Essential Snobbery 101: The Slow Death of Proper Address

A Stringent Beginning

It was almost a decade ago when I underwent a stringent vetting process with all the officialdom that extracted more information from me than I would willingly have volunteered. This process was supervised by a department within the organisation to which I was contracted to offer professional services.

When the process was completed, I received a notice from a member of staff confirming that I had passed all the requirements. It began with "Hi!" Just "Hi", without a name, stripped of all formality, dignity, and function, as though we shared the familiarity born of mutual friendship going back decades, rather than mere acquaintance.

I was reeling and altogether taken aback; this could not seriously have come from within the company with which I held a formal contractual engagement.

Insult and Injury

To add insult to injury, the person who signed off the message bore names suggesting a common Nigerian heritage, where the expectation is that a modicum of formality should greet those with whom you have never interacted before. Only after you have introduced yourself and established communication through a cordial response and acknowledgement should informality be considered.

This was analogous to an ingénue who had abandoned the sophistication of speech for grunts and howls.

From that day, I wanted nothing to do with that individual, and I made a point of expressing my displeasure at such an approach to their manager. My own manager attempted to apologise on her behalf, then suggested that we might have become old-fashioned.

Manners Never Age

Maybe we were; but good manners, in my view, can never be old-fashioned. They should always be fashionable and properly taught. Comportment, decorum, respectful address, honour, regard, and etiquette make the person and exude character.

I have worked in places where informality is the culture, yet I would still address you by name, and with deference, because I was brought up that way, and what you give out comes back to you in spades.

The Order of Greetings

Whilst I have spent four decades in the corporate world, any first contact with a person would always come with a greeting for the time of day: good morning, good afternoon, or good evening. Good night is usually goodbye.

Then comes the person's name, which might be preceded by a standard, academic, religious, military, royal, or political title. Professions deployed as titles, apart from "Dr" for medical doctors, are an exercise in pompous superfluity and self-aggrandisement.

At other times, it is "Dear" and the person's name. "Hello" is for friends. Then I close my messages properly, with a variation of "regards" and my name. In speech, it is formally the greeting for the time of day; I introduce myself with purpose if required, or await a response with names and preferences.

Pronouns and Coherence

On the new trend of pronouns, especially those that challenge the natural flow of the English grammar I learnt from well-appointed schooling, I would rather use a name than defeat the ends of coherence and adherence.

Good and traditional forms of address will always establish the standard of communication and the protocols of language. If someone is too well-spoken to use expletives in any way, it is unlikely others would deploy them when speaking to you; or at least they are guarded, and moderate their language with apologies for any unfortunate slips of the tongue.

The Art of Subtlety

Maybe, indeed, I am old-fashioned. I would rather be that than uncouth and uncultured. From my youth, my mode of address has earned me consideration, respect, and a hearing. Yet if I am overly formal in beginning a message with "Dear Mr Jones", when we have always been on first-name terms, you need not read any further to know that this is an expression of great displeasure.

Subtlety and discretion; the polite turn of expression that, on first reading, seems complimentary, until some thought is put to it. It is the way of the English, an art of communication lost to many for whom a good education might have been a luxury. It is not their fault.

Borstal Wednesdays on Teams

The Wednesday Dread

Wednesday mornings do not deliver the kind of impetus and encouragement needed to see the day through with a sense of purpose and an aim for achievement.

One is reminded of being in a secondary school morning assembly with all the trappings of a borstal; the headmaster traipsing across the platform, slapping the birch into his hand, and speaking in a booming voice of quarrelsome displeasure and pique.

Diktat Over Dialogue

For a gathering of professionals, where the distinction is more one of corporate hierarchy than any other gift or ability, the patriarchal and patronising tone of diktat over conversation rubs everyone up the wrong way.

One might want to consider that this manager is perhaps oblivious to the fact that those who report to him are indeed professionals. Besides, whilst there may be a case for certain colleagues needing some hand-holding, guidance, direction, or instruction, the broad-brush approach to generalisation over the particular and specific creates a rather toxic environment.

Morale and the Pulpit

It can be said that a majority do not leave the Wednesday powwow thinking they have been edified; it is moral-sapping, pulpit-thumping vituperation that easily slips into uncouth language, betraying both discourtesy and disrespect.

In the same vein, I appreciate that the higher-ups are under pressure to deliver results, but ruling by fear, deeming us stupid, or questioning our intelligence will get you nowhere.

We are here to do a job, not to be corralled like sheep or donkeys into some subservient role, subject to constant and unwarranted opprobrium. The borstal comparison becomes all the more telling when you wonder whether they once presided over some regimented setting and held sway over unskilled labour.

The Reckoning Ahead

In other words, in my decades-long experience of dealing with management, this one ranks, in every sense of the word, as the least commendable and capable when it comes to managing talent, and would be far better suited to commandeering a chain gang.

Heck, some of us are way past slithering up a greasy pole of obsequiousness for favours; we have had roles of greater responsibility and remuneration, and are here for nothing other than the joy of doing and giving back.

If there is room for improvement, I cannot say, because this appears to be learned behaviour from a former leader who barely earned my respect, their brusqueness unbecoming of anyone cultured. The headiness of office is becoming an aggrandisement of self, not far removed from bullying. Many will tolerate this for just long enough before the blowback makes heads roll.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

The shibboleth of fluency

Strangeness in the familiar

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

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

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

Twinning the dissimilar

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

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

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

Speaking so good

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

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

Dreamscape: Truancy presages abject failure

Why I was a truant

It is becoming like a haunting of my dreams, for in times past, I played truant. My absence from class could never be properly understood. When one school report included the word "truant," my mother, a secondary school principal at the time, took such offence that I had to check if we were sharing the same meaning of the word.

In secondary school, my truancy was borne of boredom: boring teachers, even more boring subjects, and a total lack of engagement. In my English class, for instance, the whole activity was pedestrian. I was probably not helped by the fact that English is my mother tongue, as opposed to a second language, even though it was the official language of Nigeria.

Later in life, I came to understand that while I naturally understood the language, I did not understand the mechanics of it. I knew why a sentence had to be a certain way, but not how the elements of language were arranged to make it so. This became evident when a Dutch teacher of English used my intuition as a native speaker to review his notes. I found myself learning about the scaffolding that gives English its structure and grammar.

The unpleasantness of bad English

Elsewhere, my disinterest was compounded by distraction. In certain classes, I was so clueless about what was going on that I drew a total blank. It would have been so helpful to have had a student affairs department that addressed emotional, mental, and psychological health; I might have been saved a lot of misery.

The worst culprit, however, was a lecturer in electrical materials. His teaching style rankled to the point of irritation, and how he ever became a lecturer in a tertiary institution baffles me to this day. If he had used sign language, I might have been more engaged. Nearly every sentence of more than two words contained a malapropism or a grammatical flaw, and I felt such an urge to correct him that I could barely listen.

I remember in primary school, a new pupil came to our class and announced, "Teacher told me to come to class." We all laughed, as it sounded different, strange, and odd. He ended up in another class, but we soon became good family friends.

Always found wanting in Maths class

The haunting that has invaded my dreams for a long time now is finding myself in an advanced Mathematics class with no idea of what is going on. The lecturer walks in expecting the submission of some homework and then continues a topic I cannot seem to grasp, with the final examinations only a couple of weeks away. It is never a comfortable place to be; in that dreamy world, you are left wondering how to avert the looming prospect of failure.

I do, however, remember one final Mathematics examination. On the Friday before, I was not convinced I had the wherewithal to tackle the subject to the best of my ability. I found a primary school blackboard and worked through each of the topics to fix the gaps in my understanding. By Sunday evening, I was sharing better proofs of equations and theorems with others. I got an 'A' in that subject.

Between the dreamland that occupies the present and the reality of old, where I got it all together, I think of copying my friend's notes to pay off the knowledge deficit. Yet, a niggling thought suggests that I will not be able to pull it off.

The dream never goes beyond the lecture class, but the foreboding of failure lingers. What is it in my life that is showing up as a parable of omission and unpreparedness in my dreams? That is the mystery, something to pray for insight about.

It's bad speech winning over free speech

It’s a bad speech issue

There are so many facets to the free speech debate but one thing I am convinced about is there is no limitation to the freedom of speech. What has really happened from viewing the quality of speech of many people with platforms especially in the political arena is expression had given up finesse for crudeness.

One could attribute this to lassitude in many areas, especially in reading, the reading of the classics, of philosophy, poetry, ideas, stories, and the forms of debate that mine the seams of the richness of language that challenge our thinking or excite our humour.

Weak forms from lazy

For instance, the kind of language and expression that the American president uses might appeal to the broad masses and make him an adept communicator, however, apart from the cachet of his powerful office that attracts all sorts of patronage, there is little to inspire from his speeches that elevates the quality of conversation.

The excessive use of comparatives and superlatives reveals a standard of mental indolence poorly served by lack of reading material that allows a broadening of the discussion, giving some flow to how words interact to persuade, even speechwriters will struggle to give those lips the kind of conviction that matches both personality and position.

Even the art of oratory, which is the skilful and effective public speaking is being lost, there are presently very few leaders of the world that could attend the United Nations and command the world stage with the quality of expression that would yield quotes surviving headlines of the next day. The pulpit shakers with their training in homiletics and hermeneutics barely make the standard of this is worth listening to again.

Do more reading

My argument is if people were well read, they would always find the form of expression to convey whatever thoughts they have elegantly without being misunderstood.

Giving thought to what you have to say before you speak needs a resource of usages and misuses studied before. Then we have the matter of a rich vocabulary, from books, novels, journals, and magazines rather than from cramming a dictionary, because context always matters in the use of words.

Then again, one does not need an elite education, just some curiosity and inquisitiveness, a willingness to learn and explore, because that opens the world of expression that unleashes freedom of expression.

I posit the issue has never really been an attack on freedom speech in the UK, people have just forgotten how to say nicely the bad things they are thinking. In the process, they have been caught out and to that, I’ll say, more fool you, or get smarter.

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.

Of bigger balls of discomfort

We, the vulnerable

Each visit to the hospital presents an opportunity to observe humanity at its most vulnerable and, at times, a few at their most irascible. It also showcases the society in which we live.

Illness does not selectively affect individuals based on class, race, status, or identity. There may be susceptibilities indicated by certain groups, but these are often ill-defined.

We all visit the hospital because something beyond our control has afflicted us, and we require assistance against whatever the onslaught may be.

Do the shower inspection

In the spirit of Men’s things, while I was in the shower on Saturday, I noticed my left testicle was swollen. Signs of this, the day before, led to the feeling that my underwear was a size too small. However, I ignored that indication throughout Friday until a shower inspection raised cause for concern.

We should all be doing a shower inspection and checking ourselves, examining our intimate parts for anything unusual. Men should check their testicles for swelling, hardness, lumps, redness, or heat, just as women should examine their breasts likewise.

As breast cancer can affect both men and women, we must also be mindful of assessing those parts too.

English as standard

While I acknowledge that during my time in the Netherlands, I never became as Dutch as might have been necessary, English was generally the language of transaction in business and all matters aside from government and politics.

In Dutch hospitals, the professionals, typically multilingual, would switch effortlessly to the preferred language of the patient.

I remember a 91-year-old Englishman in my ward nearly 16 years ago who had lived in the Netherlands for 50 years, and despite his fluency in Dutch, you could still hear that polished English accent from a bygone era.

How do they cope?

However, I was taken aback by the number of ethnic minority couples who visited the Accident and Emergency Department on Tuesday morning, who could barely communicate in Pidgin or broken English. Each relies on their spouses to register and relay their issues to the nurses and, eventually, doctors.

I was left pondering how they navigated society and how isolated some might feel. Whether any would receive a proper or complete diagnosis without the ability to speak for themselves is a concern. Imagine those with a rather stifling conservative background having to speak to strangers about intimate matters affecting their partners. Are the words for those issues the same ones we can comprehend?

Much as many of these couples were parents with children who had been schooled in English, exhibiting local and foreign accents confidently and expressively. No one under the age of 16 could act as a chaperone, due to safeguarding regulations. Invariably, it is probably for the best that children are not answering for their parents regarding their sex lives and similar subjects.

Bide your time

From triage through registration, basic checks, blood tests, and consultations that led to an ultrasound scan and ultimately a diagnosis. Everything pointed to inflammation, for which I was prescribed antibiotics.

At A&E departments in UK hospitals, arriving is the easiest part, even if you were blue lighted into resuscitation. Alright, perhaps that’s an exaggeration. One can expect to be there for a conservative estimate of six hours.

Take a book, a bottle of water, a phone charger, or better still, a power bank; let your patience be tested but do not suffer for the privilege of free healthcare at the point of access, regardless of status.

Photons on the Prostate - VI

Travelling and scheduling

Being prepared early for the hospital is one thing I have purposefully planned to give myself at least an hour for travel and this is not by bus, but by being driven there. If you arrive on time or well before time, there is a likelihood you could be leaving the hospital before your scheduled appointment time.

Talk of schedule, I met with two receptionists and between them the American pronunciation of schedule had taken a hold I could not ignore. The pervasiveness of American culture permeating every media outlet in films, on television, on the Internet and elsewhere means we might be losing out as we are the last holdout of the fight to the death to prevent the ruination of English.

Sides to the side effects

Meanwhile, finding ways to manage the fatigue is tending towards maximising my productivity when my energy levels are high, this tends to be just after midnight and having knocked a few emails and completed some pending tasks, I was tired enough to fall into bed and get a bit more sleep than usual.

My voice seems to be a wind vane of fatigue on a spectrum of strength to weakness belying something amiss, but it is still my voice, slow and soft to a whispering tone, words still properly enunciated and the mind as alert as it should be. The spirit is indeed willing, but the body is weak, daily bombarded with radioactivity meant to terminate every semblance of cancer on my prostate.

The bladder issues present a slight stinging feeling when passing urine and this I am told can be ameliorated by avoiding drinks with caffeine content and taking copious amounts of cranberry juice. I have not been that sold of still water even though I am supposed to be consuming litres of that stuff.

One other common symptom is with the bowel though I feel more constipated than diarrhoetic the glycerine suppositories seem to be more effective than the micro enemas, having got into a routine with it, doing the business at home within two hours of your appointment is better than the early day of SoD (Shit on Demand), the very least that is expected before going into the radiotherapy suite is to PoD (Piss on Demand). That is easier to do before you find yourself in need of an epidural while trying to birth cack.

Prostituted to many suites

There was cause for laughter when I was assigned to a different radiotherapy suite at the reception; which brings it to four suites I have attended at the halfway point. To which I quipped, “I am being sent around the suites like a prostitute.” Much mirth short of falling out of their seats. We can only do this with humour, positivity, and a sense of hope that this will pass.

That’s 10 hypofractionated radiotherapy sessions done and we are on the home straight Deo volente. Having a conversation with a couple where the man had already done 15 sessions and had a vast experience of prostituting in many more suites than I have, I could only point to one final thing to do when it is all done, he would soon be ringing the bell. [British Institute of Radiotherapy: Hypofractionated radiotherapy]

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - VII

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - V

Blog - Men's things

Thought Picnic: Eating flesh twice forbidden

Harking back in time

This is a story that seems to draw many laughs, yet it is the narration of one of my many experiences of racial abuse countered with the good fortune of a quick wit. I am sure I have relayed this on one of my previous blogs, but it finds some interesting resonance today.

I was in a bookshop on the concourse of Amsterdam Central Station when a brief encounter looking like a disagreement of sorts ensued. I have no idea how it started, but this man was soon spewing out expletives at me that my only response to him was to say, I do not speak like that.

In retort, he said, he would speak anyway he wants to, which was his prerogative, not that I cared much for it until he said, “A hundred years ago, I would have shot you.” Strangely, I was not shocked because we were not in that time of the past that he desired. However, my response just as he finished, “Two hundred years ago, I would have eaten you.” He did not have a reaction to that.

The natives as creatives

Indeed, the white man did bound around Africa and some uncharted regions of the world where some encounters revealed the magic of gunfire and for others who never returned, cannibalism did not have the strangeness it has today. A large cauldron, some excited drumming, and the natives were chewing the delicacy of rare meat not deemed untouchable as to be deified.

I cannot vouch for what my ancestors would have done long before my time. Still, as far back as we can trace the history, a good few were progressive and this fed the inclination of my near ancestors to seek knowledge, education, emancipation, and much more. I am a product of their tenacity and survival against all odds.

Heads are not that sweet

You may then wonder why I started this blog with the story told earlier. In the last few days, I have had conversations where I have been deemed blunt, frank, cruel, unforgiving, or even grumpy. Usually, someone would suggest I got off on the wrong side of my bed and when I suggested I only had one side to get off on, they implied I was climbing up the wall first.

In another situation, it would be me biting off their heads, as if I had travelled back in time for a stint in substituting brains for cauliflower cheese. Even I started wondering what could be in their heads that could be tastier than what I normally cook?

It speaks to my strong constitution that I have not reached to retch in a sickbag already. I could almost regret my riposte because people might well believe I have been picking my teeth with the finely honed bones of an Englishman and well, my crockery is of the finest bone without having to get to China.

For all my civilised mien, I was only trying to stop one heinous act with the benevolent sharing a catch, is that not what community is all about?

Dispute Resolution 101: Make it a reasonable and respectful appeal to their good nature

The sweet fragrance of language

Just a few hours after someone suggested that the way I write is ornate, I had to dig into the reserves of that sometimes flowery and elegant use of the English language to dispute a penalty fine and write an appeal.

As I was about to pay for a service yesterday, I found that my bank card had been blocked, a penalty fine had been applied to my account that my bank in their probably aggressive fraud checks decided was questionable, so they held up the transaction and blocked my card.

Looking up what had happened, our local transport service provider had applied a penalty charge on my card for my journey back home from the hospital, I got a bit emotional.

Banking on prudent checks

My bank sent a text message early in the morning to ask if I recognised the transaction, I knew the vendor, but I did not recognise the one-handed cash grab, something inadvertent had happened, and this was grounds for appeal.

I disputed the charge, called the bank and at the third time of asking the obsequious and unintelligent bot, it handed me over to a human being. It eventually realised, “Can I speak to a human being?” meant just that.

The bank with their layers of security and protocols lifted the pending charge but said I must contact the vendor and be ready to prove that I had done that as part of the dispute resolution process. My card was unblocked, and then I logged on to the vendor site to address the matter of penalty fares.

Circumstances are part of the story

My visit to the hospital left me a bit troubled but I also wanted to stop along the way back home to do some shopping. Using my phone, I tapped the contactless reader at the beginning of my journey and disembarked at the next stop. 

That was where I had forgotten to tap out for that journey. 30 minutes later, after doing my shopping, I was back at the same stop where I tapped in again and remembering my earlier mistake, I tried to tap again, but the system indicated I was tapping in twice.

I boarded the tram and at the following stop ticket inspectors got on and checked passengers for evidence of valid travel tickets for their journeys, my phone bleeped their device and I thought that was the situation resolved. I then tapped out at my destination and walked home. The penalty charge of £60 came 2 days later.

The scaffolding of an appeal

Thankfully, my phone records the exact times of tapping the contactless reader, with all the series of taps documented. After filling in the mandatory fields on the vendor website, these were the characteristics of my appeal and dispute.

• I shared the circumstances and my state of mind after my hospital visit.
• I logged every instance of using the contactless reader and agreed that I might have forgotten to tap out at the first stop out of the distraction indicative of my hospital visit.
• I then detailed all the other encounters before appealing that these were extenuating circumstances to rescind both the penalty fine and any further proceedings related to the journeys of the said day.
• I closed my appeal by thanking them for their understanding.

Appeal by appealing to their good nature

Now, I have seen appeals and disputes written by some rather more erudite and learned people than me, everything suggested their appeal would not be successful for many reasons. They were angry, ranting and raving about the system, projecting their superiority and emotions into their arguments, and making demands and threats.

The whole reason for an appeal is to appeal to the good nature of whoever might read your disputation. You do this respectfully knowing they have a job to do, you invite them to walk in your shoes, so they are persuaded to see things from your perspective and engage others if there is an escalation, to agree with your viewpoint.

You appreciate what they do and ask for their consideration of what you desire, a refund without dragging out the dispute, then close the appeal with thanks.

Do what works not what rankles

The art of effective communication is in the use of language and the appreciation and respect of the reader. It has worked for me in many places, at work, in business, and in my general writing, especially for formal communication. Deploy the skill deftly.

When I need to be fierce, ranting, debunking, condemning, and excoriating, that only applies to other issues where I am not seeking a dispute resolution in an appeal process.

Yes, my appeal was successful, I will be refunded the penalty charge, that is what I wanted to achieve and nothing more. The lesson is that the tap-in tap-out system works best when there are barrier gates at the entry and exit points, else, if you forget, the system is not as forgiving as you might expect.

The person who reviewed my appeal did say, “As it appears you intended to touch in for this journey, we have upheld your appeal on this occasion. We will shortly be refunding £60 to your account and recalculate your charges for the day to what you would have paid had the correct touches been made.” They came onside and were amenable to my wishes. That is what matters.

Let's delve into this

We delve deeper

Some parts of this blog started off as a comment on Facebook that I decided should not be left there but given a bit more context that might go into a series of discussions on language, expression, vocabulary, usages, culture, and influences. Other rather succinct views on this topic have been expressed as tweets on Twitter. God, forfend I suggest the other name.

The matter of the word ‘delve’ has been a burning topic for the past few days on social media, where someone of privilege and influence inadvertent revealed a bugbear about the use of a word in an email and attributed it to the use of Artificial Intelligence because by his assumption, it was an unfamiliar word and people do not write like that.

Now, I write this in the context mainly of my own upbringing rather than in the broader spectrum of how Nigerians have reacted to this as I 

The different cultures

I was so miffed, even annoyed; the bounding dunce, (and I use that charitably to suggest he is slow to see his own blind spots), in every other area except for his computing nous and venture capital clout, who is just over a year older than I am, was British-born but left for America at the age of 4, meaning my Britishness at that time was even more impactful as to appreciate the good use of the English language than him.

He was schooled in the American system, and what he has retained are vestiges of the English aversion not so much to pomposity, but that unfortunate inability to pigeonhole the unfamiliar into trenchant class structures that remain significant in Great Britain to today.

The education context

Imagine being so well-spoken and still having an accent, it upsets them no end, they cannot believe we had schools that did Eton College for a pittance abroad. (We had reading, writing, comprehension, and spelling classes at the primary schools that I attended in Nigeria, which had a large foreign contingent of pupils and staff.) You attend to every variant of the same question, “How do you speak (or write) better English?” You want to answer, that I had an exceptionally good primary education.

Obviously, using a rich vocabulary is seen as trying to be clever, writing mellifluously is considered beyond our capacity, it is damned with faint praise as flowery. We are just too well-read to use English in a perfunctory and unimaginative way.

The class issue

Every inner self-loathing was inadvertently embodied in that tweet about delve, so unawares. We need to begin to understand that how people express themselves reveals just as much as they intend to say as it is about who they are. We are already self-profiling to observers and to an audience by our conduct and conversation.

On the class matter, I had to tick a box in 2024 that asked about my social mobility status. Well, I was never working class and there are settings where sophistication is effortless that it is more than attainable for many, in speech, comportment, or just the basic sense of self. The world will never attain true egalitarianism, but we can make the world a better place if people use their privilege to lift others rather than knock them down.

In other situations, it is to allow one’s worldview to be open to new ideas, understanding that cultures differ, usages are myriad, and diversity suggests there is not just one perspective. Even in the quest for simplicity, what is simple varies and that is subject to too many variables that we cannot control that we make allowances and gain new opportunities from stretching the limits of our purview.

On the delve matter, there was a bigger issue at play, especially as Paul Graham and his family have returned to the UK since 2016, we have not begun to delve into the many layers involved. I can see through him as through plain glass. Yes, I also use AI in my writing, it is Akintayo Intelligence.

Thought Picnic: Defined by impediment of speech

Deference for acquisition

There are encounters of amusement and vulnerability that come with life’s experiences, ones that make you wonder about ability, capacity, and identity. There are inflections on fluency that could inadvertently surprise and allude to deficiency, a conclusion that is borne of ignorance, for want of a better word.

To be courteous is a demonstration I should rarely be found wanting in, even as I sometimes compensate for my lack of curiosity in inquisitive by the keenness of observation, eliciting fact from happenstance and codifying that for future reference, for assurance purposes I would ask how a name is pronounced before it is mangled in incomprehensibility.

Reference in identification

That desire for knowledge is sometimes misconstrued for inadequacy and so it is tested with the supposition that flaws are indicative of the unschooled. In self-deprecation, I do sometimes suggest my proficiency in the Yoruba language is poor, as it is not my mother tongue; it is hardly to be accepted as fact, I am pretty fluent in expression and rich in prose.

Yet, I am sometimes caught in a flux of identity and identification as to where I have affinity regardless of heritage and where I belong in terms of roots. With time, my understanding of the cultural underpinnings of my forebears and relations with respect to mine would indicate variance and difference that dictates my worldview and outlook. I realise I am many things from many places to many people, a complex of simple humanity trying to make something of life.

A review of language tutoring in my experience

Speaking Yorùbá with pride

Watching a video clip on Facebook and later shared on WhatsApp from the BBC Yorùbá website of the Portuguese-born Tiago Isola speaking Yorùbá had me thinking of my experience language teaching through the years. [BBC Yoruba: Tiago Isola, akẹ́kọ̀ọ́ Fásitì Ibadan]

Tiago Isola arrived in Nigeria with his mother who was part of a cultural exchange programme with the Oyo kingdom at the age of 10 and has immersed himself in the Yorùbá culture, language, foods, and practices, he appears quite somewhat integrated, and his command of the language is quite well above average. He speaks with pride of his knowledge of Yorùbá and I am sure from his international travel would be a good Portuguese and English speaker too.

I was a foreigner too

I was born an Englishman with a Brummie accent from the West Midlands, my first language and mother tongue is English, and whilst there was some Yorùbá spoken at home, it was never part of our regular conversation, My parents conversed more with me in English, though less so with my siblings. My mother is a polyglot with an ear for languages, my father, much less so, struggled with even Pidgin English, it just did not sound right when he tried.

On returning to Nigeria, we lived in the north for just over 6 years, in that time, between Kaduna and Jos, I picked up some Hausa, read a bit of it, even attended the ECWA church where Hausa was the spoken language of instruction. I still get by on what I learnt in the 1970s, with the occasional opportunity to practice when I meet Hausa speakers.

Getting serious with Yorùbá

It was when I was 10 years old that my mother acquired Yorùbá primer Aláwiyé (To speak to comprehend) books to practice the fundamentals of the language. However, it did not get immersive until I had a psycho-paranormal encounter for which the apparent remedy was reading the Psalms multiple times to cups, bottles, or buckets of water from which I drank or bathed to ward off evil spirits. She compelled me to read the Psalms in Yorùbá, it cultivated my proficiency in the language.

However, before that, I had no serious language teaching apart from standard English reading, spelling, comprehension, and composition lessons. In the fifth class in primary school, I found a basic French-language book in the cupboards and began to teach myself French, not in the pronunciation as I had no guidance, but in knowing the words and the meanings, I did not get very far.

Remembering sadistic language tutors

At secondary school, apart from the English teachers, the other language teachers were basically sadists, quick to punish but slow to impart or enthuse us in their subjects. Mrs Odutuyo could well have been high up in the ranks of the Spanish Inquisition, she conjured up such inhumane punishments, the thought of what she got some of us to do still makes me quiver. She taught Yorùbá and it was a chore. I never passed a Yorùbá test in school, but I mastered the use of accents and diacritical marks, which has served me well until today.

In Form 2, Mr Okonji was the French teacher on secondment from the National Youth Corp Service, French could have been a joy to learn, but he had no wherewithal to make it accessible. What he mastered to the level of genius or ogre, if you prefer was the wielding of the birching cane, going through the classes urging ‘Study-Study’ telling us to lie forward onto our desks whilst he carved welts on our backs.

I always got a language waiver

When we came to Form 3 and we had a better French teacher in class, we were nowhere useful enough for her to lift to any standard, we just trundled through the year expectant of the moment to drop the subject, which I did in Form 4, apart from the compulsory English language that I usually scraped a pass on, as I did not exert myself academically to achieve distinctions, and did the bare minimum that was asked for, I have never had to prove my standard of English as I am a native speaker.

After secondary school, we had some formal English lectures as part of our engineering courses, I always thought a good command of language was essential to being able to take projects from idea, through conception and implementation, to a conclusion and full successful commissioning. I have always priced the need for quality communication, and it has helped me through my career. As for the lecturers, they were poor bordering on abysmal, one took to sesquipedalianism for no other purpose than to impress than educate, I was far from taken by the superfluity of vacuity.

Contrasting language tutors

It was not until 1999 that I took another formal language class and that was German, the lady teaching us in a further education school carried us along and of all my language teachers, she was the very best. Every waking hour, I was playing back German language tapes, brushing up my German and looking for opportunities to use it. At that point, I was also looking to emigrate to live and work in Germany, I ended up in the Netherlands instead.

I enrolled on a Dutch learning programme organised by my employer, and it probably was the worst decision many of us made. The teacher whose business was predicated on providing language classes to blue-chip companies got comfortable with those who had a better grasp of the language and left the rest of us behind, we became disillusioned and dropped out of the class. To my shame, I ended up living in the Netherlands as an Englishman abroad, barely able to get by in Dutch, though not a complete novice.

I am for more language learning

It is likely, I would find myself learning Afrikaans and Ndebele, it would be down to first my enthusiasm and then the quality and ability of the teacher to impart the knowledge in a beneficial way. When I reflect on my use of language, I am quite proud of my mastery of the Yorùbá language, it is challenging at times, but it is one of the richest modes of expression.

I can also be quite purist in speaking Yorùbá, preferring to speak entirely in one language rather than mixing languages. I converse more with my parents in Yorùbá now, however, especially when it comes to my father, English presents the essential mode of address when the power distance index requires the delivery of some hard and difficult things that genuflection in Yorùbá tradition would frown upon.

As Tiago Isola has suggested, we need to give our children a good grounding in the mastery of all languages spoken, giving just as many resources to Yorùbá as we do the command of the English language. On this, I would say, we need to speak Yoruba beyond the rudimentary street talk, with the deployment of fables, poetry, proverbs, and sayings, finding innovative and expressive ways to promote the language before it falls into disuse out of negligence.

Tiago Isola’s Instagram page

Dreamscape: Where learning requires example

As you dream of it

It was eerily like real life, but then what are dreams but multidimensional realities played out in the vast mines of the mind where treasures are found and fortunes are created in ways that the imagination is tested of its limits if there are any?

I found myself attending a function at a girls’ school, probably a Founder’s Day and some girls were lined up in two columns as if to give a sword arch parade to their honoured guest, their worldly famous and most successful alumna.

The field was down below and access to it seemed almost impassable at first sight, just as you have in dreams, the easy becomes immediately impossible and the impossible suddenly possible, like you have waved a magic wand.

I was there unawares

I eventually found myself at a vantage point to view the proceedings as a guest of sorts and too prominent to be overlooked after chatting to some of the girls. I had a feeling of déjà vu like I had been at rehearsals for this event somewhere and nothing happened after I was first called to participate and so nothing was learnt about what to do.

I was apprehensive and the more I asked about what was expected, the less I was informed of protocol or practice, it was like everyone assumed I knew and thought my inquiries were unserious and silly. I did not even know what the guest of honour was going to do, I thought I would observe and maybe learn something.

I did not know

To the strains of music, the guest arrived and passed through the parade to the end singing an apparent folk song that was a traditional game at the school on that day. She had done this many times before and part of it was a call-and-response activity between her as the lead and the guests or girls she selected to ask to attend a function and what food they would prefer.

You were not to take the enquiry literally but provide an excuse for not attending and a back-and-forth of teasing and questioning in order to persuade you ensued until someone made the mistake of mentioning food. Guess what happened, I was the first she called out to and I mentioned food.

Hear the derisive laughter and astonishment that I should have known not to have answered as such and it was when she moved to the next guest and her answer was the typical excuse that I realised my faux pas, but I was never in that situation apart from the other time when no one offered to explain the rules of the game.

The assumptions that ridicule us

It transpired as I made conversation and enquiry that this was a core Yoruba tradition that I could have learnt and enjoyed in childhood. Though, when they learnt I was not born in Yorubaland, they somewhat accepted why I made the error. It left me thinking of the gaps in my learning of Yoruba cultural activities, my knowledge of the language was not enough, there was more to culture than that.

On reflection too, we agreed that phrasing an appropriate enquiry to get the kind of information to prepare me for that situation would have been nigh on impossible. If only the guest of honour had selected someone else first, as matters acculturation are best bequeathed through example. Just because my apparent oddness makes me prominent enough to be selected first does not imply, I would be ready or in the know of what is expected.

Do not assume if you have expectations, at least discreetly try to elicit enough information to be sure the game is not ruined by those called to participate who are totally unaware of the rules.

Of dreams and battles in other tongues

I dream active dreams

Vivid dreams find a landscape in my sleep, and I cannot account for when they occur apart from when there is too much fat in my food close to when I take my pills, that the interaction between the chemicals allows for that side effect.

At other times, it is a busy day that leaves me so utterly exhausted, once I fall asleep, there is a kind of incapacitation that helps my relaxation, but I get any sleep I can whenever I can, for there is a tendency to insomnia that I try to arrest before it takes hold.

One apparent sleep disorder I have endured is parasomnia, where undesirable and physical events occur in my sleep that I am punching out or kicking out, at other times, I am talking in my sleep and rarely in typical conversation but in serious confrontation with people or situations that occasion possible or imminent harm.

Winning in all fights

From deep within my psyche, I find myself engaged in some sort of spiritual warfare, speaking out against assailants to the scheme of the Acts of Apostles. Fundamentally, I am a man of intense spiritual persuasion and belief that some realms in which I dwell are multidimensional and needing of presence in attention, observation, assertion, understanding, engagement, and conflict where you should triumph.

One other peculiarity is whilst English is my mother tongue and Yoruba is a learned language, my dream language is usually strongly Yoruba than English, I seem to be more assertive and sure of myself and what I determine to do in that language with a lot more clarity and forcefulness. I marvel at the power of dreams and what many victories I have been conferred with when met with an attack.

Letters from over there

The terror of radio

BBC Radio 4 has been my radio channel of choice for decades, one of those discoveries I made by osmosis, an interest of a partner that I acquired as they expanded my horizons. Each of them through the years has brought something special into my life and worldview, I am grateful to all of them.

One night I was listening to the book of the week and what was playing as my senses got attuned to what was going on, was Stephen King’s Pet Sematary, just before going to bed? No thank you, I had to switch off the radio, my dreams are vivid enough without the need for inspiration or encouragement in the horror genre.

Stomach the discomfort

The day was a bit rough, a bit of abdominal pain, stomach upset and visiting the Detritus Throne more times than necessary with it in flow rather than consistency. Then I was choking on a drink of a fruit smoothie, I was seeing all again arrive at speed in the toilet bowl, I was just ready for a lie down and that was if I could keep in bed long enough before I was summoned to the court of nature again.

Usually, for my evening naps, I would go for BBC Radio 3 and classical music wafts through the air as I settle into probably 2 hours of sleep, but this time, I decided to touch BBC Radio 4 Extra and what a surprise that presented to my hearing.

Extra on the radio

First, it was something with the legendary and amazing Kenneth Williams, that distinctively unmissable voice with English enunciation that is always comical and funny. The dramatic effect makes for good radio, you cannot tire of listening to anything he was in.

However, what caught my attention and I do miss for long while was the British-American Alistair Cooke’s, A Letter From America by Alistair Cooke, he gave such an interesting insight into America by an Englishman resident there, the similarities and differences, especially in language where the homophones, homographs and homonyms are a veritable study in how we might speak the same English and yet be saying totally different things.

An insight on America

Alistair Cooke was present in the same place when Bobby Kennedy was assassinated and he was a witness to many 20^th Century events that he relayed weekly on BBC Radio for 58 years and now 1472 episodes are available to listen to on BBC Radio 4. However, a programme that includes an interview and excerpts from many broadcasts over the years was relayed on BBC Radio 4 Extra titled Alistair Cooke’s Century, you should start with this and then explore other episodes.

Sadly, of the many Englishmen that have gone to live in America, none have come close in ability or stature to give us a window on America as this great man. I guess the memory of that unique insight is one that would have me playing back many Letters from America. This would make for an enjoyable time.

Note: The BBC Radio X links are to live programmes when you click on them.

Coronavirus streets to lively markets - XLVIII

Local markets alive

It is interesting to be distracted by observation to notice things that are quite serendipitous especially after review. My trip to London was mainly to see friends who reside in boroughs as far apart as you could imagine for someone from out of town, for I was in Richmond on Saturday and then Haringey on Sunday.

On my return from Twickenham, I met a lady with lots of leftover bread at the station who manned the Celtic Bakers store at the Twickenham Farmers' Market and then on Sunday, after being taken for a circulatory ride by a black cab, we were out to the City & Country Farmers’ Market at the Alexandra Palace Campsbourne School.

Just smile for a while

The wide array of foods and goods locally sourced and fresh without the dead hand of over-processing by the food industrial complex makes one think it might be prudent to seek out a farmers’ market in my locality.

The store holders had different temperaments, one could not be bothered to notice us, another was an effervescent conversationalist, please to see us, willing to oblige and present to advice and tips. You can imagine how much time we spent with him before having to visit another stall just because he had run out of something we wanted.

Noticed fame and noted infamy

There, just above the stall was a blue plaque honouring Emma Clarke, reputed to be the first black female footballer who played in the first public national match for women on Nightingale Lane in 1895. Then to think that for most of the first part of the 20^th Century the Football Association took a conservative stance against women’s football.

Blue plaque to Emma Clarke - pioneering black British female footballer.

Round to the other side of the market venue on the school premises, we stocked up on vegetables and me, a bottle of ginger and banana kombucha made by a man who seemed to have more than a passing interest in me, I guess we just notice each other by some invisible radar.

Not that Yoruba

Moving on, there was a stall with language books, I picked the one for Yoruba off the shelf which was interesting in that they there teaching Yoruba pronunciations by using English phonics which I thought strange because the sounds would at best be approximations and when spoken would sound quite foreign too.

However, one critical element was missing, the diacritical marks necessary to show that Yoruba is a tonal language such that words that look like homonyms without the diacritical marks are not homophones because of the intonations and are essentially heteronyms.

Oiled his wallet nicely

We withstood a whole exegesis on walnut and cobnut (hazelnut) cold-pressed oils, if we could remember anything of what we were supposed to learn, the pitch was persuasive enough and he made a really good sale. The walnut oil will suit my steam cooking as it best used on food that does not take direct heat.

I was last at this market probably 3 years ago, and it was a wonderfully pleasant sunny day for fourth week of October.