Contempt from the Ringside Seat

The Ringside Seat

Imagine having a ringside seat at a boxing match, not because you paid good money for it, but because you share such a close relationship with the boxer that no other person would be allowed to take that seat, even when you were not present to sit in it.

The person you are supporting is the challenger for a title, and through the rounds they are pummelled and battered. Every round portends a possible knockout, yet the challenger endures. They keep going, taking the blows but never being beaten, and the points tallied at the end of each round add up to hand the challenger the victory and the belt.

Then, in your telling of that encounter, you speak of bloodshot eyes, of mouth guards being knocked out, and of the uselessness of the challenger, insisting that you could put up a better fight and walk away unscathed. That becomes the report you file, neglecting the simple fact that your person was the victor.

Telling My Story

In the story of my life, about which I have written quite extensively, there are many strands of adversity and failure; but the successes and triumphs bookmark the telling of this story, so that it would seem strange to major in the misfortunes.

One narrative could have been given in this light. Akin has had such a blessed life. I have watched situations of failure, joblessness, two debilitating bouts of cancer, and challenges that seemed insurmountable.

And yet you would not look at him and think he had been touched by anything but the good fortune of scaling through life on sheer luck and almost undeserved providence. What an inspiring story he has, should he ever wish to talk about it.

Rather, of all that could have been said, what got relayed back to me was a mis-telling of my story: a conflation of events, suffused with half-truths, then given the veneer of a wastrel and ne'er-do-well, constantly down on his luck because of his irresponsibility.

There is a useful distinction to be drawn here between interpretation and misrepresentation. Two honest witnesses may weight the same night differently, one dwelling on the punishment absorbed, another on the resilience shown; but neither is entitled to erase the result. Perspective explains emphasis; it does not license fabrication.

There is every possibility, like the person invited to the ringside seat, to tell a different tale with the outlook of a curmudgeon incapable of seeing the good in anything. We own the filters of our perspectives on things.

The Four Pillars

An AI-generated infographic on the blog content. (Click to enlarge.)

The architecture of trust, whereby your ringside supporter reports your story in the best light possible, the truth and not embellishment, the honest and frank assessment of what was observed, rests on four pillars: care, concern, consideration, and confidence. One could define those four Cs in the terms that follow:

Care: the baseline emotional investment a person has in your wellbeing.

Concern: the active protective instinct they feel regarding your vulnerability.

Consideration: the cognitive foresight to understand how their future actions might actually affect you.

Confidence: the secure container that the first three pillars create.

Blog: Thought Picnic: Confidences, Not Secrets

The Honest Retelling

An honest retelling, then, is one the subject can recognise, even when it is unflattering. You may wince at a true account, but you will not fail to find yourself in it. When the portrait no longer resembles the sitter, the fault lies with the painter.

Honesty also requires proportion. To recount the joblessness, the two debilitating bouts of cancer, and the seemingly insurmountable challenges, and yet omit that I am still here, still working, still writing, still standing, is not honesty; it is selective editing masquerading as candour.

When to Speak

With that in mind, it is difficult to understand how reality and retelling could diverge so far, so hurtfully, and so much to another's discredit, for reasons best known to the teller. When a portrait is this false, one feels there is little option but to confront it and to challenge the narrative set loose about you.

Invariably, if you have nothing good to say about someone, you are not obliged to say anything at all out of a need for conversation, small talk, spite, malice, or anything else. Your silence does not have to be bought; it is a quality of self-control to bridle your tongue.

Brian’s Point of View: Words Can Break Something We Thought Was Safe

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Thought Picnic: As Words Shape Our Understanding

The Language of Identity

There is something profoundly fascinating about the power of language and how a simple misspelling can open doors to philosophical musings.

Recently, I encountered a thought-provoking juxtaposition—"child" misspelt as "chide"—and it sparked a reflection on the delicate dance between correction and nurturing that defines our relationships.

The twin burdens of correction and care

"There is much to say about the chide and much to pay about the child." This phrase has lingered in my consciousness, revealing layers of meaning about how we navigate our connections with others.

To "chide" represents the corrective aspect of relationships—the moments when we feel compelled to guide, correct, or redirect. These instances of criticism shape the dynamics between parent and child, teacher and student, mentor and mentee. The way we deliver these corrections speaks volumes about our values and communication skills.

Yet, the "child" symbolises investment and responsibility. We "pay" not merely in financial terms but through emotional commitment, sleepless nights, and the constant balancing of protection versus independence. This metaphorical payment represents the sacrifice inherent in nurturing another's development.

Finding one's voice in linguistic exploration

What fascinates me about this wordplay is how it illuminates the delicate balance required in meaningful relationships. Too much criticism without demonstrated care creates resentment; excessive indulgence without guidance leads to underdeveloped potential.

I'm reminded of other linguistic explorations, like discovering the Yoruba word "àwọ̀dọ̀" for "wrist" alongside variations like "Ìgbànkáwọ́" (literally "joint of the hand"). Language offers multiple pathways to understand and describe our reality, just as relationships offer multiple approaches to correction and nurturing.

The perspective of experience

Having navigated my own complex journey—including health challenges that have shaped my perspective—I've come to appreciate how words and relationships intertwine. When I faced cancer treatment, the words others chose either strengthened or diminished me. Similarly, how we "chide" and how we "pay" in our relationships determines whether those connections flourish or wither.

The juxtaposition of these concepts reminds me of what I've observed in Manchester—the countless human interactions that reveal our deep need for both guidance and support. Whether it's the passionate polemicist on the bus expressing unresolved grievances or the young men seeking viral fame through destructive acts, we see the consequences of imbalance between criticism and care.

A consideration of others

At its core, this reflection on "chide" and "child" speaks to consideration—recognising others and treating them with the respect we ourselves desire. The unwritten code of conduct that guides civil society rests on this simple principle.

Perhaps the African proverb puts it best: "A child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth." In our words and actions, we either offer the warmth of belonging or risk driving others to destructive means of being noticed.

As I continue to contemplate this linguistic interplay, I'm reminded that in both words and relationships, balance is everything. There is much to say about how we correct, and much to pay in how we nurture—and finding harmony between these aspects may be the most important work we do.

Postscript: This conversation started with thoughts on a WhatsApp chat where I surmised, "There is much to say about the chide and much to pay about the child." The rest results from interactions with a number of AI bots writing in my style.

Home as you left it

Strewn yet hewn

When I returned home late in the night a week ago, it never occurred to me how if anyone had seen a dog in the window of my apartment over the weekend, they could come back on my return, point to the dog and ask how much it was.

In fact, I could have left my bathroom scales in my wine rack (I did not do that, someone else did) and expected to still find it there or carelessly left the fridge door open and met it undefeated by gravity or the rotational forces of the earth in the same position I had in my forgetfulness abandoned things.

That lack of trepidation as to the condition of my home that always seemed to leave me a total stranger in my own home after any sojourn away, was bliss. None of the disorderliness which to the mind of another was their order, or apparent disarray was due to poltergeist activity, I simply had a trusted house sitter.

Behold an earthquake

Trusted is being generous to a fault, because except for the entirely immovable things, everything moved, changed places, or just disappeared. The lack of care for the very basic things even though to his thinking he was keeping the place tidy, robbed me too many times of the enjoyment of home, yet overwhelmed to a masochist trait, I submitted myself to more abuse.

However, after a 16-hour journey back from Cape Town, still barely at 60% of my strength, I stepped into my home and though he was present, I found myself running the vacuum cleaner through my apartment before I even took my jacket off. When I opened the fridge, a hurricane had swept through it with pieces anywhere but where they should be.

That I was still finding things out of place five months later is testament to his genius that has a madness to its method, but the day after I returned, I asked him to give me back the keys to my apartment and I bought myself the unimaginable treasure of space, independence, and wallowing in the mess of my own making. I could live with that.

Peace with my pieces

The next time we saw each other, it was at a waving distance attending a funeral, I bear no animosity toward him, I consider him a friend, even if he thinks otherwise. It was a necessary intervention, rescuing myself from the throes of the unmentionable trying to articulate the indescribable.

Just to have your home unspoiled and be able to suggest the best price for the dog in the window the stranger saw the other day and get a good exchange without rummaging through the depths of Hades for the upper set of your false teeth and the missing tail of the dog. You do not want to know what I still cannot find in my own home.

Mending holes in my home

Now it was the pens

Here I was wanting to write down details as I began to give attention to my test lab, a neglected computer test lab because of the distractions of the year past. There were three pens on my desk, and none were ready to give their ink.

On one of my visits to a bookshop in Cape Town, I bought quirky pens with different writing widths like you would have with pencils and a wooden pencil case. I looked up on the shelf and retrieved the pencil case, there was only one pen left in the pencil case. There should be at least six pens in that pencil case.

What is so irksome is over two months of reclaiming full access to my place by taking the keys off my friend and I am the one at fault for first being a poor judge of character in making acquaintances with people who I thought valued friendship beyond benefits they gained from having access to me and my place, I am still finding vestiges of his carelessness and abuses of my things without remorse.

His mittens ruin all

Each time I have had him housesit on my visits to Cape Town, I have returned to a house that is not my home through the way he has rearranged things, misplaced things, or damaged things without a second thought to fix them. The last time, he bested himself, how I restrained myself from blurting out in apoplexy even when I asked for my keys escapes me.

Soon after, when I thought a phone charging unit or a power extension tower had been damaged, I painstakingly when through assessing each element of the connections, and can you believe it was the USB C cable that was damaged? Let us not get into when he thought the USB cables, because of their colours, could be adornments like neck chains, bullet chains, or belts that he wore about his person.

The number of times he invaded my privacy was innumerable, but I just worked on the assumption, I was not the only occupant of my home. I’ll be in bed and hear scurrying about the apartment, the keenest of my hearing would register the key in the lock as he entered, and the rest was left to my imagination, what he could be up to and that might include a litany of misdeeds and mishaps. I rarely let these bother me.

The translation of a wallet

On the eve of my penultimate visit to Cape Town just after the prostate cancer diagnosis and the one occasion he was able to attend the hospital with me, so he knew the seriousness of the condition, I emptied a brown wallet of things I needed for my travel and placed the wallet on my desk.

A week into my visit, I got a message from my neighbour, they found my wallet on a windowsill in the courtyard behind the apartment block. How it got there, no one could explain, the CCTV recording saw a resident runner pick it up and place it there, it had rained some days prior, and I know I had not been in the courtyard for more than a week before my travel. There was one other logical explanation.

I should have taken back my keys on my return, however, I am wont to forgive than to show resolve. My neighbour was of the good mind of kicking him out of my apartment, it would have served me well.

He just does not care

Even though I wrote a long email to him explaining why I had to take back my keys without accusing him of anything apart from remonstrating the unnecessary rearrangement of my apartment including finding my bathroom scale in the wine rack, his response acknowledged nothing, he just did not and could not care, that is fine.

Fundamentally, he had progressively taken away my enjoyment of my home by the things he had unwittingly done whether in thinking he was cleaning up the place by rearrangement or the simple things damaged that he had grown accustomed to me not saying anything about.

I have my place back to myself, I should just enjoy it despite the fact I still find rat droppings somewhere in the house, not so literally, but signs that my friend, if he still qualifies as one has been there, a tormenting daily reminder of associations I should have long abandoned before they hurt me much.

Childhood: Concerns, memories, and traumas

Classic inadvertent abandonment

I happened upon a Facebook status at the end of last year, where there was a discussion about some parents sending their foreign-born kids back to Nigeria to apparently teach the kids discipline and resilience along with avoiding any possibility of their kids being dragged into inner city issues like drugs, gangs, and crime.

After reading some of the comments and one especially of a parent who had successfully reared kids in America and could not countenance the idea of sending their children into the care of strangers, be they relations, paid guardians, or strict/conservative boarding schools, I offered a perspective of my own experience.

The lifelong consequence

Imagine being sent from a private primary school environment with a majority international pupillage in Kaduna to a boarding school in Sagamu, Ogun State, at the age of ten. It could have been worse as I had admissions to even more remote places.

The lasting effects of that experience apart from feeling abandoned even if it helped make me both independent and resilient, not that it was unachievable at home, but my parents knew best.

As a child, I was quite outgoing, precocious, and inquisitive, with independent views. I have decidedly refused to associate with old student activities at my secondary school, nor do I retain any enduring friendships from that time. The scars are lifelong.

A rash of parental control

I suffered serious child psychological issues just months before I was shipped off and then in the first term at boarding school, that my parents' closest friends pled with them to bring me back home, those appeals fell on deaf ears, as if they had not learnt from the experiences of being placed with foster parents in England, one of such even starved me, much of that, I have blanked out of my mind.

These seemingly benign parental decisions still affect my relationship with them, and they are both octogenarians. There might be an immediate benefit to fostering your children out to strict environments, but the long-term break in the familial bonds would scarcely ever be repaired.

While there are parents who still think the boarding school experience is a rite of passage that is wholesome and germane to child development, if I was blessed with offspring, I would have totally negated some of decisions taken as part of my upbringing. I know many parents of my generation did not repeat that vicious cycle.

I speak as someone who will be fifty-nine in less than a week. I charted my own course and chose what was good for me in the scheme of things. Some memories are best left unrecalled. [This was drafted before my birthday in December 2024.]

Photons on the Prostate - XIV

Beyond radical radiotherapy

Three months ago today, I began radical radiotherapy for adenocarcinoma of the prostate. It is just six months after I received a confirmed diagnosis, and it needed immediate active treatment after consultation with a multidisciplinary team on options for surgery or radiotherapy.

I worked through the duration of radiotherapy and for a month after the completion of the treatment. However, increasingly, I suffered more impactful side effects that started with chronic fatigue, and issues with my urinary system that limited most outdoor activity as I needed to be close to available conveniences, and one unexpected effect was the way those elements appeared to affect my voice.

My voice became weak and strained, usually determined by my energy levels that was quite sub-optimal most of the time. While against what my body was telling me, I tried to continue as normal, I really had to take a break and have added domestic support that being at home did not offer.

Time off to recuperate

The decision to travel to South Africa while somewhat frail was not taken lightly, but I knew the essential support for my recuperation was best under the watchful care of my partner. I availed myself of all the customer assistance provided by the airline for my journey, no sense of determination could have propelled me through the experience.

I can attest there has been considerable progress, the occasions of fatigue are less frequent, the urinary issues while still needing medication have eased, the sound of my voice is much better with a few relapses, and the painful discomfort that needed opioid medication has completed gone and I have now totally weaned myself off codeine with minimal adverse effects.

The weather in Cape Town might have contributed to my recuperation. I can begin to consider a return to normalcy, which might take a process of reengagement. Much as I try not to have that preoccupy me and concentrate on recovery, there is a world to return to in the New Year.

Looking ahead

I am grateful for the support and care I have received through the period from anticipation when I first had exploratory tests in February, through further investigations, diagnosis, and treatment. My long-suffering partner, close friends, extraordinary neighbours, siblings, and colleagues compassionately accommodated my vulnerability with understanding.

Each time I present an update, I appreciate how it was fortuitous that we caught a high prostate-specific antigen (PSA) reading when we did because at the advent of my treatment, the PSA reading had fallen within the normal range, but for the fact that an MRI scan leading to a biopsy had detected Stage 2, yet malignant prostate cancer.

The need for men especially Black men over 45 to pay attention to their prostate health. Do the checks and have the tests, catch things early and have the best options for recovery.

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XIII

Other references

Prostate Cancer UK: Black men and prostate cancer

MedScape: International Prostate Symptom Score (IPSS) Calculator

Urology Care Foundation: Benign prostatic hyperplasia (BPH)

NHS: Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA) test

Prostate Cancer UK: The PSA blood test

Photons on the Prostate - XIII

Many improvements in symptoms

Thinking of the process of recuperation after radiotherapy, I am getting better at least with the signs I have observed. There are fewer occasions of my voice sounding tired and waned from exhaustion, the weather might have contributed too as it is summertime in South Africa.

The symptoms with the waterworks persist and while it will not be defined as benign prostate enlargement the fundamentals of it still exist as the prostate was enlarged because of acinar adenocarcinoma of the prostate, the radiotherapy treatment of the cancer would have further inflamed the prostate and constricted the urinary tract, for which I have to take daily medication to ease water flow.

The image below best describes issues of an enlarged prostate, and links at the end of the blog give more context. The need to check your prostate health is important, I suggest you use the International Prostate Symptom Score (IPSS) Calculator as a starting point to buttress the case to your doctor for a Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA) test.

Courtesy of NHS Overview of Benign Prostate Enlargement

Other symptoms of concern

As pertains the waterworks, a polite reference to the bladder issues; there is lesser urgency or frequency, but the weak flow, straining, and nocturia are issues to manage as the prostate heals and hopefully returns to a normal size.

One other side effect that statistically affects others more but has been less of a concern for me is with bowel issues. They are manageable, but mishaps do occur. I reckon part of my original pain management medication has positively impacted expected diarrhoetic symptoms, but I must watch for irregular bowel movements.

What has not normalised is my sleep patterns, they are out of kilter. I suffer a lot from insomnia leading to tiredness during the day with the documented sleep record on my smartwatch showing barely 3 hours of night sleep and naps of about 60 to 90 minutes dotted around the day.

At the church service that I attended yesterday which started at 9:30 AM, I was wilting within an hour into the service. I hope this improves without having to resort to sleep inducement through medication. It might be something to discuss with my medical team.

Appreciating rest and recuperation

More importantly, it is the immediate support and care of my partner that has helped me. It was not easy facing a cancer diagnosis alone in Manchester, I had to rearrange some priorities for the uncertainties ahead. I received a confirmed diagnosis in mid-June but postponed any discussion about options for treatment for a month, while I took time to meet with my partner.

After I returned, the discussion about radical surgery and its side effects were not that encouraging, but I had to wait another fortnight to discuss radical radiotherapy and what confusion followed the different options in that area that we had a lot of back and forth. It was the second-hand experience of others that gave a better insight into what it entailed.

When the radiotherapy commenced in September, I worked through it, keeping up my routine as much as possible, though the fatigue set in, from the onset, at the first weekend, just after 2 treatments. Then, I tried to maintain productivity for another month after the treatments concluded as I realised radiotherapy did have a greater toll on my body than I anticipated.

Making the best of this rest period is critical even as I yearn to get back into professional activity. The art of restful relaxation is one I am yet to master even as I try to distinguish between holiday and recuperation, I should not make my recuperation seem like a holiday, just because I am away from home.

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - XII

Other references

MedScape: International Prostate Symptom Score (IPSS) Calculator

Mayo Clinic: Benign prostatic hyperplasia (BPH)

Urology Care Foundation: Benign prostatic hyperplasia (BPH)

NHS: Prostate Specific Antigen (PSA) test

Prostate Cancer UK: The PSA blood test

From arrest to rest

A necessary situation

To think it was exactly two months ago that I walked into the Christie Hospital to begin 20 sessions of hypofractionated radiotherapy to treat malignant prostate cancer.

Until then, I felt nothing apart from what the blood work told us that further investigation revealed. I could have had a year totally oblivious of a growth in a delicate part of my anatomy that could be a cause of serious illness and death.

All through treatment that happened over 4 weeks of weekdays, I barely slowed down activity, though, as fatigue and other issues took hold, I made adjustments.

A betraying voice

This was brought home to me when I attended a conference having apologised for my low energy levels affecting the strength of my voice. Most listeners would have wondered why a sick man is pushing himself so hard. One sought out the management to raise their concerns.

I preferred to have some occupation rather than a distraction; I was accommodated even as others suggested I take time off.

The voice rarely improved; it bears the hallmarks of extreme exhaustion, yet, it is my voice, my tool of expression, slightly battered by resonant. Let me not suggest that it is indefatigable because fatigue has a role in moderating the sound.

Giving due consideration

Radiotherapy is painless and by that reckoning may seem harmless too. The havoc it has wreaked on my waterworks is one I hope to put behind me, along with the urgency that hits me when I need to map a route that offers immediate use of conveniences or sit at home.

The other consideration is finding the strength to do the simple things. It is five weeks since the end of treatment. The cancer is blasted but the body is far from a good state of recovery.

The decision to embark on a journey for the opportunity to access love and care was attacked from many quarters as much as others saw the need for it.

I made a determination after realising I needed to give myself both the time and the rest to recover, not sitting alone in cold Manchester but in the warmth of Cape Town with Brian.

Accepting my vulnerability

The discomfort of being carted around airports in a wheelchair in the knowledge that I truly am not fit enough to do the things I did without concern, before September is that independent streak denying my vulnerability.

However, I know how having a Radar key to access disabled toilets has prevented me from wetting myself the many times I have been out. This is all temporary.

I will get better, fully regain my strength and vigour, and then receive the all-clear assessment in April. What I need to tell myself is I need both the time and the rest to get well. Without that, I arrest my recovery.

The gents are gentle on my mind

Sometimes, you just need the help

Yesterday afternoon, I braved the idea of going out for essential shopping for the simple reason that the kind of domestic help I require is unavailable.

Thinking to 15 years ago when I had my other encounter with cancer, I had the prospect of being discharged from the hospital early, but only after they had arranged for a nurse to visit me at my apartment every day.

Until that arrangement had been secured, I was not going to be let out of the sight of the ward nurses and staff until the logistics were sorted out. It happened that my on-off partner did come to stay with me for a few months, ensuring the very basic domestic issues were taken care of apart from the fundamental ability to cook.

The difficulties with getting good help

In this new dispensation, it has been a bit different, an old flame does visit to help with things, but we can agree that it is both sporadic and unreliable. Some have suggested I get a carer to manage things, without considering that would entail a specific set of instructions and particularities that it has taken a good while to even school into those who know me.

Imagine sending a stranger to specific shops for particular things without any consideration of substitution, I know what I need. I cannot have artificial sweeteners generally as they can worsen migraines, beyond that, they will aggravate issues with my waterworks. We can get cranberry juice from any shop, but they all have artificial sweeteners except for the brand bought in the large M&S supermarkets, the smaller M&S shops stock the artificially sweetened varieties.

My kind of shopping revolves around different supermarkets for choices based on brand, variety, quality, cost, and knowing what works for me. My sojourn into the city centre yesterday which was just over two hours visiting four shops included three toilet visits.

All the gents are gentle on my mind

The first, an urgency that presented before I had reached the tram stop, some 700 metres from home. I opted for the disabled toilet in the central library because access to the public toilet in the city council annexe which was nearer had been obstructed by police activity.

In the end, I used my Radar key thrice, to gain access to the disabled toilets and for once, all the three toilets had coat hooks for my coat and hat.

What is different is I used to walk to all these places with ease but between the strength to perform and the anxiety of toilet needs, each outing requires careful and deliberate planning apart from appreciating that the reliance on others can be a bit stressful. They have their own lives that you can only rely on what they offer rather than on what you need and demand.

Making the best choice for recuperation

Back to the issue of having the support and care for domestic arrangements, I have a partner, we are in a long-distance relationship, and this presents an opportunity for them where they have heretofore felt incapacitated to help from afar.

I continually reassure him that I still have his best support in the circumstances. How better to recover and recuperate than with a loved one; paying a stranger to attend to you might work where those you would typically rely on, willingly abdicate that responsibility and generously cater for the alternative, but you are left to the mercy of the stranger’s humanity being a bonus, if available.

I guess few would never be convinced of the validity of our relationship, but that is not my problem. I understand it would take travelling almost 10,000 kilometres to be in receipt of that support and care.

I think it would be more than worthwhile for me, for him, for my recovery, and our relationship. He knows me, he knows my needs, he understands me well, and we are coming to six years together.

I am glad for the fact that there are more people who understand the intrinsic value of people, setting, and relationships for recuperation, I intend to make the best of it.

Thought Picnic: Is blood really thicker than water?

Does blood matter?

“Blood is thicker than water.” Said a close relation of mine after I informed them of the visit of a couple, I knew from being related to them. I responded, “Communication is thicker than blood which is evidently thicker than water.”

Communication, engagement, and interest matter, it does not have to be through being able to communicate in material things, but the just checking on people, their welfare and wellbeing is of great consequence. It suggests you see more in them than the perfunctory.

Do I matter at all?

I recall one Sunday afternoon about thirty years ago when I met an old secondary school classmate on the train. As I acknowledged him, I did not get a greeting or any engagement, his first comment was, “Where do you church?” I cannot remember if I responded in any way, but I never wanted anything to do with him anymore.

Years after, he was picking up his daughter from school when I saw him outside a train station, I made my excuses about rushing off somewhere else and that kind of indifference has been such that when he was promoting an album in a later blooming of a music career, I observed the development alone and nothing else.

Do they care a hoot?

Further to this are those who make assumptions when they call you out of the blue. That was last week, nothing was asked of things they might have known before about me or my current situation. They just assumed and were expecting a confirmation of their beliefs that were much further from reality than could be imagined.

Obviously, I was remembered and contacted because they were interested in involving me in a family celebration, and if conversation and communication had been cultivated and maintained, I would have found it difficult not to attend, grace the occasion, and honour the celebrant. You cannot reap benefits or rewards from indifference.

Does anyone want to know?

Indeed, I have kept to myself because at times you do not want everyone in your business including those who believe they should be in your business or have some knowledge of what you are experiencing at any point in time. What I choose to volunteer here is probably available to a global audience, but the deeper elements of things would require someone to make the effort to communicate.

I am very grateful to those who have genuinely reached out to me to ask about my welfare, not because it is transactional, even if at one point there was means and opportunity to attend to many needs along with helping them out. In adversity, you know those who are your friends and well, the fair-weather ones too.

Do they see you?

One does not need to keep a journal of these things, the memory rarely suffers the amnesia of an absence of mind, Maya Angelou said it best, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Just think of the situation where they said little, did nothing, and made you feel disconsolate and rueful of your circumstances.

Know who to keep in mind, who to keep in prayers, who to keep in contact with and who to appreciate does not have a part in your life, not because you mean nothing to them, you are just not on either their short-range or long-range radar, your invisibility to them is why you think they are indifferent. It is not a bad thing to move on, if you’re out of sight, set your sight on other things.

The clear and present danger of irresponsible cyclists

The bane of powered vehicles

Beyond the terror of devil dogs that I wrote about recently, it is electric-powered bicycles and scooters that have become a menace on our roads. That fact that the human-powered element of pedalling or scooting means that the concentration of thought and process in the engagement of muscle is diverted elsewhere and that, in itself, becomes a kind of distraction.

Blog - Opinion: Public safety is paramount regardless of your cuddly dog

The bicycles or scooters whiz off at speed with the riders literally oblivious of the responsibility and due concern that comes with being in charge of such a vehicle. That and their inclination to ignore traffic and road usage rules along with pedestrians being terrorised on the pavements makes them a clear and present danger to others and themselves.

An uncaring cohort for safety

What baffles me and I have written about this having lived in Amsterdam is how riders can ply busy streets or pavements at night without lights. Usually, the riders are in dark clothing, and you are usually unaware of their proximity to you until they are so close, you have to avert a collision if they are totally uncaring.

I could go on about my concerns and bugbears, but the reason for this blog is a rather close encounter for which I should curb the urge to be dramatic even as my recollection of it leaves me in a shudder as to how it could have been a lot worse and it does not bear thinking of apart from lifting up hands in gratitude for being spared an inauspicious ending.

What just happened?

I was at a bus stop leaning on the inside wall of the enclosure with a foot out speaking to my friend on the phone, when suddenly I had a knock on the outside of my left knee and sudden surge of pain over the top of my midfoot, the shock with a directed gaze to a young man crashing off his bicycle as he came to find out if he had hit me.

“Are you crazy?” I shouted out at him, a bystander who saw everything was totally nonchalant that I wonder if I had taken the full impact of that collision whether she would have bothered to help or call for any help. She was in a Tesco supermarket top, my views of that are best left off this blog.

An entrenched lawlessness

However, the lawlessness of the whole encounter and how one was ill-equipped to find any sort of redress and sanction just left me wanting to nurse my bruises than do much else as very little would have been learnt by the cyclist as I upbraided him.

He was riding a hired electric bike on a busy road against the traffic, and he decided to cut away unto the wide pavement to take another shortcut over the pavement to ride against the traffic avoiding an intersection or junction. As he tried to mount the pavement, he hit the kerb, lost control, and ran into me and crashed some 10 metres further on before coming over to find out if I was okay.

He would have done this weaving through obstacles and dangers, hardly slowly down to assess the full risk of any manoeuvre, a young exuberance overwhelming any sense of caution or responsibility to others, daring to do rather than caring at all, I could have lost it and decked him, but that was unnecessary.

But for the grace of God

As he left to pick up his bicycle and ride away, I remembered I was still on a call with my friend and continued the call. However, when I thought about it this morning, this chap is probably doing an electrically propelled 30 mph or 48.2 km/h. A full-on collision or if I had been pinned against the wall of the bus stop could have wiped me out, needing hospital care. It was a close shave.

There is no doubt that the law has to catch up with this the road usage of electrically propelled bicycles and scooters, I also wonder of a new set of rules need to be written and there is no doubt that policing with the strict enforcement of the said rules is essential for adherence and deterrence. There have been too many accidents, some resulting in fatalities and many attributable to irresponsible road usage. It needs to be addressed with alacrity.

You can be minding your own business and out of nowhere danger invades your space, it is the grace of God that keeps us. For that, we are very thankful.

Of skin that needs care

Not mine for thee

I am reminded of a phlebotomist who would never succeed in extracting a droplet of blood from out of my veins, no matter how hard he tried. That he is in that position must mean he is fully qualified to attend to such a delicate matter.

Yet, at closer to 7 than 6 feet tall and with a frame that would well be found with lumberjacks than in a hospital, his hands large as fans to compare with elephant ears that no matter how soft they are their gigantic expanse presents an apparent Lilliputian to a Gulliver in scrubs, almost too terrifying to countenance.

My first sight of him as he approached with a bowl of vials and phlebotomy paraphernalia my veins seized up and decided, no dainty word of comfort said from thee shall my veins yield to thy touch. By the time I was pricked and poked that I was a humanoid representation of the Swiss cheese called Emmental, I was sent to the hospital’s blood room where dexterity and capacity meant they could make stones exsanguinate and I to them was not a stone.

Oiling of the epidermis

The other day, I thought about my chapped lips that I hate putting lip balm on as it feels so irritating, I am ready to wipe it off in minutes. Surprisingly, I endured a whole night of the application of the lip balm and not since I used Wet Lips way back in Nigeria, a liquid balm with a roll-on applicator that gives a glistening and glossy look that might appear unusual on males but worked a treat.

That I have preferred to peel off dried skin from my lips despite the bruising and pain than using a balm is strange but convenient. Then moisturisation is a necessity I too often decline to my detriment, from hands to skin shedding on the soles of my feet and certain hard hands that might entertain a visit from a version of lib balm for the manicurist’s table.

I guess whilst parts of my face can seem to be oily, my skin needs a bit more care than I readily submit myself to essential grooming. I get the best care for my skin when Brian not only insists but is at hand, those hands to give my feet more than the kneading and care required.

Thought Picnic: Making a home of a house

Could not live there

Standing at the top of our street, Gbélẹ̀yí, it was called, meaning live in or on this land, I was not looking forward to living or life there. A place that was supposed to be my home, on sight brought a very sinking feeling upon me, like a bucket of cold water emptied over my head and travelling down my body uniformly but slower than gravity acting on it.

I could never understand it, in the house where I lived, I had my parents and my siblings, below was my uncle and his family, we had a friendly enough neighbourhood, in the house, I have shelter and provision, protection too, but something was still missing that did not address a deeply emotional need, I was adrift in a place where for my discomfiture, the only question was, ‘What is the matter with you?’

I lived in a house that was not a home, much as it was a home to many, yet there was nowhere else I could call home, so I endured life there and failed in other things. Things were not that equal.

Home long before home

When I lived in Amsterdam and went on my travels, there were times I could see my apartment block from miles away, sometimes from the plane, usually from a train arriving at the station, or from the taxi just before it went into a long tunnel. It was a wonderful sight to behold, for long before I got home, I felt I was at home.

The same feeling, I had when for 18 nights I yearned to return home from the hospital that when I eventually returned, I began to feel that my healing would accelerate. Even in the time of privation and penury brought on by extreme adversity, my home comforts helped the determination that I was on the mend. Opportunity did present to leap out of my 7th-floor apartment window, but I felt stronger inside my home especially when a sense of claustrophobia seemed to envelop me.

For my new home

I am at the stage of planning to build another home, I place where I want to return from the world outside and all its troubles, into the refreshing and strength that first soothes my aches and salves my sores before I am recuperated to face the world again. Into the arms of love and support, of care and concern, of companionship and friendship that transcends all and gives the assurance that we can face everything together.

Then I wonder to myself, every now and again? Am I a hopeless romantic, a fool for love and blindly falling to a place of despair? I have to tell myself, I know better now, yet a cloud of doubt seeks to shield the sunshine of beauty from giving warmth to the seeds sown for a future we can build if we allow ourselves to do amazing things. I yearn for a house made into a home.

Gentle On The Mind

Back in the time

Every once in a while, my memories go back to my parents’ record collection, they were gramophone records also known as vinyl records, mostly of the 7” diameter range running at 45 RPM. I can recall that my mother loved All Kinds Of Everything, sung by Dana which won the Eurovision Song Contest 1970 for Ireland.

This weekend, we are back to the annual activity of determining the soppiest song of Europe in Ukraine. There is, however, another memory that comes in waves and disappears for a season, it is just so uncanny that in 6 days’ time, we would be celebrating 50 years of the release if this single.

I remember it a haunting slow recording that I have not been able to retrieve anywhere online, but the lyrics still speak a lot about relationships, knowing who you can call on about friendship and recall the things that have kept that relationship enduring.

Gentle on my mind

In the last line of each verse, there is much that speaks to my kind of person, the many back roads in the quiet and silence, away from the traffic of the hustle and bustle of life, where we find time to think and introspect, experiencing nature where the rivers flowing from hills and mountains teem with life and mystery, does bring peace and a much-needed gentility to the mind.

I crave opportunities to be by the water and watch both the stillness and the rapids, the tides ebbing and flowing, boats with people attending to work or pleasure, we find some sort of fulfilment in exploration and adventure, this is even made the better when there is someone to share those experiences with.

I am blessed that I have people to whom I can say, ‘That keeps you in the back roads, by the rivers of my mem'ry, that keeps you ever gentle on my mind.’ People who I always fondly remember and they make me smile each time I recall a moment in time that celebrates friendship and the joy of living and sharing.

Thank you.

Gentle On My Mind (1967)

John Hartford

It's knowing that your door is always open and your path is free to walk
That makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind your couch
It's knowing I'm not shackled by forgotten words and bonds and the ink stains that have dried upon some line
That keeps you in the back roads, by the rivers of my mem'ry, that keeps you ever gentle on my mind

It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy planted on their columns now that bind me
Or something that somebody said because they thought we fit together walkin'
It's knowing that the world will not be cursing or forgiving when I walk along some railroad track and find
That you're moving on the back roads, by the rivers of my mem'ry, and for hours you're just gentle on my mind

I dip my cup of soup back from the gurglin' cracklin' caldron in some train yard
My beard a roughening coal pile and a dirty hat pulled low across my face
Though cupped hands 'round a tin can I pretend hold you to my breast and find
That you're waving from the back roads, by the rivers of my mem'ry, ever smilin', ever gentle on my mind

That you're waving from the back roads, by the rivers of my mem'ry, ever smilin', ever gentle on my mind

The original lyric sheet on John Harford’s website.

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Does anyone feel pain like I do?

I have sometimes been alone,
Alone in my thoughts,
Thoughts that linger,
Linger for a day,
Day in, day out,
Out on my own in the cold,
Cold and wondering,
Wondering does anyone,
Anyone feel my pain,
Pain that goes deep,
Deep into my being,
Being here and thinking,
Thinking it does not matter,
Matter to anyone really,
Really to be bothered,
Bothered with what,
What the story is about,
About the things in my mind,
Mind, body, soul and life,
Life of many tales,
Tales yet untold to anyone,
Anyone who would care,
Care enough to hear my cries,
Cries too silent, I can’t hear myself,
Myself on in my head,
Head heavy with burdens,
Burdens I dare to bear,
Bear with grace and hope,
Hope beyond the fears,
Fears I can’t find words for,
For I am not perfect,
Perfect and sure,
Sure enough on many things
Things I cannot control,
Control and order,
Order that I like,
Like to address,
Address in yours and mine,
Mine being hard,
Hard but not as yours,
Yours makes me worry,
Worry about what I can do,
Do to help if I could,
Could if I had the means,
Means I do not presently have,
Have like I did at one time,
Time weighs heavily,
Heavily for what to say,
Say how I feel again,
Again that I’m only human,
Human as human as I know,
Know it’s all screwed up,
Up with me,
Me.

Thought Picnic: Carelessly carefree

A realisation too late

Knowledge is an eye-opener, for with it comes revelation heretofore unbeknownst to the seeker.

I am always reading up on material that pertains to my health especially trying to understand the circumstances that presented my vulnerability to disease.

It was with some shock and ruefulness that I read up on two episodes that reduced my resistance to infection and compounded manifest symptoms.

Carefree and careless

In meeting certain needs, I had been carefree, in that I was not careful and thereby, I was quite careless.

One cannot deny that certain habits breed an attitude of being carefree, that in itself is not being careful about how the desires are met and when that issues with enough carelessness, care and caution are thrown to the winds.

What if I had known?

Going back, I have wondered if I ever had specific information or it was too general to appreciate what the consequences were.

I cannot remember any time when I really knew what I recently learnt. I could be sad, angry or even depressed, but since I can neither undo or change what is past, I might as well taken full responsibility for my carefree deeds and move on.

In essence, check, check it, check in, check out everything that needs checking and have it in check before no checks can save you from not having been careful where carefree situations present careless options.

Thought Picnic: Yet I Celebrate My Handicaps As Signposts Of Thankfulness

The heat of a seat

Vulnerability is what defined today for me, and this to a point that I risked self-pity before I dusted it off as life, and life just happens.

I just about boarded my train and found a comfortable space to seat when the announcement came that the train that had rolled into the platform was in fact not the train I wanted and that another was expected before this left the platform.

There was no need to rush but the crowd had gathered for the other train that the choice priority seats were taken by the able-bodied as is usually the case in London where they ignore clearly labelled seats before they ignore people who clearly need those seats.

At the next stop, people with bicycles got on, four in all, and as the third man tried to fit his bicycle in, you could see he was annoyed that I was sat where I was, completely oblivious of why I did sit there.

Unseen to the mean

Sadly, the pleasure of being picked up in the morning was lost to circumstances beyond my control that I had to queue up for the free bus ride to the office. When the bus arrived, the driver got off to tuck my luggage in the luggage compartment, and as luck would have it, the first seat was occupied by someone who felt the seat next to him was best used by his bag.

No, people with apparent mobility problems are somewhat invisible and thereby not catered for or responded to with consideration or dignity most of the time, so haltingly, I made my way to the back of the bus, where in my more able-bodied state, I would have offered my seat closer to the front to someone who was now how I appeared to get around.

Every excuse to refuse

At the reception, I had hoped the situation would get better but compelling security requirements meant that the receptionist just had every unhelpful excuse even after being informed that I use a cane, I almost waved my cane in remonstration, and my office was on the second floor up two flights of stairs.

Bottling up my emotion, I apologised for expecting any help and eventually lugged my stuff up to my office, and when I closed from work, I did that same again, with effort but maintaining my dignity.

Yet, when we were picked up for our induction session that morning, the leader raced off ahead and by the time I knew it, being the third out of the door, I ended up the last as I quipped, we are never noticed are we? The man ahead of me then considerately decided to take up the rear as we arrive in the conference room, much later than when everyone had settled down.

The day passed without the company of my colleague, but I met up with acquaintances for lunch as I occupied the day with going through documentation and installation until the day darkened.

A bright dot on a blind spot

Knowing I had to walk to the bed and breakfast inn, I left with little light to spare, but I was aware that the road to the inn could be enveloped in pitch black darkness.

I had to contact GoogleMaps to be sure of where to go only to realise that I had to cross a road at a point where cars travelling at speed came round two blind spots that it was more their lights I needed to be out of sight because I really cannot judge distance from me and the approaching speed of a vehicle to be able to cross a road safely.

That was a 10-minute wait, and it could have been longer as I reflected on the favours I have enjoyed and how I could easily find myself in a very vulnerable spot if the help I had before taken for granted was not forthcoming.

For to be seen by the keen

Nevertheless, whilst momentarily, one has scope for self-pity, one still needs to get on because the world just gets on with being the world with or without you.

It was made more palpable when during the induction we were shown a DVD on fire safety which featured a lady with crutches who needed help, but was obstructed by things that had fallen over in her pathway, it took a while for someone to have the presence of mind to help her.

It is important that one recognises what one can do, where there is a danger or the risk of such, know those who would be concerned for more than themselves to be aware of others and their surroundings to lend a hand when needed.

An attitude of gratitude

I can only feel for those who are less able than I am in settings where people are less considerate and in buildings that are not fitted for accessibility. We need to get on with our lives regardless, and these little indignities would hopefully take no greater significance in our lives than as fodder for a raconteur.

We would live as independently as we can, with patience, with determination, with deliberate effort and stoicism whilst being thankful for the thoughtful, the mindful and the helpful. Thank you for your Good Samaritan humanity.