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.
David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
One Day, One Stopover, One Iconic Spot: Why Plaza de Mayo Is the Only Place You Need to Visit in Buenos Aires
You’ve got just 24 hours to soak up the spirit of Argentina’s capital. Instead of trying to cram a dozen neighbourhoods into a frantic sprint, focus on the beating heart of the city—Plaza de Mayo. With its rich history, striking architecture, and a handful of bite‑size experiences all within a few minutes’ walk, this single square will turn your layover into a truly memorable Buenos Aires story.
1. Why Plaza de Mayo Deserves the Spotlight
What makes it special?
How it translates into a “must‑see” for a day‑stop
Historical epicenter – The square has witnessed the May Revolution (1810), countless presidential inaugurations, and the rise of modern Argentina.
A quick walk here feels like stepping onto a living history book; you’ll understand the city’s soul in 30 minutes.
Architectural showcase – From the pink‑hued Casa Rosada to the neoclassical Cabildo and the grand Metropolitan Cathedral, styles span colonial, French‑Beaux‑Arts, and modernist.
Photo‑ops galore—your Instagram feed will thank you.
Café culture – Right on the edge sits the legendary Café Tortoni, the oldest coffeehouse in the country.
A perfect spot to refuel with a café con leche and a medialuna (Argentinian croissant).
Central hub – All major transport lines (Subte Line A, numerous bus routes, and the nearby Retiro train station) converge here, making it easy to reach even on a tight schedule.
No time‑wasting detours—arrive, explore, and hop back on the plane.
Live atmosphere – Street musicians, political rallies, and open‑air vendors create a vibrant, ever‑changing tableau.
You’ll leave with more than pictures—you’ll carry a slice of Buenos Aires life.
In short, Plaza de Mayo condenses the city’s history, culture, cuisine, and energy into a single, walkable rectangle.
2. The 3‑Hour “Plaza de Mayo Sprint” Itinerary
Even if you only have a few hours, you can cover the essentials without feeling rushed.
Time
Activity
Insider tip
0:00 – 0:15
Arrive & Orient – Step off the Subte (Line A) at Plaza de Mayo station. Take a moment on the main terrace to spot the iconic pink façade of the Casa Rosada.
Look up to see the Balcony of the Casa Rosada—the spot where Eva Perón famously addressed crowds.
0:15 – 0:45
Casa Rosada & Plaza Tour – Walk around the square, snap photos of the Monumento a los Caídos and the Obelisk of the Revolution. If you’re lucky, a guard change ceremony might be in progress.
The guard ceremony occurs at 10 am on weekdays—check the schedule if you can.
0:45 – 1:20
Cabildo & Metropolitan Cathedral – Pop inside the historic Cabildo (entry is free) to see the original colonial council chambers, then head next door to the Cathedral where Pope Francis was ordained.
Bring a small donation for the Cathedral’s “café” (they serve a surprisingly good espresso).
1:20 – 2:00
Coffee Break at Café Tortoni – Order the classic “café con leche” and a medialuna; soak up the Belle Époque interiors, complete with marble statues and vintage newspapers.
Ask the staff for the “Tortoni special”—a mini‑tour of the literary figures who once frequented the place.
2:00 – 2:30
Stroll Down Avenida de May – Walk the tree‑lined avenue toward Plaza San Martín, admiring the early‑20th‑century French‑style buildings.
Spot the Mansard Roof of the Lloyd Palace—a great quick photo.
2:30 – 3:00
Optional Quick Bite – Grab a choripán from a street vendor or a quick empanada at El Sanjuanino (just a few blocks away).
If you’re a meat lover, a bite of bife de chorizo at the nearby Café Los Angelitos won’t disappoint.
Total: ~3 hours – leaving you ample time to return to the airport, freshen up, and board your next flight without stress.
3. Practical Details: Getting There & Getting Out
What you need to know
Details
Closest airport connections
From Ezeiza (EZE), a 45‑minute taxi or rideshare to Plaza de Mayo is the simplest. From Aeroparque (AEP), a 20‑minute taxi or the Aerobús to Retiro and a 5‑minute walk.
Subway
Line A (the oldest line) stops directly at Plaza de Mayo. Trains run every 5‑7 minutes; tickets cost ARS 30 (≈ US 0.16).
Walking
The entire itinerary is a compact 1‑km loop—wear comfortable shoes.
Safety
Plaza de Mayo is a police‑patrolled zone, but stay aware of pickpockets, especially near market stalls. Keep your wallet in a front pocket.
Language
Spanish is the default, but most staff at Café Tortoni speak basic English. Having a few phrases (“un café con leche, por favor”) goes a long way.
Currency
Argentine pesos are cash‑friendly; most places accept cards, but have a small amount of cash for street vendors.
Time zone
Buenos Aires is UTC‑3 year‑round (no daylight‑saving).
4. Beyond the Square: If You’ve Got Extra Time
If your layover stretches to a full day, use Plaza de Mayo as a launchpad:
Nearby Neighborhood
Why it’s worth a quick detour
San Telmo (10 min walk)
Antique market on Sundays, tango cafés, and the iconic El Zanjón museum.
Puerto Madero (15 min by taxi)
Modern skyline, waterfront restaurants, and the Fragata Sarmiento museum ship.
Recoleta (20 min by taxi)
Famous Recoleta Cemetery (Eva Perón’s tomb) and upscale boutiques.
Even a brief 20‑minute stroll through any of these districts will deepen your Buenos Aires impression, but none will match the concentrated punch of Plaza de Mayo.
5. Capture the Moment: Photo Checklist
Shot
Description
Casa Rosada façade
Pink walls, iconic balcony—best in golden hour (early morning or late afternoon).
Cabildo doorway
Colonial arches; frame with the flagpole for a historic vibe.
Café Tortoni interior
Marble busts, stained‑glass ceiling—look for the vintage espresso machine.
Street performer
Capture the spontaneous tango or folk music that often fills the square.
Avenida de May
Leading‑line shot of the tree‑lined boulevard disappearing into the distance.
Pro tip: Use portrait mode for the architectural details and wide‑angle for the bustling square; you’ll get a professional‑looking gallery without a DSLR.
6. The Takeaway
When you have only one day to experience Buenos Aires, don’t chase every trendy barrio. Plaza de Mayo offers a microcosm of the city’s soul—history, politics, art, coffee culture, and that unmistakable Argentine buzz—all in a walkable, easy‑to‑reach spot.
By centring your layover around this iconic square, you’ll leave the capital with a story, a few unforgettable photos, and a taste of Argentine life—the perfect souvenir for a traveller on the move.
“If you want to understand a city, stand where its heart beats.” — Your Buenos Aires adventure, distilled in a single plaza.
Ready to make your stopover unforgettable? Pack a light jacket, a camera, and an appetite for history, then let Plaza de Mayo do the rest.
Happy travels, and enjoy your fleeting yet fabulous taste of Buenos Aires!
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
“Nothing Turns Out Quite in the Way You First Thought It Would”: Unraveling Agatha Christie’s Masterclass in Misdirection
“Nothing turns out quite in the way you first thought it would.”
If there is a single sentence that encapsulates the entire literary legacy of Agatha Christie, the Queen of Mystery, this is it. While not penned as a plot synopsis, this sentiment serves as the heartbeat of every locked-room murder, every gathering of wealthy suspects in a snowbound mansion, and every ticking-clock international conspiracy she ever crafted.
Christie didn’t just write whodunits; she wrote masterclasses in human expectation. She understood that the human brain loves patterns, leaps to conclusions, and is easily blinded by its own biases.
In this post, we’re going to explore why this philosophy defines Christie’s enduring genius, how she used it to trick generations of readers, and what this truth about life and storytelling can teach us beyond the final chapter.
The Anatomy of a Christie Twist: Playing with Perceptions
Why do we fall for Agatha Christie’s tricks time and time again? Because she understood the difference between seeing and observing—a distinction famously highlighted by her most brilliant creation, Hercule Poirot.
When we pick up a mystery novel, we enter a silent contract with the author. We want to solve the puzzle. We gather the clues, analyse the alibis, and try to outsmart the detective. But Christie’s brilliance lies in subverting the very tools we use to solve her puzzles.
1. The Obvious Suspect vs. The Unseen Observer
In classics like The Murder of Roger Ackroyd or And Then There Were None, Christie sets up an expectation. She presents a clear suspect or a traditional formula, luring us into a false sense of security. We think we know the rules of the game.
Then, she pulls the rug out from under us. The narrator is the killer. The person we thought was dead is actually running the show. The least likely person—often the unassuming governess, the quiet doctor, or the bumbling sidekick—turns out to be the mastermind.
2. Psychological Misdirection
Christie rarely relied on cheap tricks or hidden clues revealed only on the final page. Instead, she used psychological misdirection. She played on our societal prejudices and assumptions:
We assume the butler didn’t do it because that’s a cliché. (Until Christie makes the butler do it—or makes us suspect him so thoroughly that we miss the real culprit).
We dismiss the elderly spinster or the eccentric foreign detective as harmless.
We assume people act out of rational, linear motives (greed, jealousy), when in reality, human emotion is messy, contradictory, and entirely unpredictable.
By the time the truth is revealed in the drawing-room denouement, we are left staring at the page, muttering, “Of course! It was right there the whole time!”
Life Imitates Art: Why Nothing Ever Goes to Plan
Beyond the realm of fiction, Christie’s words—“Nothing turns out quite in the way you first thought it would”—resonate deeply with the human experience.
How often do we map out our lives with the precision of a Poirot timeline, only for reality to hand us a completely different script?
Career paths twist and turn into unexpected industries.
Relationships evolve in ways we never anticipated during the first flush of romance.
Challenges we dread turn out to be catalysts for our greatest growth, while moments we expected to bring pure joy sometimes carry unforeseen complexities.
We live in a constant state of plotting. We form hypotheses about our careers, our friends, and our futures. And yet, life is the ultimate mystery writer. It loves a good plot twist.
Rather than viewing this unpredictability with fear, Christie’s work invites us to embrace it. The thrill of a mystery isn’t knowing the ending from page one; it’s the journey of discovering that the truth is far more intricate, surprising, and fascinating than we ever could have imagined.
Lessons from the Queen of Crime
What can we take away from Agatha Christie’s philosophy of unexpected outcomes? Here are three ways to apply the Queen of Crime’s wisdom to daily life:
Question Your Assumptions: When faced with a problem, pause. Are you reacting to the facts, or are you reacting to your preconceived notions about how things should be?
Expect the Unexpected: Rigidity leads to frustration. When life deviates from your master plan, treat it not as a disaster, but as an intriguing plot twist.
Look for the Unseen Clues: Sometimes, the most important details in our lives are the ones we dismiss as insignificant. Pay attention to the quiet moments, the subtle shifts, and the perspectives you usually overlook.
The Enduring Magic of the Unexpected
Agatha Christie remains the best-selling fiction writer of all time for a reason. She tapped into a universal truth: we are endlessly fascinated by the gap between what we expect and what actually happens.
Whether she was writing about cyanide in a teacup or the winding, unpredictable nature of human fate, Christie reminded us that certainty is an illusion. The real magic happens in the twists, the turns, and the stunning realisations that change everything we thought we knew.
So, the next time life doesn’t turn out quite the way you thought it would, channel your inner Hercule Poirot. Adjust your lapel, embrace the complexity of the puzzle, and get ready for a brilliant twist.
What is the biggest plot twist life has handed you so far? Did it turn out better—or stranger—than you first thought? Let’s discuss in the comments below!
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
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…
I was straight back to the scenario where O’Connell was expendable after performing his role, and that Anna was cleaning up before leaving, or she had already gone.
O’Connell had no doubt told her about the Peasdale address, and the fact he’d told me, and she might have assumed that there would be a window of opportunity to get some belongings at her flat.
Would she be there?
I switched off the light, backtracked to the door, and then went back outside into the passage. Jennifer appeared beside me.
“O’Connell’s in there, dead. Shot in the head.”
“Your friend?”
I’m not sure how she came up with the designation, ‘Your Friend’, but after the shortened version of my time with Josephine, and the fact we had a hotel room together, could have inspired such a thought.
I went to her flat and listened at the door.
Nothing. There was no light showing under the door, so this could be a fruitless exercise. The same operation as before, Jennifer waited outside, and I would go in. It didn’t take as long to pick her lock. Practise.
I opened the door, the gun in hand, and went slowly into the room.
There was a glow from what might be a night light coming from the end of the passage where the bedroom was.
She was in, or she forgot to turn off the light.
It was also not so dark in this flat, with several pilot lights casting red, blue or green hues over the furniture and floor. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.
“Drop the gun, Sam.”
Josephine, now just discernible across the room, a gun of her own aimed at me.
I shot her. Without hesitation.
She was taken utterly by surprise, dropping her own weapon and spinning sideways into the arm of the chair, lost balance and crashed down to the floor.
Jennifer was in the door and had it closed behind her, and switched on the light. We were both blinded for a second, enough time for Josephine to reach for her weapon which hadn’t fallen very far from her and for Jennifer to shoot her gun hand.
I remembered in that instant, that Jennifer scored the highest in gun training. She would be ‘deadly’ Maury had said.
“OK, enough, what the hell was that for?” Jo said, stretching out on the floor and holding the hand that Jennifer shot.
“You played me, Anna.”
“Operation necessity. I had to know what you were up to. O’Connell said you were going to be a problem.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Me? No. He was dead when I got here. We were here just to get our away bags. How did you guess?”
“Lucky. I was going to the other flat, but I figured it was too new for O’Connell to probably tell you. He may have been planning to double-cross you too. It seems the way of things in this op. Where are the USBs?”
“What makes you think I have them?”
“The fact you just said them, when all we knew for sure was there was only one. I assume you have one each for safety’s sake, and coming back here, one or other of you was going to pull a double cross.”
“Until someone else got another idea. Right now, you have a window of opportunity, Sam. A big payday, for the two of you.”
“Tempting, but no. I’m not in this for the money.”
“Then you’re a fool. No one does anything except line their own pockets. If you give the USBs to your chief, what do you think they’re going to do? O’Connell got five million, the person who gave him the money will get ten at the very least. They’re not interested in saving the world, Sam.”
She was probably right.
I looked at Jennifer. “Are you in this for the money, Jennifer?”
“I just want my old life back.”
“Then keep an eye on the door, we’ll be having visitors very soon. Anyone who comes through it using a key, disarm them. Don’t hesitate.”
Back to Anna. “Where are they? Bear in mind I have no qualms about shooting you until you do tell me, so make it easy on yourself, because the next thing I shoot at is your knees.”
A moment’s thought, and a shot into the wall that just missed her head, decided the matter.
“In the backpack pocket.”
She nodded her head in the direction of the backpack sitting on the kitchen bench.
I went over and in the third pocket I opened there were two USBs in a plastic bag.
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Destroy them. The world doesn’t need any more pandemics any time soon.” I went over to the microwave oven and put them in and set it running.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
Of course the first action I took was to call on security to disperse people across all decks and departments to make sure no one boarded our ship unnoticed.
We needed to find a way of detecting such boardings without having to deploy people, a matter I’d bring up at the first departmental heads meeting.
If there was ever going to be a time for it.
“Mallory to the Captain, can we meet urgently?”
Mallory was one of the three men in the shuttle that brought me to the ship, and he was, if I remember rightly, one of the scientists, his field being scanners. Just the man to ask about detecting alien presences.
“Come up the the bridge. We’ll talk in the day room.”
I handed over the bridge to number one, and met Mallory at the elevator. He took a few moments to take in the bridge, the screen, now showing both Uranus, and several of its moons.
“Great view “
“Sometimes it’s better not knowing what’s out there,” I said.
His expression told me that comment might have been a little too flippant in the circumstances.
“Come this way.” I led him to the day room, opened the door and followed him in.
“I assume,” I said after waiting till the door was closed, “that it’s not a matter you wanted to share with the rest of the bridge.”
“That’s for you to determine. But it’s about the ship that was just here.”
“We believe it’s alien.”
“It’s not.”
OK. That was a revelation, but how could he tell the difference? My immediate guess, they had no previous alien profile to run it against.
“How so?”
“We have scanners, and we have scanners.”
Confusing to say the least, but I think I knew what he was trying to say. We had a military presence, but until I became captain, I didn’t realise we also had military hardware.
What else did we have?
“We have the ability to scan other vessels, and in certain circumstances, check for lifesigns inside. But we only had earth created ships to use as a subject for testing, simply because we know the compounds used in our vessel’s structure, including this one.”
“So anything made by us can be scanned?”
“Yes, and that ship just standing off us, we could scan it and what and who was inside, which means it’s not an alien vessel.”
That was perfectly good reasoning, except as far as I was aware, this ship was not completely earth technology.
“There might be only one way to create the outer skins and superstructure, in any ship.”
“That’s possible, yes. But we anticipated that we might eventually run into something we couldn’t penetrate until we could work out what the ship was made of and then work out how to penetrate it. That so called alien ship, we could see inside.”
“It could still be an alien ship. After all, I assume you adjusted the scanners to work through the material this ship is made of, and I doubt you’re going to argue the metal used was the result of an accidental discovery.”
He looked uncomfortable, and for a moment I thought he was going to try, but just sighed. “It’s possible, but unlikely.”
“OK then, does it fit the profile of any earth vessels?”
I knew of about 200 different types of ship out here in space, not all as well as some, and the computer recognition system had hundreds more variations, so if we ran into another ship, we could identify it.
“One or two, but it’s been modified. Also, there’s only six people on board, and from our scan, it seems all were recently in custody at a Mars penitentiary outpost. They were given a so called vaccination which put nanites in their system so they could be recognised if or when they decided to rebel.”
“Are they escaped prisoners?”
“Given the discussion I just had with security, that seems to be the case. But to verify those assumptions I got onto the Mars station, and it seems they are unaware of any missing prisoners or ships, but have sent someone over to check “
“Don’t they guard prisoners anymore?”
“They do, but with robots, and due to the remoteness, infrequent fly bys. They were coming up for one.”
“How infrequent?”
“I was told a few months, but I suspect it’s been longer. As for getting a ship, a well organised gang could have rescued some space junk and brought it back to life. It’s possible. And space still is a bit like the wild west.”
A recent problem, now that there was an ever increasing demand for travel and freight across our particular galaxy. Venus, Mars had galactic hotels, Saturn a space station and fly bys, and mining on various of the planets.
It was disappointing to realise our first contact wasn’t a first contact with a new world, just criminals expanding their horizons.
“Do they have weapons?”
“If we do, they do. We think the two smaller ships are modified troop carriers, the larger vessel, a freighter, but they have tinkered with the exterior to make people think they’re something or someone else.”
“They move pretty fast, much faster that anything we’ve got.”
“Except for this ship which may have surprised them, as well as some of us.”
“Anything else I need to know about?”
“About the other ships no. The military boys will want to join in the discussion of our next move. Something else you might want to know is that we were checking the logs and indemnified where those so called aliens came aboard, and to safely transport from one point to another, you need markers at each end.”
“And you found them?”
“In two places, and immediately removed so there will be no more unwanted boardings.”
“It raises the question…”
“A traitor on board? I don’t believe so, because they looked like they’d been installed as part of the decking. The traitors are back at the space station where the vessel was built.”
“OK. We’d better get everyone in the conference room and work out what we’re going to do next. Don’t go too far.”
I remeber once being told that if you shoot for the moon, you’ll land in the clouds, if you shoot for the tree tops, you’ll finish up back where you started from.
It was a silly analogy, but I always remembered it when I looked up at the sky and saw clouds.
That was back in those hazy carefree days just after you were finished with school and you had your whole life in front of you. Your parents were there as the safety net, and were still proud of your scholastic achievements, and were not in too much of a hurry to hustle you out of the house.
But what happened when there’s a recession that came upon everyone without any warning.
Stocks plummeted, people lost their life’s savings, those with mortgages and loans suddenly finding that along with unemployment came no income, no ability to pay the bills, and therefore lost everything.
Although I never said it, I was thinking what good was an education when the whole world had gone to hell in a handbasket.
Two things I remember from back then, which in the context of disaster, wasn’t all that long ago. Firstly, my father making us children go camping from before we could walk, and with it, to survive with nothing but the clothes on our backs, and our wits.
It had happened to him, as a member of am expedition in Africa in his younger days, thinking that he might become the next great explorer, or archeologist, and finishing up getting lost, even though he asserted the other members had deliberately left him behind.
And secondly, that it was essential that we forge working relationships with any and all those who were like minded, such as those who wanted to be saved, not those who expected everyone else to so the work. It was obvious he had met a lot of those type of people too.
It served us well.
When nations began turning on each other, when essential resources like electricity and fuel stopped being distributed and rationed, when food suddenly became scarce, that’s when the real trouble started. My father said, at the outset, what would happen, and was glad our mother was not there to see it.
Then, when neighbours attacked neighbours once food became scarce, it was time to leave. The pity of it was, he died defending us, even after offering up some of the food we had stored away, but that had not appeased a hungry or angry mob.
His last words, “Go to where we said we would go, and remember everything I’ve taught you” were etched in my brain, and my brother and I did as he asked.
But, even knowing where we had to go, and how to get there, a plan of action made many years before, and trialled in recent years with success, nothing in the past could have prepared us for the journey.
Have you ever heard someone say it was better in the old days?
I have.
I’ve been guilty of saying it myself.
But was it?
When I was a child, there was no such thing as Personal Computers or calculators. Everything came out of books, and maths had to be done in your head or worked out methodically on paper.
Holidays were about joining up with other neighbourhood children and making your own entertainment. I remember that for a long time, as a child, we didn’t have television.
It was down to the meadows near the creek to pick blackberries, swim in the creek, or raid new housing estates for offcuts of timber to build a cubby house.
Unlike today, with television, video players, movies on demand, personal computers, Game Boys and a plethora of other entertainment choices.
Were we better off back in the old days?
We were in the sun with no idea that sunburn led to cancer and death. Sunscreen was unheard of, so in that regard, maybe not.
In those same ‘old days’, the only telephones were in the house and were expensive to use. You could have a coloured phone so long as it was black and made of Bakelite. Back then, it was the days of telephone boxes, the only way you could make a phone call when away from home
Now every man and his dog has a mobile phone/computer while on the move. You see people everywhere, mobile phone in hand, staring at the screen, in cafes, on the bus or train, even walking down the street.
And then, when I was a child, I could remember my father saying it was not like the old days for him, so I had to wonder what he meant.
Perhaps it is an oft-used but less understood lament for a time when we remember we were happy and carefree, those days before mortgages, children, maxed-out credit cards, and the children’s mobile phone bills.
And certainly history to be discovered, that we might write a novel of what was an undiscovered time we never knew.
