Thought Picnic: Quiet Pursuits of Excellence

Quiet Pursuits of Excellence

Sometimes, I reflect on the fact that I lead a number of public lives which revolve around simply doing what I love, without seeking acknowledgement or reward. Something in my upbringing, in the observation of my parents and mentors, drives me towards excellence.

Much as I seek perfection, I quite frequently fall short. I upbraid myself, accuse myself, and talk to myself in a voice that calls me by my own name, because there is a conversation to be had before someone else has it with me. I would rather be my own critic, so as to be prepared to receive a better critique, one of recognition, of merit, and of acknowledgement.

Stories That Once Scared Me

There are stories from my past that frighten me, where the infirmity registered in the ravine of failure offered no opportunity or facility for recovery. It was unsalvageable wreckage, beyond repair, and utterly hopeless.

Yet, I have a better story to tell. No narrative I share today wallows in helpless resignation, for I am blessed beyond measure with testimonies of goodness, success, victory, and triumph.

The Pleasure of Work

At work, I enjoy what I do, not for the remuneration, of which I have once earned stupendously, but for the satisfaction that the knowledge and expertise I bring to bear on the mundane and the complex still matters.

I get to learn as much as I help others learn. I do what I do, not to get noticed, but to make things work. In the process, acknowledgement, respect, and rewards may well come. My motivation, however, is the pleasure.

Appearance and Carriage

In appearance, I have my own kind of dressing, something I pay attention to, because appearance and carriage matter. There have been times when I have been stopped so that pictures could be taken of me.

Once, a young man, after complimenting me, said he would love to have the confidence to dress like me. I suppose hardly a day goes by without some sort of recognition from strangers, and yet I am not out to attract attention. My motivation is simply looking good.

The Wealth of Expression

On this blog, I write about anything that takes my fancy, not for want of engagement or readership. To think there was a time when I hated writing, even though I had a great deal to say in conversation.

I am easily shy, quite introverted, and socially awkward and nervous in organised meetings where people are networking. It is in the use of words that I truly flourish. My motivation is the wealth of expression.

The Story of a Man

What all this says to me is to keep doing what I know to do, in the best possible way, with every aim to impact, improve, and perhaps impress. I will never be everyone's cup of tea, but I hope those who drink this tea enjoy it tremendously.

Decades of work, portrayal, and expression all become the story of a man. Thank you for coming by.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

The Family We Inherit, the Family We Choose

The Family We Inherit

When I was a child, family was a map already drawn. There were parents at the centre, solid and unquestioned. Grandparents orbited with stories and memory; I even had a great-grandmother into my twenties. Siblings came later, not quite close enough to grow up alongside, as it was to fight with and lean on in the same afternoon.

As I grew, the map widened to include aunts, uncles, cousins, and distant relations whose names carried branches of a tree I had not planted, but to which I undeniably belonged. Nowadays, a name from that stock carries some resonance but no clear recognition.

Family, in those years, was inheritance. You were someone’s son, someone’s brother, someone’s nephew, someone’s grandson. You did not choose your place; you occupied it.

An Unspoken Expectation

The expectation, though rarely spoken aloud, was that one day you would recreate the pattern. The heteronormative construct was laid out as tradition, without any consideration that you might be differently inclined. You did not create yourself; you became yourself, but you were still required to represent them as part of that genealogical framework.

You would find a wife. You would have children. You would extend the line. The structure felt inevitable, almost architectural: generation building upon generation, each layer confirming the last. The scaffolding stood there as a template, but what sort of building would emerge once it was removed?

The Expected Script

In adulthood, society tends to follow a predictable rhythm of questions:

“Are you married?”
“What does your wife do?”
“Do you have children?”

Closer to the traditions with which I have some affinity, the question is inevitably:

“How are your wife and kids?”

These questions are not malicious; they are rituals. They affirm that you are participating in the established arc, that you have stepped into the role once held by your parents.

Marriage, in that script, is not just about love. It is about continuation, about replication, about becoming what raised you. In fact, the word used is “responsible”, and you are apparently not responsible if your image of adulthood is not framed as husband and wife, home and children, the next branch growing from the familiar tree.

My Reality

My name is Akin, and the centre of my adult life is Brian. Brian is not my wife. He is my husband.

He lives in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. I live in Manchester, England. And regularly, as often as we can, we both travel to Cape Town, South Africa. We met in South Africa and meet there because it was the first country to recognise and legalise same-sex unions.

Cape Town is not just a city for us. It is a promise, a rehearsal for the life we are building. It is where time feels concentrated, intentional, and fiercely protected.

Measuring Life in Countdowns

Everything we do is designed to maximise the hours we have together. Flights are booked with military precision. Calendars are negotiated. Work is arranged around reunions. We measure life in countdowns: how many days until Cape Town.

We have been together for over seven years. Seven years of distance. Seven years of choosing each other. Seven years of making geography bend as much as it possibly can to commitment.

The Conversations of a Marriage

When people speak casually about spouses, they often describe the ordinary:

Morning coffee conversations.
“Darling, what shall we have for dinner?”
“Love, how was your meeting?”
“Babes, did you sleep well?”
“I mean, how are you in yourself?” [I smile at this question.]

Brian and I have those conversations.

I speak to him first thing in the morning and last thing at night. That is not symbolic; it is simply how life works. He is the first voice in my day and the final presence before sleep.

The Fabric of Our Bond

We talk about finances, health, frustrations, politics, and our families. We argue occasionally. We reassure constantly. We plan relentlessly. We discuss where furniture will go in the Cape Town home, we have not yet secured. We imagine neighbourhoods. We calculate costs. We picture morning light in rooms that exist for us only in hope.

These are the conversations of spouses. They are not lesser because they occur across time zones. They are not diluted because they travel through screens. They are not temporary because they are stretched by distance. They are the fabric of a marriage, the centre of what tugs at our hearts.

Recognition and Silence

Yet the world does something subtle.

A man mentions his wife and is met with easy follow-up: “What does she do?” “How did you meet?” “Do you have kids?” The questions flow naturally, as though the script has already been agreed.

But when I speak about Brian, there is sometimes a pause, a recalibration. Not hostility, not necessarily rejection, just a slight disruption of expectation. And often, no further questions come.

While I appreciate that some people need time to get used to that construct, in other cases it is those who give no consideration to that reality who make this conversation necessary.

This relationship will not fade into insignificance or irrelevance; the indifference of the original setting I was born into will not obviate the consequential position of Brian to me and in my life.

The Unfitting Template

It is as though the conversation does not quite know where to place us. We do not fit into the inherited template of husband-wife-children-grandchildren. There is no automatic branch extending from us into the next generation.

We have no children. Our relationship does not replicate the structure we were born into. But it is no less central, no less serious, no less real.

We as individuals might have deigned to conform, satisfying the cultural expectations of tradition whilst complicating the lives of those who, in my view, would have fallen victim to a lavender marriage, one in which our intimate desires were met elsewhere, where a wife could not compete.

We chose instead to be who we are, without scandalising others through the revelations that might have emerged from the liaisons we had proclivities for.

The Myth of Continuation

Much of how society recognises marriage is tied to reproduction. Parenthood acts as proof of adulthood, of stability, of contribution to the future. Children become the visible extension of a couple's bond. Yet even people within those constructs may not have children, for all sorts of reasons.

Without children, a relationship can seem, to some, self-contained. But what if continuation is not only biological?

Brian and I are building continuity of another kind: continuity of devotion, continuity of shared planning, continuity of showing up, again and again, despite visas and airfare and the blunt inconvenience of geography. Our lineage may not be genetic, but our commitment stretches forward just the same.

Cape Town: The Dream

Cape Town is the convergence point. I fly from Manchester. He flies from Bulawayo. Two separate lives narrowing toward the same coastline.

We walk the same streets each time as though tracing the outline of a future. We talk about where we will finally set up home, not as a fantasy, but as an inevitability we are patiently engineering.

The Sacred Mundane

That is our dream: to close the distance permanently. To wake up in the same space without calculating time zones. To make breakfast without screens. To argue about which cupboard the mugs belong in, or the clocks on the oven, for which I have been accused of having OCD.

Domesticity is not mundane to us. It is sacred.

The Centre, Not the Periphery

Whether others like it or not, Brian matters. He is not an aside in my story. He is not an interesting footnote. He is not an exception to a rule.

He is my husband, my partner, my integral and significant companion. The person I consult first. The person whose opinion steadies me. The person who knows the texture of my thoughts before I fully articulate them.

The absence of children does not shrink that reality. The absence of a wife does not make it incomplete. He is my full responsibility, before all others.

The Family I Choose

As a child, I belonged to a family I inherited. As a man, I have formed a family I chose.

It may not look like the one that raised me. It may not produce grandchildren. It may not trigger the standard conversational questions. But it is no less a family.

Brian and I are building something deliberate, intentional, and resilient. Every mile travelled, every reunion planned, every late-night call is a brick in that foundation.

Family is not only about bloodline. It is also about allegiance, about persistence, about saying, across continents and years: “You are my person.”

And that, however quietly the world acknowledges it, is marriage. That is just the way things are.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

My Dear Boy: Turning Sixty

Reflecting on Six Decades

I suppose for most people, except those who, as a matter of doctrine or belief, do not observe celebrations, birthdays are moments of significance marked with both reflection and revelry. I would not suggest I am given to the latter except under duress.

From yesterday into today, I have received many congratulatory messages across numerous platforms to celebrate this momentous day. Family, friends, neighbours, the church community, acquaintances, colleagues, and well-wishers have contributed in ways that have made the day exceedingly memorable.

One such endearing message came from my father, including the phrase, "My dear boy." In that simplicity of language, my father had encapsulated the span of 60 years into a single memory and recognition. [Facebook Status]

The surprise of my birth, announced by a telegram dropped through the letterbox at 7:00 AM, invited him to attend the maternity home immediately for formal matters concerning my transfer to a larger hospital for neonatal intensive care for premature births. Then the realisation that that child is now 60 must be profound.

Heartfelt Tributes and Quiet Celebration

Brian, my partner, wrote a proclamation that should, at some point, be recorded as a dramatisation of a town clerk announcing at the entrance of a city hall the significant occasion of a diamond jubilee.

The low-key event I preferred took place in the Manchester Cathedral library within a bible study group, where we had, amongst other things, a cheese platter and cupcakes. Then, in the evening, my neighbours, who had put up "Happy 60th Birthday" banners in our corridor and on my door, took me out for a meal.

As expected, I also made full use of napping time, so I missed many calls on my phone. Some I was able to return much later in the day.

Staying True to Myself

Some who would think one should have had a grand celebration or now prepare for one, but that is not what I want, need, or desire. I am not the partying type; the prospect of it is already draining my resolve, and I hope I can nip it in the bud before it gains support, currency, and momentum.

Thank you to everyone who has graciously afforded me love, recognition, consideration, and greetings for my birthday. May the joy of Christmas and the best things for the New Year be with you, your kith and kin.

Thought Picnic: That honour rarely comes

We live for others

We grow and yet we do not grow up in the eyes of some usually out of proximity and familiarity or distance and estrangement. We seem to be caught in the amber of time, fossilised in the peat of an eternal past that has never changed. We are seen in the prism of light that no longer reveals or reflects who we are.

For all the journeys and experiences of life we have acquired, it is meaningless as those who never really journeyed with you through the wildernesses and the triumphs are totally unaware of how you have changed and who you have become. Jesus Christ painted that picture clearly; “A prophet is treated with honour everywhere except in his own hometown, among his relatives, and in his own house.” [You Version: Mark 6:4 (The Passion Translation)]

With achievement and recognition garnered from many endeavours, appreciation and praise greeting you as you navigate the fields of toil away from home, you are to them the boy, the kid, the child, the son, stripped of all standing and respect, reviled and contemned with belittlement and contempt, if you crave it, your disillusionment and disappointment will be great with the pall of disconsolation.

Continue in what you know

Yet, you must stand, if not to be heard, at least not to be stymied in the expression of who you have become. Be unrelenting in the resolve that has brought you the success you have earned through the sprinkled ingredients of example, training, experience, guidance, or even indifference.

The thought I started with as with many of my blogs has been lost in the flow of this snippet of self-appreciation. When you realise how impactful the little you do is to others, it matters less whether your kith and kin acknowledge you. If they eventually do, it is a bonus. If they never do, do not let your goals be defined by those who only see you in the past and have never moved beyond it.

My own All Saints' Day

The saints in my canon

It would appear strange that quite deep into the Advent season so close to Christmas, I am celebrating my own version of All Saint’s Day which in the traditional Christian Church calendar starts at the end of October with All Hallows’ Eve, then All Saints’ Day and ends on the 2^nd of November with All Souls’ Day.

As it has come up in conversations that I have had recently, I find that there are men interesting and significant who are no more with us, such who have become canonised in my own life story, and this is not a list to supplant that of the church. In these men, usually not deliberate, but significant, I have found direction, insight, and light, even if for a transient and sometimes for longer, they are lauded.

This list is hardly exhaustive, but it is probably the beginning of recognising the influence, impact, and mentoring of people that have mattered in my life.

Unculu

Unculu, he was my uncle, my father’s younger brother, and as a child, he was a deflection from the personality that my dad exuded as a high-achieving and successful man with a home life that strict, stern, and terrifying in the way he disciplined his youngest sibling, my aunt, along with how he commanded an entire of relations that genuflected and regarded him with fear and adulation.

In Unculu, I found that adults can be approachable, you can engage in conversation with them and there were no limits to the expression of ideas or viewpoints that it was of him that I asked if he could wait at his own age for me to catch up. He smiled, as he explained how that age-gap is constant. It was also in him that I observed that being respectful of everyone does not in any way diminish your standing.

Tajudeen Oladipo Akintayo, became Unculu to me, and it was out of respect for him that the Ola part of my name Akinola was not used when I was addressed and I believe when his son who met an untimely death was addressed the Akin part of his name Akinyemi was not used, in consideration of me. Much as there could have been ways Unculu could have influenced me beyond my childhood, I became more of an observer than a follower when he left our household. He passed on in June 2019.

Blog - Thought Picnic: In the husbandry of futility

Uncle Jimoh

Uncle Jimoh, at first, was the son of a patriarch in the north, his father, Baba Bukuru ran a bicycle shop in Bukuru, a suburb of Jos. However, I began to notice that Uncle Jimoh was quite academically brilliant, the kind of person who would go places given the opportunity and whose potential was unlimited in terms of what he could achieve.

I could see the mutual respect that grew between my parents and their younger distant cousin, if there was a beacon of excellence, they desired any of us their children to aspire to, Uncle Jimoh would be a clear example. His success was shared with such unflinching generosity as I experienced in gifts and conversations, especially when he was completing his Quantity Surveying studies in the UK as I was leaving secondary school.

How he influenced me was at the time subtle because I was quite persuaded to consider the same career and it was through certain exchanges with him that I focused more on attending a polytechnic rather than a university. Eventually, I did start with Chemical Engineering but veered towards Electrical & Electronic Engineering which formed the foundations of my career.

For advice, he was present, sometimes commanding, other times adjuring, but mostly advising. He remained through his life someone to look up to and was a significant contributor at the point when I was ready to depart for the UK. Jimoh Ogunnaike, he left indelible footsteps in the sands of time. He passed on in November 2013.

Blog - A great man, we've lost

Uncle Cash

Our initial encounters were relayed to me for I do not have any recollection of an older man observing a precocious child of 5 that arrested the attention of everyone with his speech and his actions, I got told many times of that, it was impossible not to have it encoded in memory.

Around that same time, my father had promised him £10 if he passed the school examinations he had until then failed, a debt still left unpaid, a family canard or more besides, I was not a witness of that shaking of hands.

We had more engaging encounters after he returned from his studies in the UK and through his wife, my aunt, as my first job was also at the same place of work. Many family backstories followed.

He became my guardian in January 1986 by invitation of my aunt and it was from then that he became a purposeful and consequential influence on my life. Much of what I have become is a result of the example he was.

More significantly, he built up my confidence to be assertive, to think with clarity and work at being less encumbered by the emotional or the irrational, it is difficult to quantify or qualify how impactful that was in character building whilst allowing me the courage of my convictions and beliefs.

That relationship-building and cultivating work never stopped and this piece would never capture the essence of who he was to me. Christopher Ademola Soyinka, CASH! To all who knew him passed on in June 2022.

Blog - Uncle Cash!

D-Shash

When I walked into the calico white building at 203 Ikorodu Road, I was in my best shoes knocking on Information Technology company doors looking for work, I had finished my trek of Ikeja and was on my way to Lagos Island and Ikoyi when I caught a glimpse of IT Systems Ltd literally opposite the famous Baptist Academy. Even with that school, I have some old history.

I walked into IT Systems and asked for work, after a few questions and answers, I was offered a job to start the following Monday. Little did I know of what was happening upstairs apart from whispers about an unassuming larger-than-life lawyer with his team of researchers working on the Nigerian Supreme Court Cases and about to beat the renowned Gani Fawehinmi at the game of annotating, cataloguing, and expositing the cases of the supreme court from 1963.

My first encounter with Deji, D-Shash to everyone was when they asked for some help with their computers, I went upstairs, fixed the issue in minutes and for that, Deji dipped his hand in his pocket and offered me NGN 50; that was a quarter of my monthly salary, but I politely declined it, what I did to resolve the problem was just too trivial to charge for, I had sown a seed of some recognition in his mind.

Meanwhile, a classmate who was staying with me out of the generosity of my Uncle Cash because he had another job with an IT firm in Lagos shared some discs with me containing the desktop publishing application, Xerox Ventura Desktop Publisher which in my spare time, I learnt to use quite proficiently and that opened many doors. Another long story.

I fixed a number of problems happily for Deji upstairs and still refused any payment or gifts until I left IT Systems to go contracting. A month into my stint, word got to me that Deji wanted a meeting with me. He had a sporadic business relationship with an African American desktop publishing consultant¹ where he needed additional commitments, and so he wanted me not as an employee, but as a consultant to support their desktop publishing projects and also train the staff on the basics. (¹I have since learnt Rhonda Dabiri, passed on in April 2020)

The deal he offered was borne of a level of respectful courtesy rare in people of means and power, before I had thought of it, he said, whenever you are ready to leave for England, your ticket is paid for, apart from that, I will give you a monthly stipend, and you can come and go as you wish because I know you have many engagements. How that boosted my professional confidence was beyond belief, I was in a high-profile role with considerable visibility to clients seeking desktop publishing expertise.

It opened many doors including my first return to the UK as a business representative and technical directory of a fledgling desktop publishing company veering away from traditional printing methods. Deji Sasegbon SAN, was a towering influence that helped set the course of majorly contracting career with the seed of negotiating terms that best suited my kind of personality. He passed on in December 2016.

Blog - Adieu D-Shash! (Deji Sasegbon)

John

He had placed a job advertisement in the Pink Paper that I had no qualifications for, but I was seeking to break out of the public sector into the private sector without much success.

I sent my CV to John without expecting a response, but I did get a call, and the first thing he said was he liked my CV, but it was not saying enough about my knowledge and experience. He then offered to spend time with me on my CV to fix it and make it more marketable.

I visited his office and the next 4 hours that evening were spent shaping up my CV, the result of which was a job in the private sector in less than 2 months.

For an older man in the technology field, John had constantly reinvented himself, and engaged lots of young talent, giving them not just opportunities but opening them up to challenges that stood in good stead for the development of their careers. He even offered an engaging internship to one of my friends who need essential tutelage to prepare him for the UK IT market.

Then John was more than an encouraging voice of support, where I had doubts about my abilities or capabilities, John would say, “Akin, I know you can do it.” That was the impetus to believe in me.

Beyond that, John was generous with his time, a mentor with great insight, a supporter with a stern teacher’s background, yet empathetic to the core. His work on my CV is foundational to the way my CV looks today, and that skill has been transferred to me to help others realise value and recognition out of their CVs.

John Alexander Coll passed on 9 years ago today in December 2013.

Blog - John Coll: Friend, Mentor, Gentleman

Spitting words to blogs

Cursive and joined up

Working at writing is sometimes a chore, especially if after you have written something longhand you cannot find the wherewithal to type it out, then edit and post.

I have had that with a number of things that I have written, yet, I must say that being about to write on paper means you can do that anywhere without needing to have some device to hand.

Besides, every once in a while, it is nice to try out your handwriting, if only to keep a modicum of legibility on the scrawls you make having lost the finesse of calligraphic expression that at one time seemed a talent, if developed, within your grasp.

Unhelpful technologies

I guess what you need is a balance between the use of electronic devices and traditional methods of writing, varying their use and never discarding one for the other. Eventually, those pieces would be transcribed to blogs online.

The idea of speech-to-text recognition is not one I am particularly ready to attempt, even if the means are there, my voice seems to modulate, even if I have a distinctive voice print, easily recognised by friends on the phone.

Though, I was disappointed when I realised there was no handwriting conversion within Microsoft Word, which I use to type out and proofread my blogs; and this is after I had written a treatise for the computer to get an idea of how I write; if you need that Ink-to-Text feature, you have to do your scribbles in Microsoft OneNote.

After death, what do your tributes matter?

Speaking good of the dead

I have always wondered about the eerie spectre of tributes about someone has passed to the Great Beyond because, except if we know quite differently, whether the person so fondly memorialised and eulogised to the point of hagiography ever in the realm of time and space beyond the realm of our perception gets to have a viewing and hearing.

For in the beautiful things we get to say, have we once ventured when the person was present and able to interact and respond we deployed the effusive praise that they are left to gush and blush at the surfeit of encomium and praise that they are left speechless in accepting compliments and so emotional in experiencing the genuine expression of love, respect, and awe.

To the hearing of others

In the absence of that uniquely special case of tributes breaking through the veil to the intangible ethereal eternal timelessness that encompasses, you are left thinking, the glowing obituaries and expressions of sympathy, condolence, and regret are all demonstrations for the living, for once the spirit and soul have left the bodily presentation of the person we once knew, they are forever gone and out of reach or touch.

It should make us reflect on what we could have done with the chance and opportunity to speak and act, it should not matter if at the end one brings another perspective to the enigmatic personality, but to have done things when they could be fully appreciated and not so much in search of recognition but in the unconditional celebration of those who matter.

Doing it when it matters

It does not mean we should be quick to act, to speak or to praise, however, every acknowledgement and recognition of another is not just an act of genuine kindness, it is an expression of gratitude for what they have brought to and contributed to our lives. Until we can hear and speak with the dearly departed outside of esoteric and questionably paranormal environments, our tributes, though making for interesting listening and hearing are absolutely worthless to those we portend to celebrate.

The words of Mark Antony ring loud and clear, for there was nothing more he could do for Ceasar after he had been assassinated, but to lead the procession for his burial.

Can you abandon your experience for the extraordinary?

Learning to trust beyond experiences

I sometimes consider my situation with amusement, for I had yesterday said Sunday might well be a day of rest. I cannot say it became the day of expected rest for in the morning I made for church after a night the tracker said was better, but I appeared to struggle through trying to get more sleep beyond vivid dreams.

The message at church was based on trust and being saved from situations and disaster as depicted in the narration where the disciples saw Jesus walking on water in the middle of a stormy sea. The majority of disciples being fishermen would have known the reality of stormy seas. Small boats at the mercy of billowing waves, the fishermen caught between life and death, terrified at their helplessness. [Romans 10:5-15 (NKJV)][Matthew 14:22-33 (NKJV)]

Beyond that, even if the fishermen were strong and able swimmers, it is doubtful that when hit by a storm they’ll just jump in the water and swim to shore and safety. Besides, they might also know other fishermen that would have perished at sea without trace lost forever in the deep as a lingering memory of the dangers of their trade.

Don’t let it be too strange

It is in this context that they saw a man, the man Jesus walking on water and obviously from their experience at sea would immediately think it impossible and suppose they were seeing a spirit. Their being tossed about in their boat was compounded by the fear of the incomprehensible.

It is then that Jesus said, “Be of good cheer! It is I; do not be afraid.” Yes, he told them, and of the many translations, I like the God’s Word Translation the best, "Calm down! It's me. Don't be afraid!" [BibleHub: Matthew 14:27]

It was as if Jesus was saying He knew they had never experienced this before and it was time for them to experience the incredible and add it to their wealth of personal experience and the full recognition of his authority on earth. You could not have witnessed this and remained the same afterwards.

How our experiences rob us of the divine

Whilst they were busy processing that information, Peter said, “Lord, if it is You, command me to come to You on the water.” To which Jesus simply said, “Come!”. At the point Peter did step off the boat with all his fisherman experience in the middle of a stormy sea and walked on water towards Jesus. Until it dawned on him, fishermen don’t walk on water and he began to sink.

We can agree he was far enough from the boat not to grab it and near enough to Jesus when he cried from help and Jesus stretched out his hand to catch him, they both walked back to the boat, and the storm ceased.

For all the additional perspectives to add to this situation, there is one evident thing, your worldly experience limits your ability to experience the wonder and power of God. Then, if you do go against every knowledge you have to listen to and act on the one-word command of Come, you will experience the power of God and when your personal experience begins to cloud that godly experience, you only have cried out to be saved and brought to safety, whether you have little or great faith.

For “whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.” [BibleGateway: Romans 10:13]

That was the depth and beauty of the sermon in church today

Safe in the hotel safe

Knowing me again

In what must be looking like a rarity, I must say I was quite content with my hotel accommodation in Berlin this time.

The staff could not help but fall over themselves with every kind of complimentary offer one could think of, free champagne at the bar, fruits in large dish in the room, chocolates that I worried about the aphrodisiac qualities they might excite, service personnel at the door almost before you complained.

I had stayed at this hotel some 4 years before, but this time I was given a room on the 7^th floor overlooking the forest that makes up the Zoo in Berlin - I was surprised when I found an envelop in my room acknowledging my return visit.

It is nice to know that one is remembered and treated even better as a return guest; however, one is concerned about the data retention element of this customer service ideal.

One has to give for the other, the recognition factor or the indifferent generality, I would suppose many would prefer to be recognised.

High speed rotten connection

However, I did have issue with two things, the first being the High Speed Internet connection in the room, it was high-speed but rotten performance, I was online but could hardly maintain a decent enough connection to download my email which timed out at every attempt.

There was nothing the hotel could do about it (an external service) that I resorted to remote controlling a box at home which handled all I wanted to do though it seemed the remote session lost connection every minute, it was annoying but for the much improved remote desktop client that does not give up before 20 tries.

At check-out, the hotel offered to reduce the charge by 50%, but I found myself remonstrating as usual, I always prefer the service to the cop-out of compensation.

Safe entry

The most interesting part was really the in-room safe, as you would realise we are celebrating 40 years of the Automated Teller Machine (ATM) which is fine and we are all used to the 4-figure Personal Identification Number (PIN) which came about because the designer's wife reckoned she could only remember 4-digits, the designer - John Shepherd-Barron - having once been in the army had been planning on a 6-digit, just like his army recruitment number. The rest is history.

Now, in resorts in Spain, most hotels provide a room safe for a hiring fee, the safe requiring a keyed lock, in other countries, some allow for a PIN from 4 to 6 figures with instructions varying on complexity.

Card swipe manic frenzy

This safe required that you swipe your credit card down a slot to activate/lock or unlock the safe. So I put our valuables in it and swiped the card, the safe engages the lock. An afterthought gets me back at the safe and swipe all I could, the safe would not budge.

The service man comes over swipes once and the safe opens, I look like a fool, but he then tries the whole process himself - first swipe locks the safe, seven swipes later, the safe responds.

It would appear, it is the speed of the swipe that determines if this thing works, it could be annoying, but two things come to mind.

The first being the possibility that the card reader can store information, at least it stores enough to know that a swipe-lock with one card cannot be swipe-unlocked with another card.

The second is, one of the reasons one would want a safe is to store the credit cards along with other valuables - in tourist places, it is sometimes better to pay cash than have some unscrupulous staff fleece your card not too long after your dinner, only to get home and notice large sums of money have gone walkies.

If you then have to lock the safe with what you initially intended to store in the safe, this seemingly safe idea is probably highly risk averse on the side of the hotel because the credit card would always be on your person or outside the safe but seriously inconvenient and risky on your part.

I say no to credit card swipe safes, the PIN method should be better though there might be possibilities of losing the contents to a determined thief anyhow by gently checking which keys have the newest prints and doing the permutation, even that would be a bit far-fetched, after a few tries the safe would go into a locked mode that would require service personnel, anyhow.