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In a word: Incline

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.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

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.

The 2am Rant: All I wanted was a cup of coffee

How can something so simple become so complicated and complex?

In New York, it seemed impossible to get exactly what you would like. The coffee there is driven by what the machine interprets you want, aside from the language constraints due to the fact that English (or American) comes in a zillion different flavours.

So, what do I like (you notice I don’t say ‘want’)

A double shot Latte with two sugars and half a shot of vanilla. That’s in a large cup.

As we all know coffee can come in a regular, large, or extra-large cup, but hang on, these cup sizes sometimes have names, and you need to know what these names are.

My efforts to point out the cup size in New York often had horrendous consequences when the cup piles were close together. Sometimes it was a double shot in a regular cup and a single shot in an extra-large cup.

One even had the name benti, or bento, or something like that.

Being old and decrepit, my memory for cup sizes isn’t all that great, so using a name in one shop that doesn’t have that size, well, you get it.

It seems not only coffee makers in New York have a problem producing consistent coffee.

Perhaps, then, that’s half the charm of drinking it, the fact that no cup is ever the same.

And, when an outlet gets it right, finally, they go and change the coffee bean supplier, and all of a sudden, it’s bitter, or it’s lighter, as coffee shops try to reduce their costs and maximise profits.

Six dollars is a lot of money for a cup of coffee unless of course, you have to feed that addiction, in which case, you’ll have a cup at whatever the cost.

I need coffee right now, so it’s off to the cupboard to see what’s available.

Maccona instant, which is not bad

A Nespresso long black – ok, don’t get me started with Nespresso because they have numbers from 1 to 12, possibly more, recognising strengths, and I usually have a double shot using a 10 and a 12.

And, yes, they fool around with the type of beans they use because there seem to be inconsistencies in potency from time to time.

Then there are coffee bags, much the same as tea bags, which produces and interestingly flavoured brew which I’m still trying to figure out. It tastes like coffee, but there’s something else there, like … paper?

I opt for an instant.

Yes, I needed a coffee after writing this.

What I learned about writing: What’s that coming out of left field?

The Unscheduled Genius: Why Your Best Ideas Always Arrive at the Worst Time

Ever notice how the universe, especially the creative part of it, seems to have a mischievous sense of humor? You meticulously plan your “creative time” – perhaps a tranquil morning, a dedicated hour in your study, or a quiet walk designed to invite inspiration. You set the stage, dim the lights, perhaps even put on some Ravel. And what happens? Crickets. Or worse, a sudden surge of thoughts about what you need from the grocery store.

But then, just when you’re least prepared, least expecting it, and frankly, least wanting it… bing!

The Myth of the “Planned” Muse

We try, don’t we? We attempt to “train our thoughts.” Like you, I’ve tried to cultivate that sacred shower routine, where warm water and the hum of the fan are supposed to unlock the subconscious. Or that quiet spot in the lounge, by the window, away from the digital din. It’s an idyllic vision of creative flow.

You close your eyes, drift along to classical music, patiently waiting for the imagination to kick in. You can’t force it, you know this. It’s a delicate dance, a subtle invitation. But more often than not, the muse remains stubbornly elusive, probably off having a coffee with procrastination.

Modern Life’s Cruel Interventions

And just when you do manage to carve out a moment of potential quiet, the modern world intervenes with a jarring cacophony. That quiet spot by the window? Now it’s a battleground against the relentless chime of the phone, those infuriating scam calls threatening to sever your internet, your telephone – practically every wire that comes into the house. Don’t you just hate that? It’s enough to make you disconnect everything, not just from the internet, but from society itself!

It’s ironic, isn’t it? We create these zones of peace, only for them to be invaded by the very chaos we’re trying to escape.

The “Bing!” Moment: A Master of Inconvenience

The truly infuriating part is that you weren’t even considering a new idea. You’re like me; you’ve already got so many books, so many projects “on the go” that the thought of another one feels like a mild existential threat. But the sad truth is, you have no control over it.

And then it happens.

Five minutes to three. After a frantic call announcing yet another storm in a teacup. You’re racing out the door, setting the alarm, locking the door, keys in hand, mind a whirlwind of imminent tasks and minor crises. Your focus is entirely on the next urgent thing. And then… bing.

The idea is there. Out of left field. Fully formed, shimmering in front of you, a complete narrative arc or a brilliant solution to a plot hole you hadn’t even realized existed. It’s a cruel joke of the brain, choosing the most inconvenient stage for its grand unveiling.

Embracing the Chaos (and Your Phone)

So, what’s a creative soul to do in this beautifully messy dance with inspiration? You adapt. You become a ninja of spontaneous capture. That phone, once a source of incessant distraction and scammer threats, transforms into your saving grace.

Good thing modern technology enables us to speak and drive, to solve all manner of crises and record nascent masterpieces on the go. You’re dictating plot points into your voice notes while navigating traffic, sketching characters mentally during a grocery run, or outlining an entire scene while waiting for the kettle to boil.

Perhaps the trick isn’t to force inspiration into our meticulously planned schedules, but to be ready for it when it inevitably ambushes us. The muse, it seems, thrives on the unexpected, on the edges of chaos, on the very moments when our minds are momentarily released from the rigid confines of expectation.

So next time an idea strikes while you’re battling traffic, dodging scammers, or mid-sprint to an appointment, don’t fight it. Embrace the “bing!” and know you’re not alone in this beautiful, chaotic journey.

Take that, Superman, Batman, Spiderman! We may not fly, but we can capture genius on the run. And let’s be honest, that’s a superpower all its own.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 234/235

Days 234 and 235 – Writing Exercise

…

I was early.

Twenty minutes early.

A long time ago, it had been drummed into me that no one likes anyone who turns up late.

For anything.

There were no excuses.

Except if you were dead. My father was very adamant about reasons, and for him that was the only one that would work.

People, he said, had the capacity to understand the transportation network, and basic skills of reading a map, and coordinate the two.

He would have loved having the latest god devices that worked out your trip and told you when you would get there, factoring in the known delays.

I could have arrived five minutes before, but his warning always sat in the back of my mind.

Don’t be late.

It was a pity everyone else didn’t seem to care as much as I did, or saw getting somewhere early as a character fault.

Out of my past four first dates, three were late, and one just didn’t bother to come. I was giving the app one more chance

My sister had created the profile and basically set me up. I was not the person she portrayed me as: fun-loving and outgoing, the life of any party.

I didn’t go to parties.

It was not that I couldn’t survive at one; it was not that I could not converse with my contemporaries, or was just a feeling that I would be judged.

Mid-thirties, reasonably well off, a nice apartment, and a car that was oldish but reliable. I had a library, I pretended I could write, and my day job was basically the same as heading exam papers, looking for insurance fraud in submitted policyholder claim documents.

At least my job was not boring.

Maybe some of the people I worked with were. We were stashed away in a large room surrounded by reference books and boxes of documents.

The professor, the head of the department, the librarian, who could quote statutes and laws going back a thousand years, the headmistress, a woman of few words and a permanent scowl, the flibbety-gibbet, who spoke in riddles and Gen Z speak, deciphering the new abbreviated cell phone language, the maths teacher, all formulas and algorithms, and me.

I didn’t belong because I had no specialty other than I could see a plot line in a claim statement that could be the start, middle or end of a good story. Some of those claimants would make the bestseller list if they ever wrote a book.

My sister Jen said I might meet a nice lady at work.

She was wrong.

She said I might meet an old flame at the high school reunion. They were all happily or unhappily married.

She said if I put myself out there, something might happen.

It did.

I discovered all the good women were taken, or had sworn off men. I didn’t blame them. Of all men were like my older brother, just turned forty and married for a third time to a woman young enough to be himself daughter, then I agreed with them.

The waitress had given me time to pick something off the menu and came over.

“Nice carnation.”

She knew why I was there and was kind enough not to make it a subject.

“Seeing if it will look good on my coffin.”

She made a strange face. “You’re not dying, surely. Had a mom come in the other day; just got the bad news. I don’t think I could cope with two in one week “

“Not dying. Physically, anyway. Coffee, your biggest mug.”

“Cake?”

“Maybe later, depending…”

She knew exactly what I meant. She wasn’t old enough to have endured the gamut of world ills she probably saw every day in a cafe like this.

I looked around, a quick assessment of the clientele.

Shop assistants, drinks after work, discussing the worst customers. They seemed to be the norm these days. Clerks, weary, trying to pick themselves up before going home. Star-crossed lovers in that early phase where love leaks out all over the place. Men in managerial positions, drinking beer, all-knowing, and quite crude in their assessment of their female contemporaries, workers, some even disparaging their wives. It was rush hour; those not in a hurry were trying to wash away another bad day.

If it was Friday, there would be a different mood, as if they were let off an invisible leash, only to fall into a different kind of malaise.

I wished I was not so interested in the office grapevine. The mistakes were there, plain as day, and yet there were still people going down that same self-destructive path.

What did the professor call it: human nature.

My waitress, name tag Betty, delivered the coffee with a lopsided smile that would get less warm as the evening dragged on. No job was worth the treatment she got, unless she needed the job. There were no rings, so maybe she was not married, had no children or husband to go home to, only to look forward to another day in the snake pit.

Ten minutes to my swipe date. I kept an eye on the front door, the table I was sitting at selected specially. I had cased the cafe earlier in the week, much like a secret agent, knowing where the exits were if I had to leave in a hurry.

Two of the girls had not exactly used the most current photograph of themselves, for obvious reasons. I had, hence the lack of matches; my photo did not match that fun-loving bio. I looked like the bookworm I was.

I didn’t believe in deception.

A redhead, roll-neck sweater and leather coat, minimal make-up, unruly hair, smiling eyes.

I couldn’t be that lucky.

I wasn’t.

A blonde that was a brunette or perhaps both, with too much rouge and bright red lips. Green and grey with yellow heels. Smokes. Please no.

Thank you, there is a God.

I knew hair colour and styles; my sister had used all of them, and was currently orange, though I was not sure it was because she had gone too far or it was actually a colour.

Her twin, colour-wise, just appeared, someone old enough to know better than to dress like a woman half her age, and it looked rather odd. She had the confidence to pull it off, but her manner didn’t scream, looking for a steady relationship.

She was with six other girls who arrived before her, but she was clearly the leader of the pack.

And then there’s the one that takes your breath away. The one that, twenty years later, when you can have a sensible conversation with a grandchild, you tell them, ‘she had me the moment she walked in the door’.

She was not my date.

She was my age, and not worn down by the vicissitudes of life, someone who took care of herself, dressed sensibly, and did not pretend to be something she was not.

She scanned the cafe, and then smiled, a smile that would lighten even the darkest of rooms, and I envied the person she was meeting. Jealous perhaps.

A girl, her daughter perhaps. I sighed.

The exact time ticked over. No likely candidate.

Yet.

The waitress hovered. That world-weary look, before the service smile.

“Another?”

“Why not?”

I hoped she was on commission. Perhaps a sizeable tip.

Sandy blonde with red tips, cut short, gym clothes over a fit body. Fresh from or going to a workout. She was lean, wiry, a five-mile run every morning before breakfast.

I could picture her with a large collie dog, all cuddly and lovable. I don’t know how that image got in my head. As much as I knew she was the one.

She was not late, not harassed, nor apologetic. Comfortable with the five minutes either way. So was I.

Our eyes met, and she smiled. Relief? Maybe she had the same luck I did with potential dates. I stood, no handshakes or air hugs, just a greeting and sit.

“I prefer Josephine, rather than Jo. People who abbreviate your name seem to always be in a hurry.”

“Francis. My mother calls me Frank, my brother Frankenstein, and my father hey you, so any of the above will do.”

“Except…”

“The obvious, yes.”

The waitress returned. “Betty.”

“Josephine.”

They knew each other. “The usual?”

Josephine nodded. I had the feeling this was a routine, and ‘the usual’ was a code. Dump and run.

“If you have somewhere else to be, I’ll understand,” I said. I’d rather be disappointed now than
prolong the agony.

She looked surprised. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m very good at reading between the lines.”

“You don’t do this very often.”

“My sister decided I should put myself out there. She wrote my biography. I didn’t agree with it, but I didn’t change it.”

“How many?”

“You’re the fifth. Three didn’t match the bio with the vision, and the fourth didn’t come. You could have just kept going.”

“I could. It was a thought. But then I would not have got to talk to you. The usual greeting I get is, babe, or some other loose endearment. That’s about my limit, and then I leave.

“Well, I’m not in a hurry. I will definitely never call you babe; you can pick the subject, and we can talk. Over coffee. Betty is expecting me to have cake.”

“The apple pie is nice.”

“You come here often?”

“This is the fifth time for me too. It’s the longest I’ve stayed.”

In between the small talk, I took a more guarded but studious look at someone who was not what one first thought of her. Perhaps we see what we want to see, until we take a step back and see what there really is in front of us.

Betty came back with her coffee and two pieces of apple pie.

I looked at her.

“You’re an apple pie guy. I can tell an apple pie guy when I see one. We do a great thanksgiving Turkey dinner if you’re hungry.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

She smiled, perhaps a bright moment in an otherwise drudge day at the coalface.

“I guess we’d better get the awful stuff out of the way. What would you like to know?”

It sounded practical in a doomsday sort of manner.

I thought for a second, perhaps two, about which version of me I’d tell her about. “I want to say I’m that fun-loving guy my sister thinks I am, but the awful thing called responsibility got in the way. My friends, or perhaps more appropriately acquaintances, spend their evenings on drinks with the office types, boozy weekends camping or something outdoors, and get into local sports.

“They invite me to parties and find blind dates, but I can’t quite see the point of practical jokes, rough-and-tumble sport, or getting drunk. My job is boring, but practical; I have a university degree that is and isn’t useful, I like reading, and visiting old parts of Europe.”

“You drink?”

“Beer, wine that’s better than the usual swill my so-called friends indulge in, and the fine dining that goes with it. On occasion. A night or two in a posh hotel sometimes makes a difference.”

“By yourself?”

“Mostly. Sometimes I think I’ve found someone who might appreciate the same, but I’m not sure if I set too high a standard.”

“Then not a guy who expects sex on the first date?”

“Is that what you expect of me?”

“Three out of four so far.”

“Then I apologise for my brethren. I assure you that is not on my list. I’d like to get to know a woman a lot better before that becomes an issue. Anything you’d like to tell me?”

“What were you expecting?”

“That’s a question, not an answer.”

“I can be annoying.”

“I can see that. More?”

She nodded.

“You look like a morning run type. Wearing your gym gear here tells me you are possibly pretentious, or you just worked out, though having pie, you might be going after this.”

“Pretentious, eh. I haven’t been called that for a while. Perhaps after, to take my frustrations out on a punching bag. I like classical music, while luxuriating in a spa, drinking champagne. Not rich enough to stay in posh hotels, and love Italian. Can speak a few words too.”

I suspect more than a few. She had some Italian heritage, perhaps a grandmother who came as an immigrant.

“You work in a museum?”

She reminded me of a girl I knew in University who was studying classical art. It might also have something to do with a lanyard I saw her pushing into her bag as she sat down.

“Something like that.”

OK. We’ll hang onto that thought and circle back.

I could see momentary indecision in her eyes, the sort that comes with making a choice: to stay or go. Was it worth investing another five minutes?

“I don’t know how to assess you; you make it very hard to decide whether you are what I think you are, or you’re very good at playing a role.”

“Perhaps it’s simply a fault in my programming. I told the alien masters that sent me to spy on earthlings not to make me stand out. Obviously they didn’t read the memo.”

She laughed, hopefully because she knew I was joking.

“That’s it, of course.”

If anything was going to send her packing, that would be it.

And then when you least expected it, something comes out of left field. “You like dancing? The real stuff, ballroom.”

“Arthur Murray’s twenty-one lessons to become a professional?”

“Twenty-one? Not the whole of a misspent youth?”

“Had to save room for riding a horse so I could play polo.”

“Polo?”

“I only mastered the horse part. And then just so I wouldn’t fall off.”

“Oh, I think you master everything you put your mind to. I was going to give this five minutes. You have surprised me. I have an early morning tomorrow, but now I know where to find you; we must go dancing. For now, you can walk me to the subway.”

…

It was almost a week before I heard from her again. I had expected to hear from her after a few days; I had been suitably sent to ex right swipe land because her profile disappeared.

She had found a dance club, if it could be called that, where we could practise the dark arts. Or the tango, whichever made sense at the time.

I was happy to agree, if not for the dancing but just to meet her again. She had piqued my interest, but I was under no illusion that I was her perfect match.

I met her outside the building, those few minutes over, cool as a cucumber, and in elegant but free-flowing clothes that changed her whole demeanour.

I wondered if she realised just how intimate ballroom dancing was. For me, it would be worrisome to be so close, and to be reliant upon someone I didn’t know.

Something else I was aware of, she was totally unaware of the effect she could have on people. She had this ability to sweep people up into her aura.

Inside, she introduced me to Madamselle Dubois, the proprietor and head of the dance academy. I had read about her umpteen times, world champion back in an era when dancing mattered.

She obviously knew Josephine could dance; she asked for a dance with me, and I did my best impression of a professional, having left one on my two left feet at home.

Adequate was the grade she gave me.

No time to argue; it was straight into the waltz. Once I got over the closeness thing and because there were no varying height issues, it was easy to settle into a routine.

It was fun.

It was exhausting.

And strangely, it built trust. It was as if she had discovered a way that separated the fools from the genuine contenders. Not that I would say I was one yet.

But there were moments when I felt almost too comfortable, and had to realise this was not about me; it was about her, and I was not going to take advantage of an innocent situation.

We called this a second date. We both agreed, in the middle of attempting a tango, that nothing was going to happen. Just to be with her was enough. That part whereby you start ending each other’s sentences was a long way off.

Or so I thought.

…

We had a third date under the watchful eye of Betty the waitress. Same time, same table, same coffee.

And, “So, how did the first date go?”

I smiled. There had to be a few in the cafe, and she would recognise the signs. Anxious, sweaty palms, indecisiveness. All of the above.

“We danced. The Waltz, and then the Tango.”

“Then it’s a case of when is the wedding and where is my invite?”

“It’s just a third date, nothing special.”

Betty’s expression told me she thought otherwise.

Josephine arrived early, and this time wearing business clothes. They looked more expensive than mine. I made a mental note that I would have to up my game if this was to continue.

“You’re looking very authoritative.”

“Executive camouflage, Francis. It’s how I can hide in plain sight.”

Betty became over, saw her, and rolled her eyes. Then, “The usual.”

Josephine nodded.

“Now. I had been thinking. You like posh hotels, and I like travelling on planes; perhaps we can combine the two. I have a friend who works for an airline, so travelling in style. You can pick the hotel.”

It was a step forward, together, in another city, in a hotel. If I was reading the signals correctly, which for me would be a first.

“Anywhere in particular.”

“New York. I want to go to the top of the Empire State Building, walk in Central Park, and have a pretzel and a hot dog, you know, from the street vendors.”

“Moma?”

“Of course.”

“Do I assume we get a suite or…”

She gave me a rather unfathomable expression, one that made me feel like I’d failed the test. If it was a test.

“I think we might take that step, and see what happens. I mean, it’s not something I’ve done before, because usually relationships don’t last that long. The idea of it is quite salacious, don’t you think?”

The idea had far too many strings attached, and one of them could strangle me.

“I know just the place. Not sure about the degree of salaciousness, but it has an in-house doctor in case I have a heart attack.”

She smiled, and there was a little wickedness in it. I didn’t think that was her nature, but more that she was testing the waters. Date four was not a suggestion that we move to a more interesting level, as much as it was a test, and getting a response.

What would be an appropriate response?

“I’ll send you the date.”

…

We flew business class, or what I perceived to be business. Wider seats, better service, front of the plane, first off. Josephine looked like she travelled only one class, dressed accordingly and fitted in.

I wore a suit, only because I was advised to, because some airlines looked down on the chinos and polo shirt with loafers type. I was glad I did.

At JFK, I had ordered a limousine to take us to the Midtown Hilton on Sixth Avenue, so we had both the MoMA and Central Park within walking distance.

She was impressed by the limousine, which I had requested the driver take the scenic route, if there was one, then arriving at the hotel in style to be greeted by a special check-in clerk and escorted to our room, one of the Presidential King Suites. I was a Platinum member with certain privileges

I wanted to make it special.

She was impressed, but not overly so, and I did wonder briefly if she was a rebellious billionaire’s daughter who’d seen it all and then some.

That it had a separate bedroom seemed excessive, but I thought, for two days, it would give her space if she wanted or needed it. There was only one bed, but it was huge.

I was still unsure of how the sleeping arrangements would work. I had no expectation we would be doing anything other than sleeping, and I certainly would not be hinting or suggesting otherwise.

She sat on the end of the bed as I came out of the bathroom. “Which side?”

“Either is OK. You?”

“Right. I sleep better lying on my left side.”

There was a knock on the door, and I went over. Room service with champagne and canapés. I had them once before on a previous stay.

“Now you are trying to impress me.”

The waitress popped the cork and poured the first two glasses, then quietly left us alone.

“I’m just doing what I would normally do when I go away for a weekend. Dinner is at Quality Italian. It’s not far from here.”

“You are spoiling me.”

“I just want you to be as happy as I feel.”

“Being here with me?”

“Especially being here with you. It’s always better sharing an experience with someone else.”

She finished her first glass and poured herself another. Did she need it for courage? I didn’t think she was secretly an alcoholic, but perhaps a little nervous. It was an odd sensation with someone I thought was bold and confident, more so than me.

She took a sip and put down her glass, and came over to where I was standing by the windows. The view was breathtaking.

She slipped her hand in mine. “Thank you.”

I turned to look at her. She seemed totally relaxed.

“You’re welcome.”

She smiled. “It’s the fourth date. Do we talk about family now? Seems a good fit with champagne and canapés.”

Of course, families were always a touchy subject and often the cause of catastrophic breakups. Better to sink the ship now than later.

“Why not.”

…

Some time after I’d prepared for our dining experience, and Josephine had taken over the bathroom and turned it into a Hollywood make-up centre, she put her head out the doorway and asked for an opinion.

It was a sudden death moment. I was appallingly bad at giving opinions. My sister had long since learned never to ask my opinion.

I stood in the door and took in the vision before me. There were no words other than stunning. That was when my heart missed a beat.

What was fascinating was that she was totally unaware of the impact she made, still fussing over details. It was never going to be about her making an impact; it would be everyone else around her. It was going to be interesting when we walked into the restaurant.

But that wasn’t all that happened to me. In one of those unguarded moments when hands touched and eyes met, and breathing stopped, there was only one conclusion.

We kissed. Briefly. Like old friends who greeted each other perfunctorily, and then forgotten, as if it was just routine.

We walked to the restaurant and turned heads. We arrived, and half the establishment stopped, just to see who she was, and it felt like I would have heard a pin drop.

We ate Italian food she selected. We drank San Giovese reds, and Italian dessert, and she said she had died and gone to heaven.

The maitre’d sent us back to the hotel in a cab. Perhaps one too many glasses of wine.

Now was the tricky part. Was she impaired? Would I have to make a decision, and knowing me, it would be the wrong one? Was she relying on me to be the perfect gentleman?

I got inside the door and leaned against it. She was not drunk, but just happy. She did a swirl in the middle of the room and stopped, looking at me.

“I don’t bite.”

I didn’t want to ruin the moment, but I knew no matter what I did, I was going to. My sister said it was because I overthought everything, that I could not just pick the simplest outcome and execute it.

She held out both her hands. I closed my eyes, made a decision and went to her, taking her hands in mine.

“I had a lovely evening, Francis,” I noted she never called me Frank. “Everything was perfect. Now, all you have to do is stop thinking. I don’t want perfection. I want someone who cares, and you do. I can feel it. I’m trying very hard not to fall in love with you, and it’s not working.” A tear crept out from her left eye and slowly trickled downwards.

“You had me the moment we danced the waltz. I’ve been trying so hard from that moment not to wreck it.”

“You won’t. You can’t. Just be you. No one else. You don’t have to be who you think I want you to be. That’s been my problem for a long time, looking for something that doesn’t exist.”

I think we were all like that. Until we saw the light, or didn’t. “Then what do we do now?”

“We close our eyes and make a wish.”

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Brisbane, Australia

Hidden Gems of Brisbane: 5 Uncrowded Attractions That Still Pack a Punch

If you’ve already ticked off the South Bank promenade, the Story Bridge, and the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary, you might be wondering where the next unforgettable experience lies. Good news – Brisbane is a fairly compact city, and beyond the usual tourist radar, several spots feel almost secret. Below are five standout attractions that never feel overrun, yet each offers a distinctive slice of Queensland life. (All are easily reachable by public transport or a short drive.)

1. Mount Coot-tha Lookout & the Hidden Botanic Trail

Why it’s special: Most visitors head straight for the panoramic city view from the Lookout’s car park, but the adjoining Mount Coot-tha Botanic Trail is a quiet 2‑km loop that winds through native rainforest, exotic gardens, and a series of small waterfalls.

Feature	Details
Views	The classic vista over the Brisbane River and skyline is still there, but from the trail’s higher ridge you’ll spot a rarely‑photographed sunrise over the Glass House Mountains.
Flora	A living collection of rare cycads, native ferns, and a small Bunya Pine grove (the “grandfather of pines”).
Wildlife	Spot sugar gliders, brushtail possums, and the occasional rainbow lorikeet. Early morning is the best time for birdwatching.
How to get there	Take the Bus 450 from the City to the Mount Coot-tha Lookout stop (≈30 min). Parking is free for the first hour; the trailhead is a short walk from the car park.
Best time to visit	Early morning (sunrise) or late afternoon (golden‑hour light). Weekdays are especially quiet.

Insider tip: Bring a small portable coffee mug. There’s a tiny café at the Lookout that sells “mountain‑fresh” espresso – you can enjoy a brew while watching the city glow.

2. Kangaroo Point Cliffs – The Lesser‑Known Rock Garden

Why it’s special: While the cliffs are a hotspot for climbers and joggers, tucked behind the main promenade is the Rock Garden, a secluded series of basalt boulders artfully landscaped with native succulents and a modest waterfall.

Feature	Details
Seclusion	Only a narrow footpath leads to the garden, keeping it largely free of crowds.
Design	Created by local artist‑landscaper Mina Yates in 2015, the garden incorporates reclaimed stone and a repurposed rainwater tank that feeds the waterfall.
Photo ops	The garden frames the river in a way you won’t see from the main cliff edge – perfect for minimalist shots of water against stone.
How to get there	From the Kangaroo Point train station, walk 5 minutes north along River Terrace; the footpath entry is marked by a small wooden sign.
Best time to visit	Late afternoon when the setting sun catches the water spray.

Insider tip: Bring a sketchbook – many local artists set up easels here to capture the ever‑changing light on the basalt.

3. The Old Windmill (Spring Hill) – A Time‑Travel Escape

Why it’s special: Brisbane’s oldest surviving structure dates back to 1828. It’s a modest stone windmill tucked in a quiet pocket of Spring Hill, surrounded by a small park and a historic “windmill cottage” that now serves as a community arts space.

Feature	Details
History	Built by the first commandant of the Moreton Bay penal colony, it once ground wheat for the settlement. Only the stone tower remains, but it still spins on windy days.
Architecture	Rough‑hewn sandstone with a timber cap – an excellent example of early colonial engineering.
Cultural use	The adjacent cottage hosts rotating exhibitions of local Indigenous art and occasional acoustic concerts.
How to get there	Catch the Bus 230 to Spring Hill (stop: “Old Windmill”) or take a short 10‑minute walk from Spring Hill train station.
Best time to visit	Early morning or late afternoon when the wind is gentle enough to spin the sails.

Insider tip: Stop by the Windmill Café (a tiny kiosk on site) for a slice of marble‑cream cake named “The Settler.” It’s an Instagram‑worthy treat that few tourists know about.

4. Redlands’ Amity Point – The Secluded Lighthouse Walk

Why it’s special: A 45‑minute drive south of Brisbane, Amity Point on Bribie Island boasts a small but striking lighthouse (operational since 1966) perched on a quiet headland. The surrounding Coastal Reserve offers a gentle boardwalk through mangroves, a hidden sandy cove, and spectacular night‑time star gazing.

Feature	Details
Lighthouse	An octagonal concrete tower with a rotating beacon visible for 20 km. Tours are offered on the first Saturday of each month.
Nature	The boardwalk passes through black mangrove and cabbage palm stands; look out for crabs, egrets, and occasional dolphins offshore.
Night sky	Because the area is far from city lights, it’s a prime spot for astrophotography; the Milky Way arches over the water on clear nights.
How to get there	Drive via the M1 → Coomera → Bribie Island (follow signs for Amity Point). Parking is free at the reserve.
Best time to visit	Sunrise for pastel reflections on the water, or after dark for the lighthouse beam and stargazing. Weekdays are virtually empty.

Insider tip: Pack a portable telescope or a pair of binoculars. The Queensland Star Party sometimes holds informal meet‑ups here, and they’re always happy to share tips.

5. The Brisbane City Botanic Gardens – The Forgotten ‘Rose Garden’

Why it’s special: While the Botanic Gardens are a popular daytime spot, tucked behind the main lawns sits the Rose Garden – a secluded, Victorian‑style enclave restored in 2018. It’s a fragrant, low‑traffic haven of heritage roses, a small pergola, and a historic iron fountain.

Feature	Details
Roses	Over 200 varieties, including the rare ‘Souvenir de la Malmaison’ and a modern hybrid “Brisbane Blush.”
Architecture	The pergola is made from locally sourced ironbark timber, and the fountain dates back to 1904 (originally supplied to the Toowoomba Show).
Quiet corners	Benches hidden among shrubbery provide intimate reading spots; the garden is often used by local poets for “tide‑of‑silence” sessions.
How to get there	From Roma Street station, walk north 8 minutes across the River; the garden entrance is marked by a bronze plaque.
Best time to visit	Mid‑morning (when the roses are at peak fragrance) or late spring (when the roses are in full bloom).

Insider tip: Join the Botanic Gardens’ “Rose Hour” on the first Saturday of each month – a free guided walk where a horticulturist explains the history and care of each rose variety.

How to Make the Most of These Hidden Spots

Strategy	Why it works
Visit on weekdays	Almost all five sites see a steep drop in foot traffic from Monday to Thursday.
Go early or late	Soft light enhances photography, and cooler temperatures make walking comfortable.
Pack a reusable water bottle	Brisbane’s subtropical climate can be humid; most locations have water refill points.
Use public transport or park‑&‑ride	Traffic around the city can be unpredictable, especially on weekends.
Bring a light snack	Many of these spots have limited food options; a small picnic makes the experience more relaxed.

A Quick Map for the Curious Explorer

#	Attraction	Approx. Distance from CBD	Recommended Transport
1	Mount Coot‑tha Lookout & Botanic Trail	7 km (west)	Bus 450 or bike (bike lanes available)
2	Kangaroo Point Cliffs – Rock Garden	2 km (south)	Train to Kangaroo Point + 5‑min walk
3	Old Windmill (Spring Hill)	3 km (north)	Bus 230 or walk from Spring Hill
4	Amity Point Lighthouse (Bribie Island)	45 km (south)	Car (approx. 45‑min drive)
5	Botanic Gardens – Rose Garden	1 km (north)	Train to Roma Street + short walk

Final Thoughts

Brisbane may be famed for its bustling riverfront and iconic skyline, but the city’s real charm often hides in quiet corners where locals unwind and history whispers. By venturing off the typical tourist trail, you’ll discover a softer, more intimate side of Queensland’s capital – one where you can breathe in native scents, hear the distant hum of the windmill sails, and watch the city glow from secret viewpoints.

So next time you find yourself packing for “Brisbane in a nutshell,” remember: sometimes the best stories are told by the places few people know exist. Happy exploring!

In a word: Happy

“I’m happy to be being here.”

Yes, I actually heard that answer given in a television interview, and thought, at the time, it was a quaint expression.

But in reality, this was a person for whom English was a second language, and that was, quite literally, their translation from their language to English.

Suffice to say, that person was not happy when lost the event she was participating in.

But that particular memory was triggered by another event.

Someone asked me how happy I was.

Happy is another of those words like good, thrown around like a rag doll, used without consequence, or regard for its true meaning.

“After everything that’s happened, you should be the happiest man alive!”

I’m happy.

I should be, to them.

A real friend might also say, “Are you sure, you don’t look happy.”

I hesitate but say, “Sure. I woke up with a headache,” or some other lame reason.

But, in reality, I’m not ‘happy’. Convention says that we should be happy if everything is going well. In my case, it is, to a certain extent, but it is what’s happening within that’s the problem. We say it because people expect it.

I find there is no use complaining because no one will listen, and definitely, no one likes serial complainers.

True.

But somewhere in all those complaints will be the truth, the one item that is bugging us.

It is a case of whether we are prepared to listen. Really listen.

And not necessarily take people at their word.

PI Walthenson’s second case – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’.

Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.

It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years, many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.

In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.

…

Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.

Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.

In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.

…

After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.

Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.

He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.

Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.

Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?

Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.

He was also a member of the American Nazi party.

When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.

It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.

…

Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Melbourne, Australia

Discover Melbourne’s Hidden Gems: Top 5 Tourist Attractions That Are Peaceful and Unique

Melbourne is renowned for its vibrant arts scene, bustling laneways, and iconic landmarks. However, beyond the well-trodden paths lie lesser-known attractions that offer a tranquil, culturally rich, and often underappreciated experience. If you’re seeking a slower, more intimate journey through the city’s history, art, and natural beauty, here are five top attractions that are rarely crowded but packed with distinctive charm.

1. Shrine of Remembrance: A Historic Sanctuary with Breathtaking Views

Tucked away in a serene parkland setting on the edge of the city, the Shrine of Remembrance stands as a majestic tribute to Australian service members. The neoclassical architecture is awe-inspiring, and the 360-degree views from the terrace—especially at dusk—are unforgettable. While not as flashy as Federation Square or Luna Park, the shrine attracts fewer crowds, especially outside of Anzac Day (April 25). Its quiet ambience makes it perfect for reflection, photography, or simply soaking in Melbourne’s skyline.

Why it’s unique: Open 24/7 and free to enter, it blends architectural grandeur with historical significance. The building’s underground war memorial and gardens are particularly poignant.

2. Museum of Chinese Australian History: A Window into a Rich Cultural Legacy

Step into the vibrant history of Melbourne’s Chinese community at the Museum of Chinese Australian History, housed in a former tram depot in the bustling district of Docklands. This small museum offers interactive exhibits on the contributions of Chinese Australians to the city’s development, from the 19th-century gold rush to modern multiculturalism. The building itself is a work of art, adorned with colourful mosaics and sculptural installations.

Why it’s unique: The museum’s focus on a specific cultural narrative is rare in mainstream Melbourne. Its blend of art, history, and community stories makes it a must-visit for curious travellers.

3. Burnley Park and Gardens: A Hidden Green Escape

Just minutes from the CBD in the suburb of Carlton, Burnley Park is a tranquil oasis with a mix of natural beauty and cultural flair. Home to the historic Burnley Cricket Ground and a lush landscape of gardens, it’s a favourite among locals for picnics and strolls. The park’s lesser-known status means it’s rarely bustled with tourists, offering a peaceful retreat.

Why it’s unique: The park combines recreational spaces with a quirky cricket history—the Burnley Cricket Club, established in 1852, is the oldest surviving cricket club in Victoria. Springtime brings spectacular displays of wisteria and wildflowers.

4. Royal Exhibition Building & Royal Botanic Gardens (Off-Peak Hours)

While the Royal Botanic Gardens can get busy on weekends, visiting during weekdays or early mornings ensures a quieter, more immersive experience. Adjacent to the Royal Exhibition Building, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the area is an architectural and horticultural marvel. The building’s grand Victorian design and the gardens’ curated collections—including the iconic Coachwood Tree—make for a captivating stop.

Why it’s unique: This combination of history and natural beauty is unmatched. The building’s iconic dome and the gardens’ serene paths create a timeless atmosphere, especially enchanting during autumn.

5. Koorie Heritage Trust: A Deep Dive into Indigenous Culture

The Koorie Heritage Trust in the heart of Melbourne is a cultural powerhouse dedicated to preserving and sharing the stories of Australia’s First Nations people. Through art, artifacts, and guided workshops, visitors gain insight into Yarning (storytelling), traditional crafts, and the enduring connection to Country.

Why it’s unique: Small and intentionally quiet, the trust focuses on meaningful, educational experiences. Bookings are recommended, as spaces are limited, but this ensures a personalised and respectful visit.

Why These Spots Thrive in Quietness

These attractions stand out because they cater to niche interests and require a bit of effort to discover—a perfect fit for travellers who prefer depth over crowds. Whether you’re captivated by history, culture, or nature, Melbourne’s hidden gems offer a fresh perspective on this dynamic city.

Final Thoughts: Embrace Melbourne’s Understated Magic

Melbourne’s charm isn’t just in its famous laneways and coffee. By straying from the typical itineraries, you’ll uncover a side of the city that’s reflective, artistic, and deeply human. Whether you’re tracing your roots, enjoying a peaceful garden, or honouring a cultural past, these attractions promise a memorable trip without the hassle. Pack your curiosity—and a camera—and let Melbourne surprise you.

Pro Tip: For the most peaceful experience, visit these spots on weekdays or during the cooler months (May–August). Plus, check out event calendars for exclusive workshops or seasonal openings!

What’s your favourite hidden corner of Melbourne? Share your discoveries in the comments below!

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction. None.

I simply asked who, where, and when.

A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy. At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends, new life.

We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

…

Coming soon. Find the above story and 49 others like it in: