Byron Lockwood ran the police department in Buffalo, New York. Diagnosed this year, nine weeks of treatment, finished in July, cancer-free. He said he made two promises when he was diagnosed: to ring the bell at the end of treatment, and to get the word out to other men. That is not the bit that stuck with me. The bit that stuck with me is where the reporter found him. Not in a clinic. Not behind a desk. Not at a podium with a banner behind him. She found him in the barber's chair, having his weekly haircut, talking to his barber. Sixteen years ago a friend told me about my prostate in an airport lounge. Not a doctor. Not a leaflet. A bloke standing next to me while we waited for a flight. I do not think that is a coincidence any more. I think men say the real thing sideways, in the places where they are already relaxed and already talking, and hardly ever in the room that was built for it. One other line from him, and I did laugh. On the hormone treatment: "I have a lot of respect for women who are going through hot flashes." That is a man being honest in public about something most men would not mention at all. In a barber's chair. That is how it travels. So, a question for the room, and I mean it practically. Where does the man in your life actually talk? Not where he is supposed to talk. Where does it genuinely happen - the car, the shed, the walk, the pub, the barber's, doing the washing up side by side? Tell me where, and I will tell you where the conversation should start. Because trying to have it across a kitchen table at six in the evening is the hardest version of it, and most of us keep trying that one first.