Thirteen Jabs and Counting

A Saturday Ritual

Yesterday morning, I stood in a queue at the invitation of my GP. There were two queues, one to the left and another to the right. We on the right were the double jabbers, there to receive both the annual flu jab and the biannual Covid vaccine booster. The ones on the left were there for the flu jab alone.

The GP surgery is not usually open on Saturdays, but for this annual ritual, a day is set aside in September, October, or as late as November. I only began taking the flu jab ten years ago, though it had been recommended to me much earlier.

Thirteen Jabs Later

In terms of COVID-19, this was my thirteenth jab, or more correctly, the eleventh booster following the first two doses in February and May 2021. The Coronavirus is not a distant memory, as the statistics still show that people are being admitted to hospital with complications from the disease.

According to the most recent figures available from the UKHSA data dashboard, there were 261 COVID-19 hospital admissions in the seven days up to 31 August 2026, an increase of 15 per cent on the previous week, with 289 confirmed patients in hospital on that date. [UKHSA data dashboard, COVID-19]

Receiving the boosters is now much more convenient. For a while, it seems, delivering the Covid jab was a niche activity that only a few pharmacies found profitable. In times past, beyond the first two years when I could go to a sequestered place in the town hall, the centres providing the service had progressively moved out of the town centre.

After the first three jabs, things moved further afield still to chemists out of town, so much so that it became rather more difficult to find ones that had the booster in stock to give it. Twice, I had booked appointments only to arrive to disappointment.

Back to the Surgery

On one occasion, I got the booster in a van on a large supermarket car park, and then last year, the Boots Chemist in the shopping precinct on Market Street started offering Covid jabs. Imagine my surprise when I got a message from my GP surgery that they could now deliver the jabs, once they had a sense of how many people needed it.

It should always have been managed through the primary care system at the GP surgery, and I am glad that is now the case. That it is back within the management of the surgery is, for me, the greater relief.

At the surgery you are seen by people who know your medical history and can access the critical information needed to support your treatment; the chemists and the vans cannot do that, for they can only register that you have taken the shot. The staff at the surgery are always attentive, professional, and helpful, and it is an easy place to fall into conversation with others.

Aftermath and Advice

I took the flu jab in my right arm and the Covid jab in my left arm. Both an aching arm and a headache registered their presence throughout the day, so much so that I spent most of it in bed until dusk, when I got up to have a meal. Brian, my partner, advised me to take Paracetamol, which I rarely do; I had hoped to sleep it off. It is only mild discomfort, yet it is energy-sapping, leaving you quite irritable and uncomfortable.

I hope I regain my verve for tomorrow. I know some people have advised against taking the booster shots, but they are not from the medical establishment, so I have paid them no heed. Meanwhile, if you are immunosuppressed and, or invited to take the flu jab, my advice is this: don't think twice about it. Get the protection for the winter ahead.

Franklin Graham in Manchester

Ministry Over Politics

On two consecutive Saturdays, Manchester has hosted large Christian events that filled their venues to capacity. This time it was Franklin Graham, son of the late Billy Graham, the renowned American evangelist who preached to millions a generation ago.

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

To deal with my misgivings from the outset, I am no fan of Franklin Graham's politics; his association with a kind of American Christian nationalism wins him no plaudits from me. Yet I must have as much sense as an old cow: eat the hay and leave the baling wire.

It is the ministry and anointing upon a person that we pay heed to, rather than their politics, for each one carries a revelation that may speak to us in ways no one else can. For all our human flaws, the amazing grace that flows through imperfect vessels underlines why we should place our trust in God rather than in men.

Drawn by the Music

I suppose what drew me most to this event was one of the performers, Michael W. Smith, the American singer-songwriter whose praise and worship songs have served us for decades. In fact, I saw him perform in Arnhem, in the Netherlands, back in 2002.

We gathered on the other side of Manchester, at the new Co-op Live venue, which stands right beside Manchester City's Etihad Stadium; Co-op Live is the UK's largest entertainment arena. The previous Saturday, by contrast, Jerry Eze's event had been held at Manchester United's Old Trafford. Jerry Eze is the Nigerian pastor behind NSPPD, short for New Season Prophetic Prayers and Declarations, whose church, Streams of Joy International, had filled Old Trafford only the week before.

A Tale of Two Events

The logistics required to host both events were onerous, yet quite well ordered. There were, however, stark differences. The earlier gathering had a predominantly black and diaspora attendance, whilst this one was decidedly international. I dare say a religious racial divide does exist, if you choose to observe what is going on around you. Beyond that, this event started on time.

Jerry Eze's event was almost a full day: the stadium opened to receive attendees from around 10:00 am, only for the first act to take the stage ninety minutes after the scheduled noon start. I concede it was quite a task getting everyone in. Three sides of Old Trafford were filled, every side but the one behind the main stage, a crowd I would estimate at some fifty thousand people.

Indeed, so great was the demand that Pastor Eze later apologised, in a video message, to the tens of thousands reportedly turned away, though that figure has not been independently confirmed. [Premier Christian News: Apology after 'tens of thousands' reportedly turned away from prayer event at Old Trafford stadium]

Arriving at Co-op Live

On arrival at Co-op Live, I was offered the accessibility entrance, which meant stair-free access to my seat. We were given tickets at the gates, with unassigned seating, and what a cavernous place the hall was. The floor, the stalls and the upper tiers were filled, every section bar the second tier. I took a seat in the third tier, looking towards the main stage from the left.

I was seated near several large families, and the young ones, adolescents for the most part, were a restless company, with the odd kicked seat and a wandering pair of feet to contend with. Still, I would not dwell on it, for it was heartening to see so many young people present; they are, after all, the very souls such an evening hopes to reach.

Performances and Purpose

Franklin Graham was hosting an evening gathering, with doors opening at 4:30 pm and proceedings beginning at 6:00 pm, the first act being a performance from Faith Child, the British Christian rapper. Thankfully, there were subtitles for some of us to follow his act; I suppose it is a generational thing, for I cannot easily keep pace with the rapid delivery that is so characteristic of rap.

More gospel acts followed, from the traditional to the modern, until Michael W. Smith appeared, first with two unfamiliar songs and then a dip into the legacy material that some of us of a certain age remember from the turn of the century.

Interspersed between the performances were video messages, including one for Samaritan's Purse, the international relief organisation Franklin Graham heads. More acts followed before Franklin Graham himself was introduced.

A Long-Awaited Visit

Apparently, it was his first time in Manchester. I recall seeing advertisements for previous visits; it was not that he had been barred from entering the UK, but rather that the proposed venues, at one time eight in all, cancelled their bookings with the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association, with him as the frontman. Those cancellations came in 2020, when the venues withdrew after petitions citing concerns that his appearance would stoke division. [Open Table: US evangelist Franklin Graham claims ‘persecution’ as UK venues cancel preaching tour bookings]

His message was the traditional gospel message: the problem of sin, and where we will spend eternity. These words are carried to the ears of listeners, but it is the work of God, through the Holy Spirit, that brings the conviction leading a person to proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord and Saviour. Those of us from an Evangelical background must take care that we do not become inured to this fundamental gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ.

The Unchanging Message

My experience of meeting friends the previous week is a case in point. I knew where my friend had given his life to Christ, but I was unaware that I had been instrumental in ministering to him, some forty-one years ago. I still have no recollection of the conversation, yet he has woven it into the story of his Christian witness.

When Franklin Graham gave the altar call, thousands stepped forward to pray the prayer of salvation. We applauded their decisions, and it took almost twenty minutes to get everyone to the front. He led them in prayer and gave each one material and a Bible to aid them in their new Christian walk. The proceedings closed after that.

A Harvest of Souls

This event was more an evangelistic crusade for new souls, as compared with last week's, which was a prayer conference: for those who already know, and a witness for those who never knew. For my own part, I came away blessed; it was a good evening of praise and worship.

I do wonder whether another event is scheduled for the not-too-distant future. Yet, judging by the attendance I witnessed over these two Saturdays, while the established church may be suffering an attendance crisis born of its search for relevance to society today, the Evangelical and Pentecostal wings of the church seem to be enjoying a bountiful harvest of souls.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

A Second Witness

I had already reviewed this place once. When friends unknowingly visited the same restaurant four days later, they endured the very same treatment, bad manners in person, their time wasted, and warm words only for the audience online. So much for "dignity and respect, always".

A Reunion and a Request

Having met up with friends I had not seen in forty years at the Jerry Eze event, we were invited to their Airbnb apartment the following evening. My best friend, being the cousin of the lady, was asked to gather ideas on where to find Nigerian takeaway meals.

Given where they were staying, I looked up nearby locations for deliveries, unaware that they intended to collect the food themselves. My friend, already familiar with my experience at the restaurant the week before, felt that it was my exacting standards, rather than poor customer service, that had informed my unfavourable review of the place.

Against My Better Judgement

Whilst I disagreed, he prevailed upon me, and against my better judgement, I shared details of this place along with an alternative. As it was a Sunday, there was a possibility that the restaurant could fulfil an order placed early and collected later. We did not share anything else about my experience, so as to eliminate any bias towards the outfit.

They received the information after attending church in the early afternoon, and set off to collect the order in the late afternoon. It was a single order for the four of us: the old favourites of okra stew and semolina for my best friend and me, and egusi stew with pounded yam for our friends.

A Familiar Disappointment

They had their own ordeal: a bad attitude from the chef, who closed the door in their faces, whilst the manager who had cut off my call during the earlier episode now played the apologetic service provider, distancing himself from the situation whilst asking for a good review.

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

My friends had their time wasted. The food was not ready when they had agreed to collect it, and there were others also waiting, in what looked less like a busy day than a business accustomed to holding customers in hock once an order has been placed and no alternatives remain. Coupled with a lackadaisical manner, it amounted to taking on more than they could handle.

They ended up going to McDonald's for a bite, because they could not even get basic snack food elsewhere, before returning for a long wait to collect. More than an hour of the afternoon was lost on a business that has no concept of the value of time.

An Apology for the Audience

Their public reply, posted to my Google Maps review, read as contrite yet revealed itself as mere sophistry. They assured me that they "treat everyone with dignity and respect always", a claim my friends could comfortably refute, having had a door shut in their faces by the chef.

They were glad I thought the food good, gutted that I felt the call was dropped, and insistent that it was not from their end and that they had rung back before seeing the review.

Yet the warmth arrived only once the review was public. Had that courtesy been extended in the moment, my friends would have had a very different afternoon. An apology prompted by an audience is not service; it is damage control.

The Verdict

With a second, unconnected customer having had the very same experience, one can conclude that the first review was not off the mark. When people show you who they are the first time, that is who they are. Whilst I am still sparing them the ignominy of being named and shamed, they would never be recommended again.

The meal was passable, yet the okra stew never reached my expectations in aroma, taste, quality, or quantity; it was forgettable. Our friends fared no better: they had wanted egusi and were served efo riro instead, with pounded yam, and were offered an extra portion of pounded yam only on condition that they left a good review. It was another case of food advertised on the app proving unavailable once the order was placed.

To think I had suffered the indignity of excusing bad manners for the sake of good food, only to find that the food I really wanted did not make the grade. Best to blot it out of memory: a brief encounter to end all encounters.

Reference: my original review, "Essential Snobbery 101: Good Food Is No Substitute for Good Manners" (akinblog.nl, 23 September 2026).

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Nigeria: Independent of Feeling

Childhood Celebrations

A time of my childhood returns as a fleeting memory of Nigeria's independence celebrations, as today marks the 66th anniversary. Back then, at primary school in Jos, we practised marching like little soldiers, ready to demonstrate some sort of military prowess to the governor, who stood on a dais saluting the troops on this significant day.

If I remember correctly, it would have been October 1974, and that was the last time I took part in any such event. It was probably the only occasion on which we were close enough to a state capital to have a governor in attendance. Rayfield was home, Bukuru was for school, and the stadium in Jos was for marching.

Another notable public holiday would have been Children's Day, on the 27th of May. We donned our school uniforms and wore white socks, and there was a preference for canvas shoes; I had none, however, considering that my feet grew faster than shoes could be acquired to last a year.

An Outsider Looking In

Yet, for all these shared rituals, I am not sure I ever truly belonged. I had returned to Nigeria with my parents from England, and I was betrayed first by my accent, then by my outlook, and finally by the dawning realisation that many thought me different and apart, even when I tried my utmost to integrate.

There were benefits to this; I was excused from many traditional requirements that bound others. Being the outsider, though, could be difficult too, and one learns early that exemption and exclusion are often the same coin.

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

Percolating in the recesses of the unforgettable is the national anthem of the time, "Arise, O Compatriots", the one adopted by the military junta in 1978 and sung until 2024. The very word "compatriot" has always sat with me as "comrade" does; it speaks of a bond forged around an idea, a creed, or a cause, rather than the quieter fact of belonging to a land or a people.

That is the slant I could never warm to, worsened by the servitude of unquestioning obeisance, and worse still by the pledge, recited by the people yet ignored by the rulers. I have written before of my want of any reverence for it, and I will not rehearse that dismissal here. [The entity is Nigeria, the identity is Nigerian]

A Fading Affinity

As I sit here today, mindful that Nigeria is marking its independence, the refrain of the readopted anthem rings in me like an earworm, a tune that lingers though its meaning has long drained away.

Then again, even the colonial slant of that original anthem, now sung once more, still seems to exemplify what Nigeria remains. My affinity for what she represents is fast fading. Beyond heritage, she no longer exerts the pull of nostalgia, save for her cuisine, nor offers any real sense of identity as the years pass.

In the first stanza alone, everything militates against its reach and appeal; it has long become a historical artefact, of things told rather than lived. When I left Nigeria, I was also released from the grip it once seemed to have, until I realised that, by jus soli, I was indeed of a wholly different nation to my parents' jus sanguinis.

There is an irony I can no longer ignore. On the day a nation remembers its independence from an empire, proclaimed from a dais to a saluting crowd, I find I have quietly come into an independence of my own, won not at once but by increments. Hers was from a crown; mine is of feeling, the last tie to loosen and the hardest to mourn, settling in only when the heart finally stops answering a call it no longer recognises.

Nigeria, we hail thee,
Our own dear native land,
Though tribes and tongues may differ,
In brotherhood we stand,
Nigerians all, are proud to serve
Our sovereign Motherland.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Jerry Eze in Manchester

More Than an Internet Personality

A search for him on the web reveals that he is an internet personality, a description that barely captures who he is. He is the founder and lead pastor of Streams of Joy International and the convener of the New Season Prophetic Prayers and Declarations (NSPPD), a 7am online prayer broadcast that grew during the pandemic into a global movement across YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and Mixlr. With the kind of following he commands, he is an arresting presence who has mastered the social media platforms to spread his message.

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

My scepticism had a particular source. I am no stranger to Pentecostal and Evangelical settings, and I have long followed English, Australian, and American "Word of Faith" preachers, whose cultural and social frame of reference I have grown accustomed to and readily taken in. This, however, is a specific brand of exuberant Nigerian Pentecostalism that I never encountered even during my years in Nigeria. A shared heritage does not always guarantee a shared instinct in worship.

Years ago, a friend sent me links to recordings of prayer sessions, both rowdy and cacophonous, in which I could not fathom what was going on. My sensibilities, broadly Anglican and attuned to the liturgical, would have felt criminally assaulted.

Yet this, I suppose, speaks to the mystery of a God who is as attentive in all our noise as He is in our orderliness. I should not be too much of an Englishman for God; I know that He understands, listens to, and answers Englishmen too.

Getting to Old Trafford

The venue for the NSPPD UK Prayer Conference [YouTube] was Manchester United's football stadium, commonly known as Old Trafford, and getting there was quite an ordeal. The buses were filled to capacity by the time they reached the second bus stop, so we had to board a tram. I spent the ride recalibrating our journey, and we opted to get off five stops earlier, since it proved the nearest stop to the venue on foot by that route.

We met up with friends, a couple I had not seen in forty years, and as we queued to gain entry to the grounds, we reminisced about our times of youthful religious innocence. I learnt that I was the one who had ministered to the husband when he gave his life to Christ some forty-one years ago. I simply had a recollection of where his conversion had happened.

A Feat of Organisation

On finding our seats in the stadium, we sat together, and from our vantage point the ground was almost at capacity on three sides, save for the area behind the stage. The whole setup was a logistical operation involving troops of security personnel, guides, ushers, helpers, and many more volunteers. It was a feat of organisational ability that left me quite impressed.

Something about the ministry of the man Jerry Eze suggests that prayers are answered, exemplified in big notices such as "We Dey Pray, E Dey Show" and "What God Cannot Do Does Not Exist." The first, in Nigerian Pidgin English, carries the sense that when we pray, the answers show; the second is the ministry's confident refrain that no situation lies beyond God's power.

This outfit caters for a broadly black audience, with a few attendees of other races. Patrons had travelled long distances for a touch of God through the ministration of this man.

Swept Up in the Sound

When the sound of praise and worship enveloped the stadium like a roar that would put an ecstatic football crowd in the shade, I was swayed by the sheer volume, and one could easily be caught up in the mass hysteria of congregational participation.

Most of the earlier songs were unfamiliar to me. I felt like an alien impostor, persuaded beyond my comfort zone to engage as I tried to appreciate this thing. The worship leader might have allowed the microphone to carry her singing voice to the speakers, rather than appearing to perform in a stadium yet losing out to sometimes unintelligible shouting. In fairness, the sound and acoustics did seem to improve as the event went on.

Another worship leader, apparently a Nigerian gospel singer, stirred my participatory enthusiasm at the prompting of old-time songs drawn from the recesses of my memory. Closed-caption signage, readable from my seat, could have helped, nearly as much as sign language would have. The default, as I saw it, was the ability to create a raucous din through the extreme exertion of voice and bodily movement, all for maximum effect.

Give Me Substance

The most impactful message I heard in this setting came in the lyrics of "Let It Show [YouTube]" by Kaestrings, partly excerpted below:

Give me substance,
Give me proofs,
Give me presence,
Give me You;

Give me substance,
Give me proofs,
Give me evidence,
Give me You;

Give me Your substance,
Give me proofs,
Give me fire,
Let it show that I met with You.

These words clearly identify with what this ministry is all about.

Yes, I was looking for ways to engage, even as I was overwhelmed by spectacle, performance, agitation, and vigorous incantation. It was so different to me that at times I was left a total observer, waiting to be shaken out of my stupor.

Prayers and Declarations

My concern was heightened as I heard many prayers and declarations with no punctuation, and no invocation of the name of Jesus except in the songs; as things progressed, however, we heard more in that respect. The many names of God were mentioned, but prominent in the list was El Roi, the God who sees me, first spoken by Hagar, an Egyptian servant to Sarai (Sarah) in the book of Genesis and the mother of Ishmael, Abraham's first child.

All the representatives who appeared on stage to take the microphone, regardless of how far afield they had come, including from Canada, prayed in the same almost riotous manner, one I had difficulty connecting with. It brought to mind the trigger behind the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, the three Hebrew men who refused to bow to King Nebuchadnezzar's golden statue. I simply imagined it as, "at the time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music."

I concede that far more people are attuned to this environment than I am. It yields results, judging by the testimonies of impossible situations transformed and the amazing, mind-blowing stories of triumph in life and circumstance. I probably need a better interpretation of the goings-on.

Testimonies Before the Man

In the run-up to Pastor Jerry Eze coming on stage, some testimonies were shared. A few spoke of answers to prayer received at previous conferences, and others of breakthroughs that had come through attending the 7am meetings online.

These accounts appeared to steady the atmosphere and to remind the crowd why they had gathered. Whatever my own difficulty in connecting, the conviction in the room was plain, and the testimonies carried a weight that the spectacle alone did not.

Gospel Royalty on Stage

Three hours into the orchestrations and events, Pastor Jerry Eze was somewhere in the background, yet to be ushered to the podium, perhaps long after I had gone. Then Nigerian gospel royalty came to perform: Mercy Chinwo, the winner of the second season of Nigerian Idol in 2012 and now one of the most celebrated voices in Nigerian gospel, known for anthems such as "Excess Love" and "Obinasom." I know none of her music, yet even I could muster the swagger, deigning to move to it.

After her, Dunsin Oyekan, the worship leader affectionately called "The Eagle" and known for immersive songs such as "Fragrance to Fire", became like John the Baptist, preparing the way for the man of God.

That figures of such standing would grace his stage said something in itself. It lent a weight beyond the capacity crowd, and confirmed that Jerry Eze is a good deal more than an internet personality.

An Acquired Taste

At the fourth hour, Pastor Jerry Eze mounted the stage, first articulate in a call-and-response declaration over the dry bones in our lives, commanding them to rise to life and living, before we were led to see that the place we were in was too small and that we needed to break out. After being led in prayers to bare our hearts and souls to God, we were blessed by the preacher to celebrate the answers to our prayers.

Then it was testimony time, and we rose to leave. I heard that proceedings drew to a close barely half an hour after we departed.

In concluding this piece, my honest opinion is that Pastor Jerry Eze is an acquired taste; it has to grow on you. I am glad I attended, for it was revelatory, and I tried to remain as open-minded and receptive as I could, even where those long conversant with his ministry were plainly carried along and I was not.

This should not in any way diminish the wonder and miracles that others have experienced by attending this conference, for which the testimonies would tell of a God who sees me, where I am, and touches me in miraculously stupendous ways.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Essential Snobbery 101: Good Food Is No Substitute for Good Manners

A Daring Customer

I am that kind of customer, sometimes daring and adventurous. I have ordered prescription glasses online, and I have been fortunate enough to order clothes, suits, and shoes from a catalogue without the need to return them, because they fit.

Most people would prefer a brick-and-mortar shop or a high-street store for such articles, where they can try before they buy; the daring, for me, is in trusting that they will fit at all.

I rarely try on clothes in a fitting room, except for tailored suits, where I expect the service personnel to be knowledgeable about style, fit, comfort, and suitable choices. That is their métier. Whether I am buying blind from a catalogue or standing at a tailor's counter, the thread that runs through it all is the same: service.

Curiosity and Its Rewards

Walking down a street, I might find an ethnic goods shop and step inside, my curiosity piqued by a sense of nostalgia; the same goes for restaurants too. What I expect is friendliness, professionalism, and service. Our common familiarity, if we choose to converse in our own language, still requires that standard to be kept.

Nine years ago, I walked into such a shop in Edinburgh, and what a welcome I received. A smiling, affable proprietor, ready to assist, presided over an Aladdin's cave of mouthwatering and irresistible delicacies. Amidst all the pleasantries, I treated myself to ready meals and drinks, but I could not leave without taking pictures of the shop.

A Tale of Two Reviews

A few days before, in the same city, I had visited a Nigerian restaurant, and I had a worse time of it than Dr Foster's visit to Gloucester. The service was abysmal. I was not attended to when I arrived, the place was dirty, dishes had not been cleared from the tables, and the personnel were glum. I had travelled far, and I should have left.

I wrote about both experiences. I write reviews about forgettable and extraordinary things, rarely about anything in between.

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

I published a review on my blog, along with an accompanying Google Maps page, and the shop has since garnered over one million views. Every few months, I get messages from the proprietress thanking me, though I thank her simply for being good, and for being good at what she does.

Blog - Edinburgh: MaDeb African Shop (June 2017)

Choosing Where to Spend

There are businesses I have visited that have never had a return visit, for all sorts of reasons: unprofessionalism, bad customer service, bad manners, a lack of attention to detail, or lapses in honesty, probity, and integrity.

There is also food served so hot that it scalds the fingers, usually because it has just come out of a microwave, and service so tardy that by the time the food arrives you have lost your appetite and it goes home in a doggie bag.

Sometimes it is the mild infractions that speak volumes; cutting corners, or bad vibes. In the latter case, it might be a me rather than them issue. Just as any business can choose to whom it opens its doors, I have the option to choose to whom I give my custom.

The Okra Stew That Never Was

A sudden desire for some home food had me grazing through Deliveroo last week, and from the menu I chose okra stew and semolina, asun and fried fish. Some time after my order was accepted, I received a call: they had run out of okra stew. I settled for egusi stew, when I should have cancelled the order altogether, but the logistics of getting my money back, coupled with hunger, had me settle for less.

However, I was promised that okra stew would be available the next day, or later in the week. Before I placed my second order, I rang ahead to find out whether it was on offer, and it was not. I would not go for second best if I had not already ordered or paid for anything.

Today, I called again, hoping to get my preferred choice. As soon as the male voice heard the words "okra stew", he simply hung up. All he had to do was say that it was unavailable, or off the menu. Service is the first component of an enduring business.

Good Food, Bad Manners

I did have my eye on bigger orders after sampling those portions. I am a random customer who chose this outfit from a list of options, and I will not be placing orders here again; good food is no substitute for good manners. That was the sum of my review.

In my view, how I am treated as a stranger could well be the experience of others. I do not assume I was singled out for the best or the worst a business has to offer. Nor do I wait to express my opinion on a service; I was on their web page, tapping away, and that was the seed for this blog.

The Call That Saved a Name

Halfway through writing this, I placed an order for Italian food from Vapiano, a global chain, using a 40% voucher Deliveroo had offered against any order, to be used by the end of the month. I had not used Deliveroo in over four years until last week. The discount left scope for a generous tip for the courier.

Then came a phone call. It was the man from the restaurant where I had wanted okra stew, pleading that he was returning a missed call. There was enough elastic stretching the truth to turn a wristband into a waistband. He had answered my earlier call, and I had spoken more than ten words before he hung up; that could hardly be called a missed call.

It is likely he had read the review I posted on their web page, and that this call was meant to ameliorate, to soothe my feelings. I had to hear him out before I remonstrated. That call saved them from being named and shamed in this piece. I have to write of my experience, though, rather than of my expectations.

This is the sentiment that governs every review I have given or written, and it follows that notable quote from Maya Angelou: "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." You rarely ever get another chance to improve on a bad impression.

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog

Seventeen Years of Blessed Time

A Diagnosis and a Diary

I have just read through the blog I wrote 17 years ago today, and I can only be amused at the humour that infused those pages: an admission to hospital that lasted 18 days, a cancer diagnosis, and the possibility that I had only five weeks to live. That earlier writing found the light amid it all, and reading it back now, I am struck by the tone I managed to keep.

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

That was how serious things were. I was in unbearable pain that medication did not seem to manage, and could barely tolerate. As long as I was lying flat, I was fine; the moment I put my left foot down, I was in agony.

The Path to Referral

I still remember the conversations that led to this, beginning on the Wednesday before. From the moment I saw my doctor, who took one look at the sole of my foot and immediately said, "This looks serious, I need to refer you," things moved quickly. She was soon on the telephone, urging the hospital to register me for the next available appointment as a matter of urgency.

She bandaged my foot, sent me home with painkillers, and secured an appointment for the Friday. When I attended the hospital that day, the staff decided I had to see the internist, who was not available until the Tuesday. No further palliatives were on offer, yet I somehow survived the weekend without the need for an emergency evacuation.

Admission Day

On the Tuesday morning I was chaperoned to the hospital. I took only a change of underwear, for I had no idea what to expect. For the first time in my life, I sat in a wheelchair, exhausted by the pain, when the internist, after the briefest of introductions, did not hesitate to say, "You're not going home; we have a bed for you upstairs."

I was registered, prepped, and soon wheeled on a gurney to the ward, where my vitals were taken and the process of medical triage and diagnosis began. They first ruled out diabetes by taking my blood pressure at my extremities, at my lower arms and below my calves. Then I was cannulated and given an intravenous infusion of saline solution with antibiotics. Thus began my first day in hospital. The very next day, my netbook was delivered to me, and with it the chance to write from my bed.

A Note on the Bread

With the netbook at hand, I set about recording the daily indignities, and here is the sort of thing that occupied me at the time.

"I ended up with the gluten-free bread meant for the patient in the next bed – tasteless, YuK! Yuk! I was, however, bothered because the bread was clearly labelled for the lady; I do not remember undergoing a gender reassignment overnight."

That, more or less, was my state of mind: frightened, in pain, yet still affronted by a bad slice of bread and a case of mistaken identity.

A Prognosis of Weeks

From a medical perspective, I am not expected to still be here. At prognosis, I was told my condition was treatable, but only if I could tolerate the treatment. The internist, who was also an MD, said, "If you cannot tolerate the treatment, you probably have only five weeks." Beyond that, studies at the time suggested that people presenting with my symptoms did not last a decade.

As it turned out, I could tolerate the chemotherapy, and it worked. For me to be here today, 17 years on, is a miracle of mercy and grace, blessed time rather than borrowed. I am thankful for each day. I have even survived another episode of cancer, and it is almost two years since I completed radiotherapy for that. That day is etched in my memory, and I am grateful to God, to my doctors, the nurses, my friends, my neighbours, colleagues, and the many well-wishers. You are all part of this amazing story.

Between the Pain and the Healing

I shall borrow an excerpt from the blog I wrote about my admission then, the closing paragraph, and whilst recollections might vary, through the pain and the ordeal I also saw beyond it. "Even in all this, one has many things to be thankful for; health is wealth, any day, any time. For all that suffer, I wish them a speedy recovery – yes, I got my netbook delivered to the hospital – there is much to talk about, between the pain, the sheets and the healing." (Yes, I used em-dashes in 2009.)

Thank you.

Blog - In hospital to kill the pain (September 2009)

A Gemini Notebook AI Podcast on this blog