Thought Picnic: Know when to run

Charting a course

In life, we determine our paths; some are not yet clear before we begin, while in others, circumstances and situations shape our journey. Unknowingly, we become victims of fate, carried along in clouds that may be full of water, bringing rains and storms, or drifting aimlessly across the skies, bereft of purpose other than providing shade to some insignificant place.

Nevertheless, not everything lacks purpose and direction. We can dream and hold visions of things to pursue and achieve. Even in those dreams, our limits might be set by a lack of imagination, requiring input, inspiration, ideas, and insight to transcend what seems impossible and turn it, in hindsight, into something miraculous.

Either way, this remains one of humanity's great mysteries: we have the ability both to grow and to pause, to be both simultaneously, and at other times to shrink, overcome by mortal vulnerabilities that easily affect the spirit, mind, and body. That is why we must understand where we find our sustenance and how to withstand the forces that threaten our sense of purpose.

Know when to walk away

In all our endeavours, you may wonder whether you are being taken seriously, even if you don't take yourself too seriously. Such awareness calls for knowledge and wisdom to manage impostors who seek to undermine you, especially in professional contexts.

This is why responsible individuals should reflect on how everyone is prone to errors in judgement, with consequences so far-reaching that they can jeopardise the talent needed to achieve the goals that make managers relevant.

I suppose, in politics as in cards, you play what you are dealt to the best of your ability and luck. Then, as Kenny Rogers sang in "The Gambler", 'know when to walk away, know when to run.' The matadors have chosen our China shop as the Plaza de Toros to face the bull.

Purposefully walking away

Walking through and away

If I have ever had a grace that has blessed the many times, I have faced any kind of trauma in my life and there are many that have signalled themselves better in a narrative than in how I choose to be defined, it is the force that drives the determination to walk away.

As I reflect on what the fourth verse of Psalm 23 says to me, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” [Bible Hub: Psalm 23:4 (KJV)]

Even on reading that verse again, I am getting new insight just from observing the punctuation, and indeed, in life, yes, we do walk, and not stop but walk-through issues, situations, trauma, circumstances, adversity, infirmity, and much else that identifies with human existence in its sorriest state, but we press on, refusing to be defined by the experience.

This has been a default response in my subconscious many times before I consciously realised I am on a journey rather than at a destination.

Walking towards and into

I am confident that every adverse event presents new opportunities to earn laurels than acquire scars. The scars are for stories and the laurels are for a life of testimony. Yes, the force of hope and possibility propels me in ways that defy logic or understanding, I do not wait around to try to explain how or why, as what is ahead presents attraction beyond immediate distractions.

Digging through archives of blogs I have written before; I am reminded that there is much to walk away from and the beauty of love and wonder to walk into. Even when I am processing things, it is a process of compartmentalisation, a way of ensuring that the darkest moments do not become the milestones of my storied existence.

“One cannot deny that these things happened, but one can decide with all the help one can get, spiritual, psychological or with friends and family to ensure that these events do not become milestones, goalposts or walls.” [I walked away (January 2007)]

It is that thinking that gives me the strength to walk away, not because I do not want to deal with an issue, but because I can better utilise my time and resources on other wholesome things, I choose not to be a victim when I can be a victor.

References

Blog - Walking away (February 2017)

Blog - I walked away (January 2007)

Blog - Walk away! (December 2013) – A poem.

A threshold of pain for more to gain

No aim to maim

Adding the city walks to my exercise routine felt like the way to go from being a hermit into a social being even though socialising is not a safe activity at this time.

My walk yesterday revealed something interesting that I did not pay heed to as I got to over 10,000 steps. I was to keep walking for if I stopped for a moment, muscles under some strain began to cry out in pain around the top of my inner thigh. I was soon home to sleep it off in recovery.

Today, after my workout in the morning, I did some cooking, moin-moin to be exact that I thought of having with jollof rice at a later time.

Meanwhile, I took a nap whilst I thought of having a purposeful walk up to the ethnic foods store up at Cheetham Hill, it is only 3.2 km away, it could be done under an hour, so I set forth. The idea was to walk out and quite a likely walk back.

Left with a hobble

As I left, I took my foldable cane, just in case my exhaustion required some support, prescience or premonition, I am glad I did. For as I neared the shop, I stopped to put on my facemask and that upper thigh pain somewhat radiating from my ball joint arrived with a torrent of discomfort, that the next step after was a hobble.

After that, I had no brisk walk left in me, I looked like I should be in a wheelchair and definitely not out and about. The cane as support when I took steps during my shopping, then the chemist before taking a short walk to the tram stop to convey me back close to home.

My further stop nearer home at St. Peter’s Square was no better, sitting down eased the pain but not when I took my first step. I hoped for some relief back in bed after some paracetamol. My hope is by the morning everything would be fine, those muscles need some rest and they would get enough. I do like walking though, the muscles should get that message too.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - VIII

Here comes the sun

This is the fourth Bank Holiday under the Coronavirus lockdown, one in which we have been under certain restrictions in terms of movement and travel especially that we have pleasant weather.

For me, it was the first opportunity to expose myself to the sun and build up naturally occurring Vitamin D which I should consider taking supplements for, in general.

When I fell ill, I had asked my friend to get me a box of cornflakes, whilst I expected the Kellogg’s brand, it was a store brand from one of the more affordable supermarket chains. Checking the nutritional information on the box, it had no vitamins and minerals content. I thought it was a given that boxes of cereal had a basic set of those.

On another low-cost brand he bought at the time he was housesitting for me had the full complement of Vitamins B6, B12 & D, and Folic Acid which I do require, along with Niacin (B3), Thiamin (B1), Riboflavin (B2), and Iron. All at various required daily intakes. However, as I do sometimes have Weetabix or Kellogg’s Rice Crispies, I might increase my breakfast consumption of those.

Longing for him

With my arms and legs exposed, I took to sitting in the sun at the New Islington Wharf. It was quite busy, but I had the concrete bench to myself, watching the world go by. The biggest feeling of regret I had was not being out with Brian as I remembered the many times we walked from our apartment in Cape Town to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront. As there were many same-sex couples holding hands taking in the atmosphere.

My outing was counter clockwise to my Friday walk, through Angel Meadow Park that was crowded without a bench free or a patch of grass with enough distance from others. Not that I would have sat on the grass. I did stop beside the Co-operative Group head office building, which had long rows of unoccupied benches in the sun and then with a nerve ending twitch in my hip hobbled into the shopping precinct.

Blog - Coronavirus streets in Manchester - VII

Flower snatching crazy woman

Another resting point before the final stretch home, there was a flowerbed behind me, a violated the social-distancing requirement without apology lunging for full-blown flowers to give to two kids in strollers, one of which she was pushing. I probably should have shouted at her or even waved my stick, a typical public vandal who cared nothing for others around them. I did not have the strength, not that it would have dissuaded her entitled mien.

On getting home, I was tired enough to take a nap. I hope when tomorrow comes, strength, verve and enthusiasm are at peak levels to enjoy the first day at work.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - VII

To the centre of a few

Getting into a pair of gym shorts and a top that felt as if it had been painted on my skin that my nipples were prominent and the shorts verged on outraging public decency, I stepped into my highly cushioned trainers whilst still needing my cane and set out for a walk. No, there is no picture of this outing.

It was much cooler than Wednesday as I made it up to Market Street where the main shopping mall was closed to the public, but essential shops on the street were open to active crowd control. Somehow, I have noticed all chemists and pharmacies I have visited have run out of constipation suppositories. Not vital information, but for its relief and uses, the reason is to be determined.

Leaving the large Boots Chemist, I walked towards the Manchester Cathedral, all gates closed and then by the Manchester Arena remembering that today is the third anniversary of the terrorist bombing after an  Ariana Grande concert that left 22 people dead and many more injured. [Wikipedia – Manchester Arena Bombing]

Blog - Manchester: Our humanity is our strength

Blog - Opinion: He was British, what changed him?

From old sorrow to a new meadow

Then up towards the Co-operative Group head office building, sauntered by the upper side lane, crossing the road to Angel Meadow Park. A place of history that comes from the most deprived conurbation, to the largest cemetery in Manchester and now regenerated into a tranquil park for meditation almost devoid of the poverty, destitution and death that greeted its heyday. Built with money from the European Union.

All around the park is a beehive of construction activity, workers out in their PPE garb some sitting on park benches or on the grass for lunch. There is life in Manchester but far from the typical hustle and bustle or rat race of what is typically one of the largest cities in the United Kingdom.

My brisk walk through the park brought me to a distinctive location, a little garden given to the issues of mental health. These pandemic times apart from the obvious sequestration might present invisible mental strains on people who are forced to stay at home alone, without social interaction or human interfaces.

The help we need

The theme ‘Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining’ prospects to see beyond the gloom of the present, but it is not that easy to find the silver lining on the clouds that obscure our view of the sunshine and sunny things in life. With Anxiety leaving us uncertain, Stigma borne of affliction and shame, being Alone leaving you caught in the miasma of loneliness and isolation, you wonder what prospect remains for finding the will to continue for anything.

Angel Meadow Garden

Blog - Beyond the clouds

Maybe in somewhere there is the Support to help with our Wellbeing bringing Hope for the future, we do not know, but we press on. With that, I left Angel Meadow out to Rochdale Road where for those who need it, a Brazilian Booty Lift beckons with its attendant side effects and dangers, for Ancoats; a section of Manchester populated with old cotton mills converted to luxury apartments and pockmarked with new developments that look so out of character with their surroundings.

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The manmade waterways of my city

Over the Rochdale Canal to get to New Islington, passing by the Islington Wharf with narrowboats docked on the banks, down the Ashton Canal towpath towards Piccadilly Basin before passing the long driveway to Manchester Piccadilly Station on to Canal Street, down by Sackville Gardens and then home in just over 90 minutes of walking.

The city is different and changing, I have no idea what would become of our city when the restrictions are lifted. People are generally staying indoors; the social distancing rule is adhered to even on pavements or bridges. I do not think the people have much confidence in the rhetoric of our government with regards to safety and security, either out of the abundance of caution or fear, we are keeping ourselves as much as possible out of harm’s way.

Coronavirus streets in Manchester - VI

Universities of note

On my outing yesterday which was a 2.8 mile (4.5 km) walk to and from Whitworth Park, the main thoroughfare of Oxford Rd all the way to the suburb of Rusholme was the most deserted I had ever seen Manchester.

Oxford Rd going south divides the main campuses of the University of Manchester to the left and Manchester Metropolitan University on the right. In some cases, the universities share facilities and departments, both tracing their origins to the Manchester Mechanics Institute in 1824, but following different trajectories, amalgamations and name changes to the present day.

I walked up the left side of the road in a leisurely pace, cyclists whizzing past to my right on the cycle lane, a counter located further up the road to show how many bicycles have used the lane in a day. Some restaurants and fast food shops were open for takeaways only, with mainly Deliveroo couriers gathered at the entrances with little consideration for physical distancing.

3 couples and 5 people walked at a faster pace overtaking me, all giving space and some oncoming pedestrians gave a nod of recognition. Taking my time, I read plaques, notice boards, plinth notices and information boards. I was in no rush to get anywhere.

How my city is changing

The citadels of learning with buildings old and new, churches, museums, shops, pubs, meeting places, fields and parks made for an eerie ghost town that left you slightly more alert of your surroundings lest you be taken advantage of.

Though buses ply this route, they are mostly empty; what gives this corridor of humanity life is the student population that could number over 50,000 in semester term time. Most of the students have gone home in this lockdown and it has radically changed things. I saw a local supermarket already boarded up, along with a bank, a public house called a pub and a popular chain hotel. It is anyone’s guess if these businesses would ever open again.

The Coronavirus pandemic is radically changing the face of my city, some things obvious and other things not so obvious and invisible. There would be no return to normal, a new normal beckons, in a future that is indeterminate and being shaped before us.

Button up Edward VII

At Whitworth Park, there is a statue of King Edward the Seventh, he was monarch for only a decade being the longest serving heir apparent until our current Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales. Edward VII was crowned at the age of 59 and ushered in the Edwardian Era.

There was much debate as to the kind of memorial to the erected in memory of the much-loved king along with where it would be situated. The location of the statue on a plinth in Whitworth Park which has the Whitworth Art Gallery as part of the University of Manchester faces the Manchester Royal Infirmary which had a new hospital wing opened in July 1909 by the king on his last visit to Manchester before his death. [JohnCassidy]

On the information panel splattered with bird guano, was a snippet of sartorial history, for the reason why the last and lowest button of the waistcoat is undone. Edward VII was a tad girthy, leaving that button undone made it fit better. It was adopted in the British court out of respect and it became fashionable. [Insider]

Sir Joseph Whitworth, for whom streets, parks, galleries, buildings and other memorials are named was an English engineer, entrepreneur, inventor and philanthropist, famed for the standardising the pitches of threads of screw bolts, the Whitworth rifle and the breech-loading gun.

Probably, on another walk around Manchester there might be a little bit of history overlooked to discover.

Thought Picnic: Of character building moments

As I walk

Building character is an evolutionary activity that is under constant review, assessment, reflection and adjustment. At least, that is how I think about it.

One episode this morning caused me to reflect on some of my attitudes to certain situations. It had snowed in Reading and as the pavements had not been gritted, one had to be careful as one walked from the hotel to the railway station.

As I walk briskly, albeit, with a walking cane, I am careful and usually do not expect to have to manoeuvre run more able-bodied people on the street. I would tend to walk close to buildings as well as follow the crowd.

Don’t talk back

I turned the corner and almost walked into someone coming up against me, I made my excuses and he walked around me. The next person simply ignored what had happened in front of him and made to stand in my way when I swung my cane directing him to walk to the right of me as there was no space to the left of me.

He followed my guidance, but as he passed me, he said, “Don’t use your stick at me.”, I then looked back at him as said, “You’re being an idiot.” As the words came out of my mouth, I was both agitated and deflated. I regretted it.

The situation made me reflect on why I had to answer back because there was no reason to. Once he had followed my directions, whatever way he felt about it should have been left to him as I had achieved my goal of, standing my ground and keeping my lane.

Tackle and leave

I felt diminished by the unnecessary outburst and promised myself to do better. I have on many occasions set in motion an act with the aim of attaining a goal and left at that. Engagement beyond having instigated my action simply develops into unhealthy interactions one can do without.

It reminded me of one instance where travelling in the 1^st Class compartment of an international train, I could neither relax nor nap because a child was completely implacable and an unruly disturbance. I got up and loudly addressed the parent to see to their ward then sat down.

For 5 minutes the father abused and railed, cursed and vituperated vitriol to the point of exhaustion. I ignored him. By that time, the child was quiet, we all could relax and the journey ended peacefully. From the little intervention, I had achieved what everyone wanted, peace and quiet. I don't dislike kids, but where parents are not embarrassed enough for their kid's behaviour to be seen to do something about it. They do have to be called out.

Achieve the prize

My not engaging the father at all meant the situation did not escalate or degenerate into a breach of the peace. Yes, I took brickbats for it, it was completely worth it.

I can be a better man even if people cannot be reasonable or considerate when they encounter me. I do not have to revel in the uncouth just to impact them. Silence is golden and worth its weight in gold. That is the building of character, only engage when your aim is about to be defeated, else, leave, your aim achieved and your dignity intact.

Thought Picnic: My continual outrage at sagging trousers

Redefining the man

Now, I ask you to read this without prejudice and a modicum of seriousness despite the possibility of being carried away with the imaginations of your mind.

It was on a television series that a lady’s thoughts were put to sound when after a pleasurable session, the man whose sexual prowess she praised got up and walked into the bathroom revealing what she thought in comparison was a 50-year old butt on a man with the performance of someone half his age.

You only have to look at the Michelangelo’s David to see what the form is, the function, however, is open to interpretation or exploration. [Italian Renaissance Art]

Rounded at least

As I have written many times before, nothing looks as revolting as a lack of care to the backside usually due to unfashionable half-exposure revealing unsightly underwear on a backside that is neither comely nor interesting.

The buttocks (singular: buttock) are two rounded portions of the anatomy, located on the posterior of the pelvic region of apes and humans, and many other bipeds or quadrupeds, and comprise a layer of fat superimposed on the gluteus maximus and gluteus medius muscles. [Wikipedia]

The definition above suggests the backside is “two rounded portions of the anatomy”, I would lay emphasis on rounded which should not need definition.

Pants down dawdle

Obviously, no man can successfully answer the question, “How does my butt look in this?” There is no smart, stupid or indifferent answer that would not put you in the possible collision course with a flying brick.

That is not to say whether rounded or not, I want to see your trousers sagging and worse still, as a result of the low-hung apparel, the wearer presents in a group of many of that ilk, the gait of a badelynge of ducks. It is so ungamely that when they run, you almost expect to hear them quack, yet, I’ll rather watch wild ducks paddling in the village pond.

Why on earth these people cannot pull their trousers up escapes me because it is nothing to do with length or fitting, because in most cases they have rolled up the trouser leg.

This is not fashion

There is no positive validation in this sagging trouser culture because it apparently emerged from the US prison system where the incarcerated were not issued with belts for their ill-fitting clothes. This has since entered popular culture and with it, we have watched the many fashion suicides that traipse our streets in classless abandon.

BBC – In pictures: Sagging Pants

You can call me old-fashioned, in fact, I do not care for what I am called, and as much as everyone is free to appear as they like either by outraging public decency or respectfully in cognisant of presentation and demeanour in the public space, let us not be in any discord about who automatically earns respect and essential courtesy.

Subjectively, if not subliminally, first impressions are first impressions are first impressions, go as you mean to be acknowledged.

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

The heat of a seat

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

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

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

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

Unseen to the mean

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

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

Every excuse to refuse

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

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

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

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

A bright dot on a blind spot

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

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

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

For to be seen by the keen

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

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

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

An attitude of gratitude

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

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