conversation with pointers that might well be breakpoints somehow the picture begins to take shape and hopefully begin to make progress, the key to keeping it moving is keeping it calm and collected.

Anyway, in the end, we deduced where the problem was and were soon close to resolution.

No intrusive procedures

As the day grew to a close the call I was expecting arrived, my treatment advisor called to inform me that after conferences between my medical consultant, the neurologist, the laboratory and the they review of the results, the invasive procedure will not be required.

Treatment commences tomorrow morning and I can rest easy that I do not have to challenge the preponderance of medical opinion just because I asked that they review their original conclusions.

It was a nerve-racking experience for me but I think I had the right premise, the consideration that I am the one most affected by the decisions made, it is my body; researching the condition and the available options to get clued in about what the suggestions are and engaging the medical personnel to review the seemingly unfavourable option for a more comfortable situation.

I am happy about that. Phew!

Medically happy

All side-effects are good effects

I am most pleased about the physiological reaction to my new medication; it would appear I am quite well adjusted to the drugs. My body responds well to professional medical prescriptions than to self-medicated concoctions.

There was one time when I stayed up late and really had the feeling of being stoned and the at risk of losing my balance, I made my way to the security of a bed and lying down your senses do not have to contend with whether you are standing, falling or somewhere in between.

The vivid dreams can be vivid but no more as terrifying; in fact, they are no different from the dreams I normally have. The sleep is a bit deprived but not something I cannot manage, in fact, I have not called my treatment supervisor since to intimate her on my feelings about the medication, I guess I have been just too cross with her for suggesting sleeping pills as a first resort – I needed to see what pattern was developing before getting back to her.

Changes for the good

The diarrhoea is long gone but I still have the pain patch on, it has been on a quarter of the original dosage for the past two weeks and I have just decided it would eventually fall off for the wearing off of the adhesive component that allows it to adhere to my skin.

I would suppose that would call for some celebration, a meal with some wine – I have been abstemious since August, the taste of some fine wine would not go amiss.

There are other aspects of my health and well-being I need to consider, reducing my intake of sugar, trying some water rather than fruit juice, a bit of exercise and working out on my abdominal muscle firming gym-kit before the moving parts freeze up for lack of use.

The body watch

My weight is racing far ahead of where I have ever wanted it to be, in some cases, it would be considered moving towards the normal weight but I seeming to like the slightly slender look I had from December through March – it does not come free, one either works it out or infirmity forces it on you to your great detriment.

Obsession with looks comes to you at one time or the other hopefully one has the resolve to do something about it before your body runs away from you.

The verge of pleasurable disgust

No care for the body

Overheard as I wended my way to the beach through the Maspalomas dunes, he said, “Is that a man or a woman?”, “Maybe a man,” came the response and then the conclusion, “He looks like a very fat woman.”

This is not to be disparaging, but in general men and women are not taking any care of themselves anymore, it is not a case of if you’ve got it, flaunt it; but one of whatever you have just let it droop.

It is more than an eyesore, the possible David of Michelangelo that walked the dunes is now cloaked in layers and layers of lipidinous (An adjective of lipid, if I could be excused this licence) excess, bloated and drooping almost to the ground.

Sharing the unwanted

The dunes are some sort of nudist reserve where ones reserve is taunted to the unacceptable that one is on the verge of being sick.

Halfway down, there was one man who appeared to take some care of himself and was in full view spanking the macaque; monkey would be have been overly generous, as one resisted the tendency to be indecent he beckoned as it were for one to offer a service to his lady.

Just as a wave of charitable concern was about to engulf me to allow for becoming a eunuch so that I could be castrated to help this man, I realised that even if I were Tarzan I would never be a swinger if I could help it – the revulsion of the thought allowed me to close my eyes 5 metres to the scene and close my ears to the giggling as I paced 5 metres after.

Give me oxygen

The thought crossed my mind of protuberances cosmetically enhanced by donations from Africa but what would the pleasured do with an amalgam of ebony and ivory all for the sake of the climax they once knew.

Suffer me no more the decadence of men but what people get up to on holiday leaves one completely astonished.

Back hand to the brow of a head tilted backwards, I sigh and beckon for a dose of pure oxygen.