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.
Berlin’s Best-Kept Secrets: 5 Distinctive Attractions Beyond the Crowds
Berlin is a city that pulsates with history, art, and an undeniable energy. From the Brandenburg Gate to Museum Island, its iconic landmarks draw millions of visitors each year. But what if you crave a deeper, more intimate connection with the German capital? What if you want to explore places that offer unique character without fighting through throngs of tourists?
Fear not, intrepid explorer! Berlin is a treasure trove of distinctive attractions that, while captivating, manage to remain refreshingly uncrowded. Step off the well-trodden path and discover these five fantastic spots where you can soak in the atmosphere, history, and beauty at your own pace.
1. Tempelhofer Feld (Tempelhof Field)
Imagine a vast, open expanse in the middle of a bustling city – a former airport transformed into Berlin’s largest urban park. That’s Tempelhofer Feld. Once the site of the Berlin Airlift, this historic tarmac now serves as a unique recreational space where locals and savvy visitors come to fly kites, cycle, rollerblade, garden in community plots, or simply wander and feel the incredible sense of freedom.
Why it’s distinctive: Its sheer scale and stark, industrial beauty are unlike any other park. You can walk or cycle down the actual runways, feeling the ghosts of history under your feet, while enjoying panoramic views of the city skyline. It’s a testament to Berlin’s ability to repurpose its past into vibrant public spaces. Crowd factor: Its immense size ensures you’ll always find quiet corners, even on sunny weekends.
2. Gärten der Welt (Gardens of the World)
Tucked away in the eastern district of Marzahn-Hellersdorf, the “Gardens of the World” is an absolutely stunning, often-overlooked masterpiece of landscape architecture. This sprawling park features meticulously designed themed gardens from around the globe, including an authentic Chinese Garden, a peaceful Japanese Garden, a vibrant Balinese Garden, an English Tudor Rose Garden, and many more.
Why it’s distinctive: It’s a journey around the world in one park! Each garden is an exquisite representation of its cultural heritage, complete with traditional architecture, plants, and water features. The park also boasts a cable car (Seilbahn) that offers fantastic aerial views, adding an extra layer of unique experience. Crowd factor: Due to its location slightly outside the central tourist areas, it attracts primarily locals and those in the know, making for a serene and contemplative visit.
3. Teufelsberg (Devil’s Mountain)
For a taste of Cold War history, street art, and incredible views, head to Teufelsberg. This artificial hill, built from post-WWII rubble, housed a crucial US listening station during the Cold War. Today, the abandoned NSA facility stands as a captivating, eerie ruin, its iconic radar domes covered in vibrant graffiti art.
Why it’s distinctive: It’s a fascinating blend of history, urban exploration, and an open-air art gallery. You can wander through the former listening posts, climb the towers (at your own risk or with permission) for panoramic views across Berlin and Brandenburg, and marvel at the ever-evolving street art. It feels like stepping into a forgotten movie set. Crowd factor: While it has become more popular, its somewhat rugged approach (a short hike up a hill) and relatively low-key management keep the crowds sparse compared to central attractions.
This is not a light-hearted attraction, but it is profoundly distinctive and essential for understanding a darker chapter of Berlin’s history. Hohenschönhausen was the main remand prison of the East German secret police (Stasi) where political dissidents were interrogated and tortured. Today, it stands as a powerful memorial and museum.
Why it’s distinctive: The tours, often led by former prisoners or knowledgeable guides, offer an incredibly vivid and harrowing insight into the mechanisms of state oppression. You walk through original cells, interrogation rooms, and work areas, preserving an unvarnished and chilling historical record. It’s a sombre but vital experience that leaves a lasting impression. Crowd factor: While guided tours can have small groups, it’s a quiet, respectful atmosphere, far removed from the general tourist bustle. It demands contemplation, not quick photos.
5. Charlottenburg Palace & Gardens (Focusing on the Gardens & Belvedere)
While Charlottenburg Palace itself can draw a fair number of visitors, its magnificent Baroque gardens and charming subsidiary buildings offer expansive, less-crowded opportunities for exploration. The main palace tickets might have queues, but the vast grounds are free to roam and offer a regal escape.
Why it’s distinctive: As the largest and most significant palace in Berlin, it offers a glimpse into Prussian royal grandeur. But it’s the sheer scale and beauty of the meticulously landscaped gardens – complete with fountains, statues, a charming Orangery, and the tranquil Belvedere teahouse – that truly delight. The Belvedere, housing an exquisite porcelain collection, is often quiet and offers lovely views over the river Spree. Crowd factor: The gardens are so extensive that it’s easy to find solitude, especially away from the main palace entrance. The smaller museums like the Belvedere are also often blissfully uncrowded.
Berlin truly rewards those who are willing to venture slightly beyond the obvious. These five distinctive attractions offer rich historical narratives, breathtaking beauty, and unique experiences – all without the pressing crowds. So, next time you plan a trip to Berlin, consider stepping off the beaten path and uncovering a few of the city’s best-kept secrets. You might just find your new favourite spot.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
Dorothy Parker’s lament about the notebook she can never keep—and always promises to start tomorrow—is the ultimate writer’s paradox. It captures the eternal tension between the desire to capture inspiration and the chaotic reality of the creative mind.
Here is a breakdown of why this quote resonates so deeply, both as a portrait of Parker herself and as a universal human truth.
1. The Portrait of a Witty Realist
Dorothy Parker was famous for her biting wit, cynicism, and acute observations of human nature (as a founding member of the legendary Algonquin Round Table). Yet, here she is turning that sharp lens inward.
Instead of romanticising the writing process, she exposes the messy, disorganised truth. The quote is self-deprecating, funny, and deeply relatable. It reminds us that even brilliant minds struggle with the mundane task of object permanence and organisational discipline.
2. The Myth of “Tomorrow”
“I always say I’m going to keep one tomorrow.” Tomorrow is the magical land where all our bad habits are cured. Tomorrow, we will wake up organised, focused, and disciplined. By projecting the solution into the future (“tomorrow”), Parker acknowledges her failure in the present while maintaining a shred of hope. It’s a procrastination loop we all know too well: the intention is pure, but the execution fails, so we reset the clock to the next day.
3. The Irony of the Writer Without a Notebook
For a writer whose stock-in-trade was the clever quip, the biting review, and the memorable turn of phrase, losing her notebook is an occupational hazard. Writers are supposed to be collectors of stray thoughts, overheard dialogue, and fleeting images. Parker’s inability to keep track of her notebook suggests that perhaps the best lines weren’t dutifully written down—they were either remembered through sheer force of wit or lost to the ether forever.
4. The Universal Struggle
You don’t have to be a celebrated author to feel the sting of Parker’s words. We all have our version of the “notebook”:
The fitness tracker left in a drawer.
The budget spreadsheet we stopped updating by February.
The grocery list written on the back of a receipt that is now lost in the abyss of a handbag or car console.
Conclusion
Parker’s quote endures because it normalises our flaws. It tells us that it is okay to be messy, forgetful, and perpetually optimistic about tomorrow. And perhaps, somewhere in that chaos, Dorothy Parker didn’t need the notebook after all—her best material was already living rent-free in her head.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
Being an up-and-coming movie star was not all beer and skittles, as the saying goes.
Juliet gave her a look that I thought was her death stare, annoyed by her arrival at what might have been a critical point in the conversation.
Cecilia saw her and shook her head. “Oops, I’m intruding. Sorry.” She stood
“You’re not,” I said, which earned me a harsh look too, “We’re just having coffee, but you might want something stronger.”
“No, I’d better go.” She was looking directly at Juliet, putting the onus directly on her.
“Stay. We’re just having coffee.”
Cecilia waved to a waitress and sat down again. “Great, I wasn’t looking forward to going back to an empty room.”
For effect, she touched me on my arm, her seat being closer, and I could see what she was doing.
We opted for more coffee, Cecilia ordered a bottle of champagne, and three glasses, an attempt to smooth the rocky waters.
Juliet was definitely annoyed. Another death stare in Cecilia’s direction, then, “would I have seen anything you’ve starred in?”
“Me? I’m not a star, not a big name, just bit parts in series like Midsommer Murders, and Silent Witness. I get to play dead bodies and murder victims. My last role was a little better, I got a half dozen lines. But I’m just one of the hundreds of hopefuls out there.”
“Do you have a day job, then, if parts are so few and far apart?”
Interesting question, Juliet was thinking on her feet.
If she was trying to catch Cecilia out, but she was ahead of Juliet. “I do. I’d like to say that it’s being a high-class escort, but they make more money than I’d know what to do with, so I toil away as a supermarket checkout girl. Gives me the most flexibility regarding time off, and I get to meet so many different people, who become part of my repertoire of characters. What do you do?”
“Pathology.”
“A doctor.”
“A disgraced doctor that can’t practice medicine. Perhaps that might be material enough for another of your characters.”
Cecilia had one glass of champagne the moment it came, and then refilled for a second. She offered it to us, and I nodded, taking half a glass. Juliet declined.
“Played a hospital patient, a bomb victim, swathed in bloody bandages, been a doctor in the background once, got to spill coffee over another doctor.”
“What is the best part you’ve had?”
“A fallen nun.”
The best said about that the better, but not before my mind went to places it shouldn’t. I changed the subject. “What will you be doing after the festival is over?”
“Going home. I have an audition for a part in a film about mercenaries, they want me to be a mercenary would you believe?”
Apparently Juliet didn’t think so.
“But I have a spare few days if you want to show me more of Italy. I’d like to see a little of Tuscany, try some wine.”
Another touch and a smile.
“I thought you were going to Sorrento.” Not unexpected from Juliet.
“It can wait. I’ve been thinking of going home, and can take Cecilia to Tuscany, send her on her way, and go visit Larry’s mother at Sorrento “
“And if I take up your tour offer to come with you?”
Cecilia gave me a Juliet look.
“Then I’ll send you a text saying where and when I’ll meet you.”
Change bottle empty, Cecilia gave me one last look, one that would no doubt get a reaction from Juliet, and sauntered away.
Juliet watched her leave, and after she disappeared out of sight, said, “it seems to me she’s more than just a friend.”
“That’s just her, no doubt playing a role. She asked me if you were a girlfriend, and I said, once maybe, but not now. Seems she didn’t quite believe me.”
“I think we both know where that ship is headed.”
The rocks, perhaps. “It’s too soon after Violetta to contemplate anything like that. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t be friends for now, and see what the future brings.”
“Not much if what you say about this Larry character is true.”
“That said, you might also want to be careful. Larry’s not averse to using or killing close contacts of only to send a message. So, if feel unsafe, or he makes an overture, tell me and I’ll pass it on to my minders.”
“If he does, I’ll definitely let you know.”
“Good. It’s getting later. We should get back to the hotel.”
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledgedthat something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
If asking for and getting what you wanted was the technology of lesser beings, what was the other world’s technology like?
It was a question I asked myself, or perhaps a moment after, if the alien people we were currently talking to had difficulties with other more advanced people in their galaxy, where would we fit into the picture?
It was a worrying thought, because through time those that were inferior, in our world, were always subjugated by the more superior.
Granted we had spaceships making us seem reasonably advanced, but theirs were not like the one I was on. We thought we were very clever getting the ship we were on into space, but out there, now, I certainly didn’t feel clever, or superior.
There was also the revelation that we had been observed for a long time, our progress monitored, and basically rejected as likely candidates for being welcomed. Or being told we were not alone.
It must have been a dock to see us turn up one their proverbial doorstep, but not so great as out that they knew about us. It was a case of our reputation preceded us, and it wasn’t the good, only the bad.
It would be true to say, given everything we’d done to our world through greed and selfishness, that finding off-world destinations for colonization was a definite requirement rather than an option, and along with that, to find and learn from other civilizations, especially those that had been in the same plight.
And having found what we had always believed, well, a lot of us anyway, that there was other life in the galaxy, it wasn’t going to sit well that we were basically in the ‘cane man’ stage of development as a civilization.
It was not much of a starting point for any sort of negotiation, diplomatic or otherwise, along with the prospect of meeting the other civilizations in this quadrant if it could be called that, basically from behind that proverbial eight-ball.
We were still no wiser as to where these people came from, or that it was near our first intended destination, Proxima Centauri. We had a list NASA had compiled, earth-like exotic plants that were thought to be able to support life.
Several of the meetings between the world’s greatest scientific minds, when they were not off on one of their theoretical rants, all concluded that there should be life out in the universe somewhere, that all the known explanations of our existence were wrong, and we were descendants of aliens, possibly more than one species.
It was a fanciful notion that drew interesting reactions from the Darwinians who believed we descended from the apes, the church, still stuck on their Adam and Eve theory, and others that we evolved after the ‘big bang’, or that our DNA arrived via a colliding meteor, which had me puzzled.
Now, I was not sure what I believed.
The Russian captain, now free of being threatened with an alien weapon, had completed a full circuit of the bridge, taken a moment to stare out into space, and where our ships were standing off, then come and join us.
I had a hundred questions, but the first was, “What was your mission?”
“Beat you lot into space. To be honest we never expected you’d ever get that ship out of the space dock”
A year late, and people still arguing over staffing, fittings, weapons, technology, even bragging rights, if it hadn’t been for the Admiral, we might still be there.
“You didn’t answer the question, not specifically. No one just wants to be first, and especially not brave about it.”
“Not yet.”
“I assume you’ve been in communication back home?”
“Communication wasn’t one of the strong points since no one really knew how to make instant calls work, so not really. We’re basically flying by the seat of our pants.”
“I can see that, applying earth mentality to alien relations. I would have thought you and your superiors would take a more diplomatic approach.”
“We tried. You do realize were are technically inferior to this lot, and they don’t view us as being worthy of their time and effort. Apparently, they knew exactly who we are, and where we were from, something I find hard to believe.”
“Did you visit the planet?”
“We were stopped by a patrolling ship, and they actually fired on us.”
I was not surprised. We would have done exactly the same, in reverse.
“So, you started on the wrong foot and it only got worse from there.”
“What would you have done in the same situation?”
“Be less confrontational, but then, we’re on an exploratory mission, not one that takes whatever we can steal or in your case kidnap. Did you realize who those people were?”
“They approached us. Before we got to their planet we got a distress signal from what looked like a space station, quite a distance from the planet. We didn’t know it was a prison, only that there were people in distress. We rescued them, as anyone else would. That’s when the proverbial hit the fan.”
“Did you know they had specialist knowledge?”
“Eventually, when the aliens came after us, I told them I needed to know why they were being so angry about a few criminals. I offered them sanctuary if they were willing to share their knowledge. They agreed.”
“They didn’t want to go home?”
“No. They said they’d be killed by their own people. We call it treason, they call it something else, but its more or less the same thing. Now they’re going to kill all of us.”
This is the staircase down to the bedroom level of a two-story holiday apartment at the Rosebud Country Club on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria Australia.
It was the first time we stayed there for a long time.
However…
Innocuous stairs leading downwards to a black hole suggest a great many other things, especially if you left your imagination run wild.
For instance:
What if you are an only child being dropped off by your parents at your creepy grandparent’s place in the middle of the woods. Imagine driving up on a cold, wintry, windy, cloudless dark night, and when you get there, this old rambling mansion looks like the coven for witches.
What if when you get to the door this creepy old man who looks more dead than alive answers the door, and when you step over the threshold you hear what seems to be a high-pitched scream coming from outside the house.
What if, when you are being taken up the staircase, every single wooden step creaks or groans, that at the top of the stairs, every painting you pass, the eyes seem to follow you.
What if, when you explore, against the express wishes of your grandfather, you come across a door that leads down into a basement. There has to be some interesting stuff down there, a torture chamber, a medical laboratory with a half-finished Frankenstein, a workshop with coffins stacked in a corner.
I’m not one for writing Westerns; I’ll leave the honours for that to Louis L’Amour, whose acquaintance I made when I saw How the West Was Won on the big screen and then read the book.
That led to reading a few more by Zane Grey, but the stories’ reading, not the visual splendour of the West depicted in these films, made the actors almost secondary.
But my interest in watching Westerns had been fuelled by the fact my parents watched them on TV, though back in those days, they were in black and white, and starred John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Alan Ladd and, later on, Clint Eastwood among a great many others.
But the mainstay of my interest in the archetypal Western centred on John Wayne, whose movies may have almost the same plot line, just a substitution of actors and locations.
Often, it was not so much that John Wayne was in it as the actors he surrounded himself with, like Dean Martin, Ricky Nelson, Walter Brennan, and Robert Mitchum, who made the experience all the better.
Films like The Sons of Katie Elder, True Grit, Rio Bravo, and El Dorado.
Who can forget the vast open spaces, the dry dusty streets lined with wooden buildings and the endless walkways that substituted for footpaths? Bars in hotels, rooms overlooking the street, havens for sharpshooters, when bad guys outnumber the good guys, and typically the Sheriff who always faced insurmountable odds.
Or the attacks staged by Indians who were routinely killed, in fact, there was not one film I saw where they ended up winning any battle. Only in recent years did they get a more sympathetic role; one film that comes to mind is Soldier Blue, which may have painted them as savages, but a possible reason why they ended up so.
But for those without Indians, there were plenty of others whose intentions were anything but for the good of the settlers.
A lot of films ended in a classic gunfight. High Noon, 3:10 to Yuma are two, where the story led to gunfights between good and bad in unlikely places like El Dorado or Rio Bravo.
There are countless others I could name, like Shane, or became to be called, the spaghetti Westerns with Clint Eastwood, or finally, The Magnificent Seven, or Once Upon a Time in the West.
All have contributed to a picture in my mind of how the American West was: fearsome men, beleaguered sheriffs, people with good intentions, and those driven by greed and power. All of this plays out in the harshest of conditions, where life and death could be determined by a wrong word or a stray bullet.
And let’s not forget the role of the guns, Colt, Winchester, and Remington. And Smith and Wesson, and the gunslingers of the day. Some were good, but most, according to the film world, were bad.
So, against the lifelong interest of watching and reading about the archetypal view of the old West, shall I attempt to put pen to paper? Thank God it will be a work of fiction because I don’t think there are many who knew what it was really like.
The fluorescent lights of the cardiology suite buzzed with the sterile hum of a greenhouse kept at absolute zero. Agatha sat on the examination table, her posture straight, wrapped in a pale blue paper gown that felt entirely too thin for the weight settling into her chest.
Across from her, Dr Harrison—a man whose salt-and-pepper hair and rimless glasses screamed “academic tenure”—swivelled a heavy monitor toward her. The screen was a chaotic scribble of green neon peaks and valleys, looking less like human biology and more like the visualizer from an illegal warehouse rave in 1996.
“Well, Agatha,” Dr Harrison said, tapping a stylus against the desk. “The mystery of your palpitations is solved. Though I suspect you aren’t going to like the answer.”
Agatha offered a practised, reassuring smile—the same one she used when she had to deal with her more recalcitrant charities seeking more funds. “Try me. I have to deal with very difficult people daily. I’ve survived worse than medical jargon.”
“You have Hypertrophic Obstructive Cardiomyopathy, or HOCM,” Dr Harrison said, his tone shifting into clinical precision. “It’s a genetic condition. The muscular wall—the septum—between your left and right ventricles has grown abnormally thick. On top of that structural bottleneck, your telemetry shows intermittent Atrial Fibrillation. Your upper heart chambers are essentially quivering instead of beating effectively, and your thickened muscle is blocking the outflow of blood to the rest of your body.”
Agatha blinked. “Thickened. Like… a muscle getting stronger at the gym?”
“Not quite,” Dr Harrison said gently. “Think of it like a highway where the lanes have suddenly narrowed, and the engine is misfiring. Your heart is working overtime just to maintain basic output. That pressure, that fatigue you’ve been feeling—it’s your heart screaming for backup.”
Agatha looked down at her hands, resting in her lap. For nineteen years, she had traded neon mesh and strobe lights for cashmere cardigans and beige throw pillows. She had raised twins on her own in a hostile environment, earned a corner office, and mastered the art of quiet, predictable suburban grace. She had buried the girl who danced on speaker stacks until dawn so deep she almost forgot she ever existed.
And now, her own biology was staging a rebellion.
“Okay,” Agatha said, her voice remarkably steady. “What does the fix look like?”
Dr Harrison leaned forward, folding his hands. “First, we adjust your lifestyle. High-intensity cardio is out. Dehydration is your enemy. But pharmacologically, we need to slow your heart rate, allow those stiff ventricles time to fill properly, and strengthen the actual force of the contraction so you don’t pass out walking to your car.”
He tapped a few keys on his keyboard and printed out a prescription sheet, sliding it across the desk.
“We’re going to start you on Digoxin, commonly known as Digitalis,” Dr Harrison instructed, his eyes locking onto hers. “Your maintenance dose will be 0.25 mg taken orally, once daily.”
Agatha committed the numbers to memory. “Digitalis. Isn’t that derived from foxglove?”
“It is,” Dr Harrison nodded, looking mildly impressed. “A potent botanical turned pharmaceutical marvel. It works by inhibiting the sodium-potassium ATPase pump in your myocardial cells, which increases intracellular calcium. The result? Your heart beats slower, but with significantly more authority. It calms the erratic electrical chaos of the AFib and forces your thick heart muscle to coordinate its rhythm.”
“Sounds delicate,” Agatha murmured.
“It is a narrow-therapeutic-index drug, Agatha. Which means the line between helpful and toxic is razor thin. You cannot afford to be casual with this.” Dr Harrison’s voice dropped an octave, turning severe. “You need to understand the stakes. If you miss doses, your AFib will return with a vengeance, your heart rate will skyrocket, and your risk of a thromboembolic stroke climbs exponentially. But if you take too much, or if it accumulates dangerously in your bloodstream, Digoxin toxicity will set in.”
Agatha met his gaze, the old adrenaline junkie in her waking up, not with panic, but with a sudden, sharp clarity. “Define toxicity.”
“Nausea, profound vomiting, visual disturbances—specifically seeing a yellow-green halo around objects, or snowy vision,” Dr Harrison recited grimly. “And worse: severe, fatal arrhythmias. Complete heart block. If your serum potassium drops, the toxicity escalates rapidly. We will be doing routine blood draws to monitor your plasma levels.”
Dr Harrison tore the script off the printer and handed it to her. “Same time every day, Agatha. No doubling up if you miss a dose. No guessing. Treat this pill with absolute respect.”
Agatha took the paper. The white slip felt heavy, a tiny anchor tethering her erratic, wild heart to the rigid demands of survival.
She stood up, untied the paper gown, and began changing back into her sensible wool trousers and silk blouse. As she zipped her boots, she caught her reflection in the small vanity mirror by the sink. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, professional chignon; her expression was calm, composed, entirely suburban.
Nobody looking at her would ever guess the truth. Not the doctors, not her client, not even her children away at boarding school. But beneath her ribs, a fierce little engine was beating out a complex, dangerous rhythm—and Agatha was ready to take the wheel.
After she left, Dr Harrison wrote up his clinical notes and then slipped a piece of paper out from under the keyboard. Earlier in the day, the head of the practice called him in for a meeting. It was about the patient who was listed at 10 am, Agatha Montgomery.
He slid a piece of notepaper torn from a pharmaceutical company’s notepad with a telephone number. “After you have seen her, call this number.”
“Why?”
“That will be between you and the person on the end of the phone.”
“What about doctor-patient confidentiality?”
“Report, as requested, and then we shall speak of it no more.” That was all he said. The meeting was over.
