Three Degrees: Hailstones, Shorts, and Slippers

A Nation's Favourite Topic

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

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

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

Pelted by Hailstones

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

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

Sights on the Street

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

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

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

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Augmenting Humanity with AI Tools - Q1 2026

AI as a Productive Tool

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

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

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

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

Refining My Writing Voice

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

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

AI-Generated Podcasts: A Revelation

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

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

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

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

Acknowledging AI's Limitations

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

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

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

Thank you.

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

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

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

A Woman Archbishop: Reflections

A Historic Moment

Watching the enthronement of the new Archbishop of Canterbury left me with both a sense of awe and the resignation of acceptance. When the last Archbishop resigned in November 2024, it did occur to me that there was a likelihood the next person appointed to the office might radically shift from the norm, a woman perhaps.

I stated then that I was not particularly ready for that kind of change when the Church of England had only begun appointing female bishops barely a decade ago. Yet, with my Pentecostal exposure, I was already familiar with women teaching from the pulpit and leading Christian ministries.

Tradition and Change

The traditions of the Church of England have a history, constancy, and stability that I felt should not be defined by speed, but by the gentle persuasion of clergy and laity alike towards necessary aims. Obviously, there have been insurmountable issues in certain provinces of the global Anglican Communion: the ordination of women priests, the issue of sexual orientation, and the blessing of same-sex unions. The conversation must continue, even if agreement remains distant.

Generally, I have accepted the ministry of women in the Church of England, as canons, priests, archdeacons, and bishops. I also recognise that at ordinations, a separate service attends to those who do not accept the ministry of women, with a flying bishop of that persuasion presiding in that setting. I must confess, I have only seen female bishops in the media; I have never met one or been in a service with them in attendance.

The Ceremony Itself

The enthronement service brought the spectacle of religion, politics, and ceremony, along with the pomp and pageantry that the English excel at exhibiting. Representatives of all the different religious communities attended, including the Bishop of Ebbsfleet, one of those flying bishops of a different persuasion mentioned earlier.

For all the acclamation and pronouncements, I was surprised that the ceremony included no laying on of hands. It was more the dainty holding of a hand.

Moving Forward

This process was one in which I had no influence, apart from individually deciding whether appointing a woman as Archbishop sat well with my belief system. There was enough precedent in other provinces to suggest this would settle down into a kind of détente that demands both dexterity and political nous from the office holder.

I know I won't be rushing out to a service presided over by The Most Reverend and Right Honourable Dame Sarah Mullally DBE, yet I wish her term is blessed with success and the reconciliation of the church in whatever way possible. May we, in our misgivings or concerns, see the grace and beauty in what we as mere mortals fail to appreciate in the growth of the church.

Blog - England: We have a new Archbishop of Canterbury, she's a woman

Blog - Losing my religion in this reformation split

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Sipping the Hazards of Earl Grey

A Chance Encounter

It must be a kind of hazard going shopping with your mother, or that is how we felt for the young man yesterday as we stopped for a pot of Earl Grey tea and a slice of too-creamy carrot cake.

We took the table beside two white ladies who wouldn't look out of place at a seaside café in Eastbourne, England, and we have seen quite a few ladies in Pinelands that remind me of home.

It is that quiet sophistication of a Laura Ashley print dress, very sensible shoes, hair somewhere between Margaret Thatcher and the late Queen, lip-defining lipstick without drawing too much attention, and costume jewellery giving airs of pearl for a necklace and earrings.

The Retired Teachers

Every younger lady who walked by seemed to know them. Without trying to be a Miss Marple, I suspect they were retired teachers, as you do not become that well known without being invested in the community. If I had wanted to engage them in conversation, I might have used the angle of familiarity to start one.

The only exchange between us was them asking if we had enough space to sit at the table. However, I could not grasp any snippets of their conversation except when they interacted with passers-by.

An Overheard Exchange

Just before our tea arrived, a middle-aged lady with a tallish young man came by, and beyond the greetings a longer conversation unfolded. From what ensued, one could surmise that he was her son. Quite soft-spoken and almost sheepishly shy, we soon found one of the ladies updating her database of facts about him.

We learnt his name, that he had just completed a master's degree, and that he had a British passport. Yet in the context of that exchange, even with the apparent privilege of being Caucasian in South Africa, there was the feeling that this country did not offer him a promising future. This young man was to set sail, though not on an Elder Dempster ocean liner, to the United Kingdom to seek his fortune.

Contrasting Perspectives

I contrast this with the idea that I seek to set up home, live, and retire in South Africa, as I see opportunities and possibilities where the locals appear not to. However, the broader point, as summarised by my partner, is the danger of meeting old ladies in a public space.

Before you know it, a catalogue of your life is revealed to strangers who might make a blog of it. Poor Joseph.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Flies on the Wall of Evil

Discovering Hidden Routes

We too easily see a place through one perspective, but last week, because of our proximity to Century City in Cape Town, we decided to walk a network of routes from Rugby to the Canal Walk Shopping Centre, which had been the focus of our visits many times before.

After visiting the shopping centre, on our walk back, we bought MyCiTi bus passes in anticipation of using the public bus rapid transit service that we had been shy of approaching in the preceding seven years of staying in Cape Town. However, it was a panel of pictures showing how Century City had evolved since the 1990s that caught our attention, though we were too tired to explore further.

Century City: The History of Century City

A Second Chance

In our move to Pinelands, we could have dismissed this opportunity again, but proximity once more compelled us, not so much to walk it, but to get an Uber from Pinelands to the shopping centre, explore the walkways of Century City, and then walk through Rugby and Milnerton to Woodbridge Island.

It was during this plan that we became flies on the wall of two encounters that left us saddened by the malicious and malevolent intentions of others.

An Uncomfortable Ride

The Uber that took us to the shopping centre was supposed to be a cool, comfortable ride, but for the duration of the journey, the driver was in conversation on the phone. I did not understand anything of what he was saying, but could hear bits about sums of money being pushed about. You could immediately recognise he was involved in some sort of deal.

His name was Trust, but I would pray that no one, and especially Uber, should be trusting him. Had we known what he was up to, we would not have trusted his picking us up either. Whilst we were delivered to our destination safely, he was speaking Shona, one of the major languages of Zimbabwe, which he probably assumed none of us understood, but Brian did. With whoever he was chatting to, they were planning a number of exploitative and manipulative schemes.

Schemes of Exploitation

The first was to register a number of cars with fake identities on the Uber platform, then traffic people from rural areas in Zimbabwe to drive the cars with the aim of paying them poverty or slavery wages as they drove endless hours to bring money home for these chaps with pretensions to being crime bosses.

In the words of Trust, and I paraphrase, "Just put a plate of food before them and they'll be happy as Larry." They had every intention to mistreat, abuse, exploit, and deal wickedly with whoever they were able to entice with the bright lights of South Africa.

A Difficult Decision

I learnt all this after our ride, to which I suggested Brian should have exited with a greeting in Shona, just to let him know we were onto him. Obviously, there was no possibility of us giving him five stars for his service, even if he did not carry out his evil intentions, but we were left in a quandary as to whether to report this encounter to Uber and how to frame what we understood had happened.

Another Overheard Conversation

No sooner had we begun our walk beyond the territory of the shopping centre into Century City proper than there was another wheeler and dealer on the phone. I do not think he was planning a new magic trick for his next performance, but he probably works in one of the offices in Century City. He confided in his interlocutor on the other end of the call about how he had to try to make four million South African rand disappear.

I doubt we'll recognise him, as we only heard him as he walked by us in the opposite direction, and the disappearance of the money can only pertain to him having view of, or access to, that money somewhere in an organisation and scheming to thieve or embezzle it.

The Audacity of Evil

It did make us wonder about both the audacity of calumny and the recklessness of incriminating conversations that others think no one is hearing. These are thoughts that should never emerge as words spoken when there is a conscience alive in us, even if barely so. In both cases, we saw the clear sign that the love of money is indeed the root of all evil.

It is quite likely there are many instances of human trafficking, people exploitation, and embezzlement as we visit places around Cape Town that we are totally oblivious to. Yesterday, I gave a tip to a server in an establishment where the personification of Cruella de Vil superintended with vicious verbiage; the server's deep gratitude would suggest something I am unready to countenance.

The question is, who will stop these evil people before they implement their rotten plans?

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

You Are the Boss

A Grateful Return

At the hospital today for my biannual check-up, where I have been under consultant supervision for just over a decade, one can be grateful for good health and wellbeing.

Arriving with 20 minutes to spare before my scheduled appointment, the nurse was already coming to reception for me to take measurements of my blood pressure, height, and weight.

The Numbers Game

I seem to have lost a few centimetres in height, gained more kilogrammes than is comfortable in weight, and my blood pressure was unusually high. I put the weight down to winter clothing, though I could lose some, and my blood pressure could be due to the anxiety I sometimes suffer about getting to the hospital on time. This is even though I practised calming down when I realised my bus was running seven minutes late.

I must have been quite self-involved about my weight when the nurse taking my readings could easily tip the scales at about 50% more than the figures I was posting. In fact, her uniform was likely reinforced at the seams with Kevlar threading, because any exertion on her part could have her literally spilling out of her dress.

Observations in the Waiting Room

The lesson, as I sat in the waiting room to be called in by the lead consultant for my assessment, was that each person had a gait—from plodding to brisk—proportional to their bodies of various sizes. This suggested the quest for health and healthy bodies is a daily struggle, whether you work in healthcare or not.

One lady could also do with a change of shoes; the heel on the left foot was so worn from the outside to the inside that the bend alone could introduce a bow-legged, rickety condition due to wrong footwear rather than childhood vitamin deficiency.

An Evolving Consultation

In the consultation room, where the consultant knows me by name, we had the company of a pregnant doctor as an understudy. We went over the usual things: physical, mental, social, and other matters I needed to have in consideration. It is always easy banter, and for the first time I heard it from senior medical personnel without having to assert it.

I reckon it is a kind of maturation that visits veterans in their field—having experience but not using it as omniscience. To a recommendation that I was yet to be convinced of, she said, "You are the boss." I hope that meant, "You make the final decisions about your medical pathways," rather than, "You fool, I'm giving you the best advice and you're being stupid and obstinate."

In the process, I extended the blood profile to check specific elements rather than the broad indicators. The session with the nurse phlebotomist was easy, without complications, then I collected my six-month prescription before returning home for some much-needed bed rest.

Let us, with a gladsome heart, be thankful for health.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Men's things XXX: Let's talk Prostate Cancer

Making Those Nature Calls

As I was about to leave the office yesterday evening, I followed that familiar credo: "Go before you go." It's one of those habits people of a certain age need to entertain before leaving the safety of indoors for the outdoors.

That is, visit the toilets. Return to that childhood scenario where your parents or guardians asked if you needed to use the toilet before commencing a journey. In fact, they would have probably made you go regardless of how you felt, to forestall a mishap at an unfortunate time.

A Poster to the Prostate

Anyway, I was gladdened to find on the inside of the cubicle doors in the Gents the prostate cancer campaign poster I had recommended, advising men to be aware and to check up on their prostate health.

In my view, it might make for a friendly conversation starter after we have used the facilities and are doing the essential ablutions following these intimate activities. I also hope to find other opportunities to share my experience with prostate cancer: the criticality for us all to know what the symptoms are and how catching issues early saves lives.

A Call to Healthy Brotherhood

Fundamentally, we need forums and spaces not only to broach matters of men's health, but to discuss men's things openly and without embarrassment, to give each and every one of us a fighting chance, and to support each other through challenging times. This matter calls for a brotherhood in arms. I am all for it.

Check your Prostate Cancer risk in 30 seconds.

References

Blog - Men's things XXIX: The Cubicle Next Door

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

Blog - A prostate cancer diagnosis, one year on

Blog - Men's things - Prostate Cancer blogs

Know your symptoms.

1 in 8 men will get prostate cancer.

Know the symptoms.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Essential Snobbery 101: Revisiting discretion and how we share

Opening to strangers

Considering the topic of my last blog post, the importance of discretion becomes increasingly relevant. I suspect we tend to share much more information with strangers, viewing brief encounters as fleeting and inconsequential, than we do with people we know well.

However, there are different levels of comfort with friends, colleagues, and family compared to strangers. We might overlook that any conversation, regardless of familiarity, can seem more interesting and meaningful to our interlocutors than it appears to us in the moment.

There is clearly some research and writing about why we tend to confide in strangers, the people we assume we will never see again. By that assumption, one might wonder about the embarrassment that could arise if a future encounter brings an indiscretion back to mind.

Holding one’s peace

There was one such conversation I could have fully engaged in, as familiarity might have caused me to let my guard down. It concerned remuneration and rewards, though it focused on how poorly longer-term engagements were being recognised through promotions and appropriate pay.

Opposing that was the absurd situation where titles do not necessarily entitle the holders to better pay than the staff they manage. Although the discussion called for some disclosure, I chose to observe rather than contribute.

Then, the following week, everything that could be deemed absurd happened, and I was grateful not to have been overwhelmed by the urge to speak, despite having several opinions to express. It remains clear, regardless of the setting, that discretion is the better part of valour.

Thought Picnic: Are We Protecting Them or Ourselves?

Seeking Protection

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

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

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

Curb Your Loquacity

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

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

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

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

Ideas from AI

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

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

1. The Graceful Deflection

Acknowledge the question without answering it directly:

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

2. The Anna Wintour Pause

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

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

This creates a boundary without confrontation.

3. The Gentle Boundary

State your limits with warmth but firmness:

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

4. The Question Reversal

Turn the inquiry back towards the questioner:

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

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

5. The Humorous Redirect

Use light humour to deflect whilst maintaining rapport:

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

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

6. The Minimal Answer

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

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

7. The Honest "No"

Sometimes the most respectful approach is directness:

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

This works best in relationships where mutual respect exists.

8. The Professional Shield

Reference external constraints or responsibilities:

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

9. The Reframe

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

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

10. The Time Boundary

Defer without committing:

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

---

Developing Your Technique

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thought Picnic: When the truth you think it is, is not the truth at all

Dangerous Navel Gazing

We should be cautious of the sort of persecution complex that tends to give credibility solely to our own viewpoint and narrative about matters involving others.

I read a narrative at the start of the week that nearly made me snigger as I shook my head, because, although it was believed by the narrator, the truth was a considerable distance from where they were.

However, to resolve this issue, we need a proper sit-down to talk and an open mind to listen to what the other has to say, considering the facts, their perspective, and their experience.

Our prospective interlocutor lacks the emotional self-control needed for such a discussion. The level of self-absorbed self-indulgence makes that conversation almost impossible; those who have attempted it have been left utterly exasperated.

Breaking free and moving on

Amid a growing trail of unresolved conflicts, parental interference, and sibling rivalries, coupled with a tendency to seek refuge in victimhood without examining where one might have been at fault, it becomes a rather daunting task.

As it stands, everyone engages out of goodwill and good nature because that is the only fallback—apart from completely extricating oneself from the process—and that is what I resorted to, as the bond of trust had been utterly broken beyond repair.

Some might see this as making a mountain out of a molehill, and that’s fine with them, but if you lack the courage of your own convictions, then where does your conscience fit in, if you can be persuaded against your will to do things merely to satisfy others? As this line of thinking led to a conversation being aborted and not resumed, that inclination has not been compelling.

Your narrative is not the full story

To be accused of stabbing another in the back is to level a charge of treachery and betrayal, none of which was evident beyond egotistical entitlement conveyed with deft miscommunication bordering on disrespect.

The person claiming to be a victim was never genuinely one; yet, when allowed emotional blackmail, it was deployed, but I refused to be baited. The tendency for public lamentation with their version of the truth requires a wary reading.

We did not have another conversation afterwards. I gracefully excused myself to tend to my physical, emotional, and mental well-being. Other responsibilities faded into the background.

I am pleased that all proceedings went smoothly, based on the feedback I received without participating in any way. The knowledge that everyone will find their level and support, regardless of involvement, is also reassuring.

In conclusion, just because you possess a narrative does not mean you hold the full story, if viewed from all sides and exhausted through mutual discussions rooted in respect for one another. The truth is somewhere, but rarely in the loudest talker’s mouth.

Thought Picnic: Tragedy has no favouritism

All in a day of our humanity

The past 24 hours have been filled with rather unfortunate circumstances that, as observers reflecting on the truly life-changing issues, we need to be mindful of the opinions we hold and express, so we do not fall into the irony of becoming victims of our own views. More pertinently, we must also be mindful of the company we keep.

In both cases, the unfortunate and the unintentional have come to the forefront, with consequences including loss of life and loss of position, status, and prestige. We must wonder how parts of our past can have the power to haunt us into the present, shaping our future.

We are limited by our humanity

While we, as humans, can have anticipation or foreboding, we sometimes lack the foresight to consider the consequences of our current relationships. Yet, we can be judged harshly when situations and circumstances obscure any indication or premonition of worse outcomes.

Then again, what would be the thrill of living if we knew everything beforehand? Insight, ideas, and inspiration are useful, as some guiding principles can distinguish the wise from the foolish. Accepting our past foolishness and follies while seeking to learn from them, through personal experience and reflection on others' stories, is an important part of education in life.

What we exploit can also exploit us

What I cannot shake from my mind is how some have capitalised on resentment or exploited the basest instincts of human nature to gain advantage, often at our expense. We find ourselves acting against our better interests, persuaded by lies or obfuscations that have become the accepted truth.

The standard of conversation is now measured by groupthink, with risks of ostracism; everything is polarised, leaving no middle ground or room for disagreement without becoming disagreeable. Entrenchment is preferred over engagement; everyone is talking, but few are listening, unless they are only hearing what they want to hear. Confirmation bias is trending, rather than the challenging of assumptions.

The cost of such polarisation and the othering of differing viewpoints is often dismissed as irrelevant, inconsequential, or even evil. Victims are often not the purveyors of doom themselves but those who perpetuate a narrative that rarely presents the full truth, who also fall into the same doom. Occasionally, even the hunter falls into their own snare.

Victims are not just others.

Oh! The handwringing and the condemnation of consequences that would have created other victims long before it touched them, usually those safe and insulated within their privileged cocoon, are rarely naïve and often malevolent without any sense of hypocrisy.

They delude themselves into thinking they are safe. Yet, tragedy is often dispassionate, selecting its victims indiscriminately, to include those who have been the prophets of everything that ails us with their populist oratory.

If there is anything to ponder, it is to be mindful, watchful, considerate, and humane. The past holds us, the present is a gift, and the future remains unknown. May we, in the present, create a past that paves the way for a future filled with contented happiness rather than rueful regret. So, help us, God. Amen!

Thought Picnic: The stereotype of a hypersexual black man persists

Just trying to help

The first thing that came to mind was whether I had just missed an Emmett Till moment, though the comparison is a bit too severe; England has never been the American South of the 1950s, but some stereotypes are so ingrained that people act on them before reality and modernity can adjust their thinking.

I was walking home when I saw two ladies seemingly in a rush, going in one direction and then the opposite, wondering aloud if they were headed the right way. As I overheard them, and being quite familiar with the area, I thought I could help, so I inquired about which direction they wanted to go.

As I looked back, a man approached me and asked what I was looking at. His aggression was met with equal disdain. "What is your problem?" I retorted. He claimed that I was the problem, to which I suggested he should go home and not look for trouble because I had no time for crazy people.

The stereotypes betraying us

He blurted out, “That’s my wife you are looking at.” A strapping (I guess in the dark, appearances can be deceptive) black man, and I am hardly that, going after and ogling a white woman with rampant sexual desire?

Maybe if I could whistle, but the ladies did not even deserve an anachronistic catcall, but let’s not disparage the innocent. It did look like an Emmett Till moment, as a white man had just suggested I had disrespected his wife by looking lustfully at her.

Where did this kind of thinking emerge from, and how could it even be expressed so strongly in Manchester of 2025? The situation was about to escalate totally out of control if I did not have a response or chose to walk away, which was the wise choice.

Easing the built-up tension

I replied, “I am a gay man, I am not interested in your wife; I was only asking if I could help.” He showed character; immediately he offered a profuse apology, saying he was very sorry for making a wrong assumption. His wife joined him, and they both pleaded for being unnecessarily defensive; they asked for my name and introduced themselves.

We shook hands as they explained they were out looking for their friend, who they thought was lost. They were a bit distressed about it and did not know what to do. I gave them some encouragement and wished them well as we parted ways. I was just a block away from home.

The present is the past

On reflection, I thought about how suspicion and the exchange of coarse words could have led to a fracas and needlessly so. How we are informed by the stereotypes of others until we seek to learn more about their story out of interest and engagement rather than an initial dislike based on falsehoods.

How in the UK, we are fortunate that even the irrational is contained in the exchange of words before it becomes physical, hurtful, and sometimes fatal.

Then, the basic willingness to hear the other out and listen can diffuse the most tense (as I use British rather than American English, "most tense" is the most appropriate superlative for tense, rather than "tensest" in American English) situations; someone had to be ready to play the pipes of peace before we come within the sound of the drums of war.

It was both an unsettling and teachable moment. We might have come a long way, but that basic animal instinct is always ready to impose itself on our unsteady coexistence.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - LXXVI

Getting some perspective

You may wonder why I am writing about the Coronavirus, having written the last in my series of Coronavirus streets in Manchester way back in June 2024. Obviously, there was also the minor distraction of dealing with Men’s things, my prostate taking on an unregulated growth spurt that was trammelled with blasts of radiotherapy.

Then you consider I was out grocery shopping today and one of the passengers on a bus I boarded had a facemask on, you do not see that about quite often, though a lady who attends my church whose full face I have never seen dons a facemask almost as a fashion accessory, a shade of brown, but quite distinct from her South Asian skin tone.

Saying his prayers

The bus out of the city centre towards Salford, where I planned to board another to my intended destination, presented nothing of great significance apart from wheezing and many with coughs that might indicate something more serious than portends. On that sampling alone, we are easily a nation of the unfit, the infirm, the unwell, and qualitatively unhealthy.

However, it was the bus ride within Salford towards Cheetham Hill that offered much to amuse or intrigue. It was first an unkempt man sitting on one of the priority seats. In what seemed like a headbanging the bar in front of him, I soon realised it was an unconventional approach to Muslim prayer as he was muttering, clasping hands, and then bowing in obeisance to the Sallah edict.

The bus was driving eastward but I could not suggest his heading was facing Mecca, but who am I to intrude on the religiosity of an adherent faithfully saying his prayers before Goosey Goosey Gander takes umbrage?

The fiery Ijebu wars

At Ade’s Cash & Carry, of the many designations it has, at the checkout till, there were conversations going on in Yoruba, the tiller with facial scarification I would have mistaken for an Ogbomoso indigene, but with the brutal nose strike, so that might default to Ibadan.

Two tubers of water yam, quite different from Puna yam, were being weighed on the tiller scales, but they did not have the hairy fibres one would expect on that species I was accustomed to. As I voiced my misgivings, an engagement began about where I was from.

Answering Ijesha-Ijebu, the man interjected, Ijebu-Ijesha, a different place some 197 kilometres away. That confusion between my village and the other town, in entirely separate states and they do not remotely speak the same dialect. It so happened that the customer being served was also an Ijebu-man, he knew where Ijesha-Ijebu was and began to converse in Ijebu that I have never deigned to master.

My excuse is that I was born abroad, and I pleaded innocence by volunteering. One of my names is Adetokunbo, and the crown was brought from overseas. That was the beginning of our schism, he is from Ilishan-Remo and has been advocating the creation of an Ijebu State with Sagamu as the state capital. Let’s just say as the boundary between the real Ijebu-land headquartered at Ijebu-Ode and Ijebu-Remo, which is a few kilometres west of my village, the idea falls on its face with infeasibility.

It is totally unlikely that the Ijebus aligned to Ijebu-Ode and the expanse of the 16 Agemo masquerades of Ijebu-land would subsume themselves to the leadership of Ijebu-Remo that gained prominence out of the colonial chicanery of divide-and-rule. We would seethe with disdain and disparage any such advocacy to chop Ogun State into hamlet fiefdoms.

While I would rarely feel challenged with Yoruba expression, I was clearly found wanting facing a son of Ijebu soil. Other interesting banter ensued, and we shook hands, and I left.

The Yorubas have occupied

On the bus back to Salford City Centre from Cheetham Hill, I must have been transported to some place in Yorubaland, I half expected the only Caucasian on the bus to burst out in Yoruba song as literally every else on the bus was speaking in Yoruba.

One even had a playback of some Yoruba-speaking event on the speaker of his phone and some of the narrative did cause stifled giggles without anyone wanting to reveal they knew what was going on. I could see from my vantage point that everyone was straining to listen even as one or two mobile phone conversations cared nothing for the public space they were in.

I sometimes forget some parts of north Manchester have been colonised by Yorubas; I could be one of the exceptions that lives in the city centre. Now, that Ade’s Cash & Carry has stiff competition in Salford on range, quality, and price, apart from ready-made stews, it won’t be long before these interesting Yoruba engagements happen closer to home.

The Coronavirus is still out there, and I had my 7^th booster in November before jetting out to Cape Town. Nine vaccinations and boosters altogether mean we all must be careful, five years on.

It comes in a can

How Condensed Milk is Made in Factory | Step by Step Process

WhatsApp is eavesdropping on us

I got home from work this evening and switched on my smart television to watch YouTube to understand the news of the past few days from the comedic genius of late-night show hosts.

There is no way the news can be taken in neat from the new channels with their rolling and interminable analysis of analyses and the postulations over bizarre prognostications, the chaos from the calico bunker on Pennsylvania Avenue already puts the earth’s rotation in a wobble, only humour keeps the stress at bay.

What showed up first on my list of suggestions to playback was titled, “How Condensed Milk is Made in Factory | Step by Step Process”, that was quite scary, yet an interesting first 7 minutes of information before moving on to the production of other mass manufactured goods.

Different milks for different folks

You would recall that last week I wrote about the sleight of hand that had opened and poured the milk I brought in without me noticing as I made tea and put in some sugar. My milk was all gone by Friday morning, indicating that someone or some people do prefer whole milk over semi-skimmed milk. Whole milk is unmistakable, it has a blue cap on the bottle, semi-skimmed milk has a green cap, and skimmed milk has a red cap.

Blog - Just milking the milk

Today, rather than suffer the privation of milk by the end of the week, I bought a larger bottle of milk, our office manager even offered to have the bottle marked as private in a public access fridge, I declined as I hoped there would be much left for us to use. If that optimistic expectation fails, I might take her up on that offer.

Condensed to irrelevance

I was relating the situation to Brian as we had our regular morning chat, first by audio as I walk to the office and then switching to video on WhatsApp when at my desk, when he talked of getting condensed milk. What an opportunity to relate one of the seminal moments of my boarding school experience.

I bought condensed milk with some bread and was walking towards the field in front of the staff room, and behold my tall and almost gangly aunt, my mother’s big sister of blessed memory, had come to visit. Seeing my goods, with such dismissive disdain, she said, Ọmọ fish and chip (child of fish and chip), which would never have been the staple of Nigerians studying abroad, but for the unacculturated deviance of their kids born there. It was as cutting and hurtful as being slapped across the face, even the condensed milk lost its sweet taste after that encounter.

Whatever Brian wanted condensed milk for which I cannot remember I have had again since that unfortunate meeting, he chose to excoriate me for having condensed milk with bread when he planned to get can of condensed milk, punch a hole or slit in the top of the can, and suck out the gooey stuff like a suckling child. Just the temerity of the accusation.

It comes in a can

Indeed, it comes in a can, and one other can I do have an affinity for is evaporated milk, which goes well on my custard and in caffeinated coffee that I have barely had for almost six months. That taste returned when I was in the Netherlands, for they have a version of evaporated milk called koffie melk, milk for coffee, and it works for filter coffee better than other types of milk.

Most of the common brands now come with a tab to rip off the lid, and the cost of those cans has doubled or tripled in the supermarkets nearby. Only one other supermarket retains a reasonable price with the cans indicating two opposite depressions to make holes for the milk to be poured out freely.

Koffie melk usually comes in a carton or a glass bottle, the pasteurised cow’s milk comes mainly in plastic containers except from long life milk in cartons, evaporated milk in tins, and well, condensed milk in hermetically sealed cans, you might need a chisel and hammer to get to the contents and who better to give all muscle to the can, than you know who.

Someone is eavesdropping with AI transcription

As for the YouTube video I was presented with, we only had a conversation on WhatsApp, I fear WhatsApp with its AI mechanisms was eavesdropping on our conversation and it presented the topic of our conversation to YouTube. It was no coincidence, and we never searched for anything regarding condensed milk during or after that conversation.

The history of condensed milk goes back to France in 1820, England in 1835 with sugar as a preservative, but the successful commercialisation of the process came in 1865 in the United States after the proprietor visited England.