When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.
I’ve been on a few of those in my time.
And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.
For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.
Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.
It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast
But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.
Then…
Are you inclined to go?
A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.
An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?
There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.
But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.
Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?
I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!
Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.
I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?
Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.
Right now.
I pick up the pen.
Character number one:
Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.
We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.
He had a wife, which brings us to,
Character number two:
Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.
Character number three:
The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.
Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.
Character number four:
Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.
More on her later as the story unfolds.
So far so good.
What’s the plot?
Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers? No, that’s been done to death.
Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world. Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people. That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people! There will be guns, and there will be dead people.
There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around. That’s better.
Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.
All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.
Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work. He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks. The phone rings. Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down. He’s needed. A few terse words, but he relents.
This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
One Day in Valletta? The One Spot That Will Make It Unforgettable
You’ve just landed in Malta’s capital for a 24‑hour lay‑over. The airport shuttle whisks you into the heart of a city that feels like a living museum: baroque façades, limestone streets, and a history that stretches back to the Knights of St. John. With only a single day, the temptation is to try and cram everything—the fortifications, the museums, the seaside cafés—into a frantic sprint.
Spoiler alert: You don’t need to do all of that. One place, perched above the glittering Grand Harbour, captures the soul of Valletta in a single, unforgettable glance.
The Spot: Upper Barrakka Gardens (and the Saluting Battery)
“From here you can see the whole island as if it were a postcard.” — A seasoned traveller who once walked the same limestone steps.
The Upper Barrakka Gardens are a terraced public garden perched on the highest point of the city’s fortifications. From its neatly trimmed hedges and marble benches you get a 360° panorama of the Grand Harbour—Fort St. Elmo, the massive three‑fort complex of Fort St. Angelo, the sleek yachts of the marina, and the iconic Azure Window silhouette far out on the horizon (even after its collapse, the sea still holds its memory).
Below the gardens sits the Saluting Battery, a set of historic cannons that fire a majestic salute at noon every day (and at sunset on special occasions). The sound reverberates across the water, a dramatic reminder of Valletta’s martial past.
Why This Is the Only Must‑See for a One‑Day Stopover
Reason
What It Means for You
Instant Context
The view instantly tells you why Valletta was a coveted naval base for the Knights, the British, and now the European Union.
Photographic Jackpot
One wide‑angle shot from the central terrace captures the whole harbour—perfect for Instagram, postcards, or a memory that lasts a lifetime.
Time‑Friendly
A 30‑minute stroll (plus a quick coffee break) fits neatly into any itinerary, leaving you time for a bite, a museum, or a stroll through the streets.
Free Entry
No ticket queues, no crowds fighting over a museum’s limited capacity—just you, the sea, and a slice of Maltese sky.
Cultural Touchstone
The noon salute is a living tradition; watching (or hearing) it makes you part of Valletta’s daily rhythm.
Bottom line: If you can see Valletta from the Upper Barrakka Gardens, you’ve essentially seen Valletta.
How to Make the Most of Your 1‑Day Visit
1. Get There Quick‑Style
Mode
Approx. Time
Cost
Tips
Public Bus (Routes 13/14/222)
15‑20 min from the city gate
€2
Grab a Tallinja Card for unlimited rides (good if you plan a quick museum visit).
Taxi / Ride‑Hail
5‑10 min (traffic permitting)
€8‑€12
Ask for the driver to drop you at the Upper Barrakka Gate (just off Strait Street).
Walking from the Grand Harbour
10 min from the cruise‑ship dock
Free
The promenade is a scenic intro—watch the yachts glide past.
Pro tip: If you land early in the morning, the gardens are serene and the light is perfect for sunrise photography. Arriving by 9 am means you’ll beat the midday crowd and still have time for a leisurely coffee.
2. Time Your Saluting Battery
Noon (12:00 PM) – The traditional “Noon Gun” is fired every day. Arrive a few minutes early to snag a good spot on the steps or on the low terrace.
Sunset (optional) – On the first Saturday of each month, the battery fires a sunset salute (check the Malta Tourism Authority’s calendar).
If your schedule doesn’t line up with the noon salute, don’t worry— the view is spectacular at any hour. A short wait for the cannon’s echo is still worth the dramatic soundtrack.
3. Pair It With a Quick Bite
Café Jubilee (steps down from the garden, on Strait Street) – A historic café that once served British officers. Try the Maltese pastizzi (flaky pastry with ricotta or peas) and a strong Maltese coffee.
The Governor’s Palace Café (behind the Upper Barrakka) – Offers a modest terrace with a view of the harbour; ideal for a light lunch of ħobż biż-żejt (Maltese bread with olive oil, tomatoes, and tuna).
Dining tip: Order the Ħobż biż-żejt “to go” and enjoy it on a bench within the gardens for an authentic, on‑the‑go experience.
4. Quick Optional Add‑Ons (If Time Allows)
Add‑On
Approx. Time
Why It Works
St. John’s Co‑Cathedral
45 min
Home to Caravaggio’s St. John the Baptist, a masterpiece you can’t see anywhere else.
The Valletta Waterfront (Birgu/Hardwicke)
30 min
A stroll along the promenade offers a different perspective of the harbour at sea‑level.
The Malta Experience
30 min
A short audio‑visual show that condenses 700 years of Maltese history—great if you’re a visual learner.
If you decide to squeeze one of these in, keep an eye on the clock—most attractions close by 5 PM in winter and 7 PM in summer.
Insider Hacks: Making a One‑Day Stopover Feel Like a Mini‑Vacation
Dress Light, Carry a Light Jacket – Valletta’s limestone retains heat; mornings can be crisp, evenings breezy.
Buy a Small Bottle of Maltese Water – The tap is safe, but a reusable bottle with a filtered cap keeps you hydrated on the go.
Download the “Malta Public Transport” App – Real‑time bus schedules help you squeeze in that extra museum or shop without guessing wait times.
Use the “Free Wi‑Fi” in the Upper Barrakka Gardens – Malta’s tourism board provides a stable hotspot at the garden’s central bench (just look for the “Visit Malta” sign). Perfect for uploading those new photos.
Respect the “No Smoking” Zones – The gardens are a smoke‑free sanctuary; a polite “thank you” goes a long way with the local guards.
A Day in Review: How It Felt to Stand on the Upper Barrakka
“When the noon cannon boomed and the wind carried the sound across the water, I realized I was standing on a piece of living history. The sight of the three forts guarding the harbour, the modern yachts bobbing beside centuries‑old stone— it was a conversation between past and present that no guidebook could fully capture.”
That’s the magic of the Upper Barrakka Gardens. In less than an hour you get the city’s story, its strategic importance, and its breathtaking beauty—all while sipping a coffee, feeling the Mediterranean breeze, and listening to the echo of cannons that have sounded for over three hundred years.
Quick Reference: Your 24‑Hour Valletta Cheat Sheet
Time
Activity
Details
7:30 AM
Arrive at Valletta (bus/taxi)
Head straight to Upper Barrakka Gardens
8:00 AM
Sunrise & Photo Session
Use a wide‑angle lens, capture the harbour
9:00 AM
Coffee & Pastizzi at Café Jubilee
Quick bite, soak up the street vibe
10:00 AM
Optional: St. John’s Co‑Cathedral
Pre‑book a ticket to avoid lines
12:00 PM
Noon Salute at the Battery
Arrive early for the best spot
12:30 PM
Light Lunch on the Gardens Bench
Enjoy Ħobż biż-żejt with a view
1:30 PM
Stroll Down to Strait Street
Explore local shops, murals
3:00 PM
Return to airport / ferry
Allow 30‑45 min for travel and security
4:30 PM
Flight onward
With a pocket full of photos and a memory that lasts a lifetime
Final Thought: One Spot, Infinite Memories
Travel isn’t always about ticking boxes; it’s about feeling the pulse of a place, even if you’re only there for a few hours. The Upper Barrakka Gardens give you that pulse—an elevated, panoramic snapshot of Valletta’s past, present, and future.
So the next time a layover lands you in the heart of the Mediterranean, skip the exhaustive itinerary and head straight to the gardens. Let the sea, the sky, and the echo of historic cannons fill your senses. In that single moment, Valletta will have shared its story with you, and you’ll leave the island with a day that feels more like a lifetime.
Safe travels, and may your next stop be just as unforgettable!
Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.
We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines frequently visited and had recommended.
Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’. It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.
It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over. It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.
Aside from the half-frown, half-smile, Alison was looking stunning. It had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary. On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to. She had adored it and me, for a week or so after.
For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.
She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.
I even had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room. Once more, I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me. Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others out there who were more appealing.
Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight. She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.
More than once, I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”
Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together. It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement. Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.
The battle lines were drawn.
Jimmy was looking fashionable, with a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it. Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.
The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out, she had straightened it. And took the moment to look deeply into my soul. It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.
Then it was gone.
I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me. A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.
When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.” It was not a question, but a statement.
I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’, but I accepted it with good grace. Sometimes, Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand. I guessed she was talking about the new job. “It was supposed to be a secret.”
She smiled widely. “There are no secrets between Al and me, are there, Al?”
I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.
I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al. I tried it once and was admonished. But it was interesting that her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not. It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.
Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil. As I understood it, the Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in. I didn’t ask if the Blaines thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.
And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realised I was looking at both of them. I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand. And yet, apparently, Alison did. I must have missed the memo.
“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”
No secrets. Her look conveyed something else entirely.
The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us. It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me. We were going to need it.
Then, a toast.
To a new job and a new life.
“When did you decide?” Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.
Alison had a strange expression on her face. It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind. Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.
Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realised it would be churlish, even silly, if I made a scene. I knew what I wanted to say. I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine or upsetting Alison. This was not the time or the place. Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.
Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing. If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decided there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control. “It’s the little things. They all add up until one day …” I shrugged. “I guess that one day was today.”
I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real? Or, I told you he’d come around.
I had no idea the two were so close.
“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me. I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points. It was all I could come up with at short notice.
“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted. “Alison was off to get some studying in with one of her friends.”
“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up and immediately got the ‘shut up, you fool’ look that cut that line of conversation dead. Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.
It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose. Care to join me, Al?”
A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend. “Yes.”
I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation. I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.
I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.
There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show. I was quite literally gob-smacked.
I drained my champagne glass, gathering some courage and turned to him. “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up. You know Alison is doing her law degree.”
He looked startled when he realised I had spoken. He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed. Or perhaps it was deliberate. She’d definitely had some enhancements done.
He dragged his eyes back to me. “Yes. Elaine said something or other about it. But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week. Perhaps I got it wrong. I usually do.”
“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.” I shrugged as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again. “This week or next, what does it matter?”
Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart. It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; she might have been telling me lies. If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?
We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”
“Trouble, I suspect. Definitely more money, but less time at home.”
“Oh,” raised eyebrows. Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details. “You sure you want to do that?”
At last, the voice of reason. “Me? No.”
“Yet you accepted the job.”
I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him. Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him. “Jimmy, between you and me, I haven’t as yet decided one way or another. To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”
“Barclay?”
“My boss.”
“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay who recently moved into the tower a block down from us. I thought I recognised the name.”
“How did Elaine get the job?”
“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”
“When?”
“A couple of months ago. Why?”
I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker. I felt sick, faint, and wanted to die all at the same moment. “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time. Too busy with work, I expect. I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”
I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted, and I knew I had to keep it together. I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down. I sucked in some deep breaths and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.
And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown. Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”
Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth. It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction. It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.
When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and me. I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter. If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did. She knew well enough that the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket. She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.
But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points. Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine. She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.
Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly. I chose to ignore her and pretend nothing had happened, rather than tell her how much I was enjoying the evening.
She had her ‘secrets’. I had mine.
At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent-up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me. It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, that Jimmy came looking for me. I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse. When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was, but neither made any comment.
It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which, to a large degree, it was for the other three. But I had achieved what I set out to do: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, as warily as a cat watches its prey.
I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree. It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.
We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaines back to the Upper West Side. But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer. She showed concern for my health and asked me what was wrong. It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.
She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it. Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.
And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.
It left me confused and lost.
I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.
And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.
The Praise and the Perils of Feedback: Why Loving the Applause Can Be Just as Dangerous as Fearing the Critique
There is nothing quite like the dopamine hit of hearing, “That was incredible!”
Whether you’re a writer, a designer, a coder, an entrepreneur, or just someone who poured their heart into a project, praise feels like validation. It tells you that your efforts mattered, that your voice was heard, and that you are on the right track.
Conversely, hearing that your work misses the mark—or worse, is actively bad—hits like a physical blow. The stomach drops, the defensive walls go up, and the inner critic starts whispering, “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
As professionals and creators, we spend a lot of time learning how to handle harsh criticism. We read books on thick skin, take courses on emotional resilience, and tell ourselves not to take things personally. But here’s the uncomfortable truth we rarely talk about: While negative feedback can crush your spirit, unearned or unexamined praise can quietly destroy your craft.
Welcome to the complex, psychological tightrope walk of professional feedback. Let’s explore the praise, the perils, and how to survive both.
The Sweet Trap of Praise
Let’s start with the good stuff. Praise is wonderful. It fuels us, builds confidence, and makes the late nights and gruelling revisions worth it.
However, praise carries a hidden hazard: complacency.
When people love your work, the temptation is to sit back and bask in the glow of approval. But in creative and professional spaces, comfort is the enemy of growth. When you believe you’ve created a masterpiece, you stop questioning your process. You stop looking for the flaws.
Worse yet, constant praise can lead to the “Pleaser’s Dilemma.” If you become addicted to the high of being told your work is amazing, you may unconsciously start tailoring your future projects to keep people happy. You begin making safe, predictable choices that guarantee applause, rather than taking the risky, innovative leaps that lead to true mastery.
The Peril of Praise: It tells you who you were yesterday, not who you could be tomorrow.
The Bitter Pill of Criticism
On the other end of the spectrum is negative feedback. Nobody enjoys being told their baby is ugly. When someone looks at something you’ve bled over and picks it apart, the natural biological response is fight-or-flight.
Yet, as we all know intellectually, criticism is often where the magic happens. A sharp critique acts like an X-ray machine; it exposes the structural weaknesses you were too close to see. It forces you to defend your choices, rethink your logic, and ultimately elevate your work.
However, criticism has its own set of perils, primarily noise pollution.
Not all criticism is created equal. Some negative feedback comes from a place of genuine expertise and a desire to help. But a lot of it stems from personal bias, misunderstanding, or a simple mismatch in taste. If you take every piece of negative feedback to heart, you risk “designing by committee”—twisting your work into a fragmented, unrecognisable mess trying to please every dissenting voice.
The Peril of Criticism: It can paralyse you, derail your vision, and make you abandon a great idea just because one person didn’t get it.
How to Navigate the Feedback Loop
So, how do we survive the intoxicating rush of praise and the stinging blow of critique without losing our minds—or our creative integrity?
Here are four rules for mastering the feedback loop:
1. Vet Your Sources
Not all opinions carry the same weight. Before you let praise inflate your ego or criticism break your heart, ask yourself: Does this person actually understand my goals? Do they have expertise in this domain?
A standing ovation from your mom is sweet, but it won’t help you improve your professional output.
A harsh critique from a bitter internet stranger isn’t worth losing sleep over. Curate a small “board of directors”—trusted peers, mentors, or editors whose taste you respect—and prioritize their voices above all others.
2. Separate Your Identity from Your Output
This is the holy grail of professional resilience. When someone says, “This report is confusing,” they are not saying, “You are an unintelligent person.” When you tie your self-worth to your work, praise becomes an addiction and criticism becomes an existential threat. Practice viewing your work as a separate entity—something you built, crafted, and put out into the world, but not the sum total of your human value.
3. Look for the Pattern, Not the Incident
If one person tells you your writing is too dense, they might just be having an off day. But if five people tell you your writing is too dense, put your ego in check and pay attention. True feedback is about patterns. When multiple reliable sources point out the same friction point (whether positive or negative), take note. That’s where the real data lives.
4. Stay Hungry (Even When You’re Great)
When you receive glowing praise, accept it gracefully, say thank you, and immediately ask yourself: How can I push this further? What’s the next level? Don’t let the applause drown out your internal drive for curiosity and improvement.
The Bottom Line
Getting feedback is an inescapable part of putting your work into the world. It’s wonderful when people love what you do, and it stings when they don’t.
Ultimately, both praise and critique are just data points. Praise tells you what resonated; criticism tells you where the friction is. Your job isn’t to chase the applause or run from the jeers—it’s to listen objectively, take what serves you, leave the rest behind, and keep creating.
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
“Turn around and head towards the trees, we’re not very far from you,” the voice in my head said.
I turned, saw the trees and moved towards them.
“Straight ahead.”
Then I could just see her, beside one of the tree trunks, under the cover of the canopy.
For the moment we would not be seen, but if someone was looking intently, we would be seen.
Jennifer was kneeling, her knees and weight keeping the assailant on the ground. She handed me the gun, a silenced Baretta, with the distinct aroma of a discharged bullet.
Jennifer had pulled off the balaclava. Jan.
Not working for Severin, but Dobbin. Or someone else?
“Who ordered the hit?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Not entirely unexpected.
I pulled out my phone and dialled the number for the Detective Inspector that had been at Maury’s crime scene. I knew there was going to be a need to call her in the not-too-distant future. And Jan needed to be in a safe place where she couldn’t be got at.
“Who is this?”
My number would have come up as a ‘private number’.
“We met at the hotel where Maury died.”
“The spy?”
“Of sorts. I’m sorry to say that his companion, Severin, is also now very dead in the rotunda at the Italian Gardens at Hyde Park. I’d get someone down here before the body is removed or found by a member of the public.”
I heard a scream and deduced it came from the rotunda.
“Too late. Hurry before the crime scene is contaminated.”
“Where are you?”
“Nearby. And if you’re especially quick, we have a surprise for you.”
Two constables arrived in four minutes, most likely nearby for another reason. The Detective Inspector and her Sergeant arrived within 20 minutes, but by that time Jennifer and Jan had retreated to the car, parked away from the gardens.
Anyone seeing us heading away would have picked us for three drunken fools escorting a friend who had passed out. Jan had struggled to get free, and it had been necessary to subdue her.
I had wanted to ask further questions, but circumstances didn’t allow it. Not yet.
Leaving Jennifer with Jan, securely tied up, but looking like she was sleeping of a long drinking session, I went back to the crime scene just as the Detective Inspector was coming out of the rotunda.
She recognised me and called me over to the tape that separated the public from the scene. The forensic team had just arrived and was setting up. I doubted she would let me into the crime scene area, but I had seen enough when I’d been there with Severin.
“Why are you here, and give me a good reason not to take you into custody.”
“He called me earlier and wanted to talk. I think he found out Maury was dead, and he was next. I didn’t kill him, but I know who did, but I’m not sure we’re going to be able to prove it.”
“That weedy little man that saved your ass the last time?”
“Richards or Dobbin? Either or together or one of their henchmen. Not sure, to be honest. All I knop is it’s possible Maury was killed during an intense interrogation. I suspect Severin was killed to silence him.”
“Because of what?”
“I believe it is about the existence of a formula for a biological weapon.”
I remembered another bang, and then it was lights out.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.
Or I could be underwater.
Everything was blurred.
I tried to focus, but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.
What happened?
Why was I lying down?
Where was I?
I cast my mind back, trying to remember.
It was a blank.
What, when, who, why and where are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.
I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.
I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.
“My God! What happened?”
I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.
I was blind. Everything was black.
“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”
Was I that poor bastard?
“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.
“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”
“What isn’t broken?”
“His neck.”
“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”
I heard the shuffling of pages.
“OR1 ready?”
“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”
“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”
Magic.
It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.
Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.
Or somewhere.
I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.
Was it night or was it day?
Was it hot, or was it cold?
Where was I?
Around me, it felt cool.
It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence. And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.
I didn’t try to move.
Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.
A previous unpleasant experience?
I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.
My grandfather.
He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that, he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way down the same path. I could smell the smoke.
I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.
I couldn’t.
I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later, the clicking of a pen, then writing.
“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk or move; all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
She had a very soothing voice.
Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.
“Everything is fine.”
Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.
“Just count backwards from 10.”
Why?
I didn’t reach seven.
Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.
It rose above the disinfectant.
She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.
It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.
The next morning, she was back.
“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”
More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.
The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”
Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.
How could that happen?
That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.
But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.
I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.
I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.
Sleep was a blessed relief.
The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?
Now I knew Winifred, the nurse, was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”
So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.
But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.
This time, I was left awake for an hour before she returned.
This time, sleep was restless.
Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Other people, I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.
Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.
The morning the bandages were to come off, she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.
“This morning, the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”
I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.
I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.
I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.
I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.
I felt the bandage being removed and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.
Then a moment when nothing happened.
Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.
Nothing.
I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.
“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later, I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.
Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.
She wiped my eyes again.
I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.
I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.
Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.
I nodded.
“You can see?”
I nodded again.
“Clearly?”
I nodded.
“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”
I couldn’t wait.
When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring; there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.
I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.
They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.
Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.
I found it hard to believe that if he were, he would be at a small country hospital.
“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”
Warning enough.
The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.
Then it was done.
The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with it. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.
I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said, noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate that he was available. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
She showed me.
I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.
And I still could not talk. There was a reason; he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.
“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”
I turned, and saw what appeared to be a relatively unkempt man standing behind me.
Jerome Kennedy. Astro physicist. A man who was mocked rather than revered for his theories on space, and in particular, space travel.
And those theories were, to put it mildly, interesting.
It was probably why the Admiral conscripted him for this voyage into the unknown.
“I though that was only in the imagination of television script writers.”
“Possibly, but we just witnessed something that none of us can rationally explain. One minute they were there, the next, poof.”
“That’s why you are along for the ride, to find explanations for the unexplainable. I look forward to your report.” Then, turning back to the navigator, “are we still in touch with the original alien vessel?”
“Just, and still heading towards Uranus.”
“Then let’s get after it, maximum speed when possible.”
I left the newly promoted number one in charge and went into the captains day room. I was still getting used to the idea of actually bring captain, because the aura of previous inhabitant of this room was still there. And it felt like he was in the room watching everything I did.
I shook my head, as if that would cast off the jitters I felt, and sat down behind the imposing desk, one thathad been made over a hundred years before, and from a vessel with the same name.
I still didn’t have a lot to put in any report to the Admiral, but had a lot to think about.
I brought up the navigation screen and looked at the suggested path from where we were to Uranus, and the time it would take.
There was a buzzing sound, and a face appeared on my screen. It was the Captain’s personal assistant for want of a better name, Louise Chalmers, an ex Lieutenant Colonel from the military, but not by much. She had retired into this position, and, I suspect, another was for the military to keep up to date on the Captain’s decisions.
“Come in.”
The door opened, she came in, and it closed behind her. There was no open door policy on this ship.
“Sir.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure if you are aware, but I am here to serve whomever the current Captain is, and since Captain V is not here, that would be you in his stead.”
I had read that she was his choice for P A, and that it was a personal matter, as usually Captains didn’t have such staff members.
“I thought you were on board to serve only the previous captain “
“Not so. If you read standing order 207615, you will realise my position was ratified as general crew member, serving the ship rather than an individual. My job is to make your job easier.”
While she was speaking, I fetched the standing orders, and the one she referred, and a quick scan proved such to be the case.
“In what way?”
“Paperwork, the vane of any officers existence I’m told, and to organise all activities of a non urgent nature, like bring the daily reports to you.”
I knew that captain had to be appraised of everything that happened on board, just not every day.
“I take it you have the reports?”
“I have, and unfortunately, as per regulations, I have to make sure you have received them. Your predecessor wanted me to summarise. I can do the same for you.”
This is a rocky piece of coastline, adjacent to the city by the sea.
It’s highly urbanized, and just behind where I was standing to take this photo, there’s a large carpark, a restaurant, and several shops, as well as a long pier to walk on.
On this side, about 100 yards put is a reef, popular with divers, and the day I took this there we several divers out.
But, if you discounted all of that knowledge and just let your imagination run free, there are so many other possibilities
Like, scoping out a landing spot to bring ashore contraband on what might be a very desolate spot, access gained only by walking along and hazardous path.
Like there might be an imminent landing of foreign soldiers about to set up the start of a clandestine incursion, before a more formal invasion. Or just one person, a foreign spy.
Or a couple of friends having a picnic away from the madding crowd.
I first started writing by longhand, still do, in fact, then graduated to my mother’s portable, then moved upwards into the electric world having a pair of IBM electric typewriters I bought form one of the places I worked as second-hand cast-offs.
Until that is, I could no longer buy ribbons for my IBM Selectric, so it had to go the way of the dinosaurs.
IT was a good thing, then, that computers and word processing software started at about the same time.
So…
I didn’t get to sit down in front of the computer, well, to write that is. I thought I would go searching for some inspiration.
Bad idea.
It’s just that in that short distance, from, say, the couch where you were reading the latest blog posts in the WordPress reader, and the writers chair, your preparation for writing ends up getting confused at some of the pro-Trump and anti Trump bloggers, because it’s hard to find anything relevant to the man and his politics.
People seem to be radically for or radically opposed and there’s no middle ground. How does Government work in such a political climate?
But, there you are, my attention has been distracted and unless I’m about to indulge in political satire, I’m off track, with an out of balance mindset, and therefore unable to write.
Perhaps I should not read blog posts, but the newspapers.
Or not, because they all have an editorial policy that leans either and one way or another, which means their views are not necessarily unbiased.
I was a journalist once and hated the idea of having to toe the editorial line.
I’m coming around to thinking that it’s probably best left to the dark hours of the night when you would think all the distractions are behind you. After all, isn’t that what daytime is for?
