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.
“It’s the orange ribbon, isn’t it,” Cecilia said. “I thought it looked good with the yellow floral summer dress and the fake fur coat.”
I had thought Juliet was just shocked to see Cecelia again with me, that we were possibly having a relationship. It was something else.
Cecelia looked at me. “Alfie said Vittoria called Juliet while you were texting me, a bit like ships passing in the night, to tell her she was on her way, and this idiot woman in a fur coat and orange ribbon had almost knocked her off the sidewalk. I mean, really, people buried in their phones should be knocked off the sidewalk.”
We both looked at Juliet. I could see she was thinking fast on her feet, then smile at Cecelia, and say, “Wow! What can I say? How’s your acting career going?”
“Good actually. I got a part as a mercenary. Just need to do the training and figure out how I’m going to survive the Moroccan sun, I mean, with this skin?”
There were two slices of pizza. “Do you mind,” Cecilia said, “I shouldn’t but it’s been one of those days.”
Juliet nodded.
“Now, Juliet, do you want to revise any answers?”
“Who are you really? The two of you?”
“We find people. Or I used to until Larry came after me, and then my boss decided I couldn’t retire, or maybe it was his wife this time. She’s a good chum of the countess. It seems if I found her, I can finally go back to my well-earned retirement. So, one question, did your mother, Vittoria Romano, kidnap her?”
“No.”
No hesitation. Interesting.
“She is up in your apartment at the moment?”
Juliet looked at Cecilia, reaching for the second slice.
“Yes.”
“How long have you known about her?”
“About three months. She found me. I didn’t believe it at first, but apparently, she had to wait until my adoptive mother died before she could see me in person. It was the agreement they made. By the way, she shared the money the count paid her for my upkeep and to go to medical school.”
“So, you are his daughter?”
“She showed me the birth certificate. It has his name on it. No one was ever supposed to know.”
“Until the money stopped. Who did she go to?”
“The countess. My mother had nothing to do with her disappearance. You should be looking at the family, that Alessandro is a criminal, the whole family are.”
“They’re bankers,” Cecilia said. “Is there a difference?”
“OK. If she is not guilty of anything, then she will have no trouble talking to us?”
“I can ask?”
“No. Not until we’re on the doorstep. You may think she’s not guilty because she told you so, but unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury. And you know me well enough to know that I keep an open mind about everything.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You do. But if we let you go and we find out you’ve lied to us, then we’ll hunt you down, no matter where you are, and we will not be as nice as we are now.” The way Cecelia said it, it sounded like she relished hunting down criminals and liars. The words were accompanied by a very mean look.
“Can we finish dinner first?”
“Of course. I was looking forward to having some tiramisu.”
Cecelia was in a role. She smiled. I was glad she wouldn’t be hunting me.
Another small pizza, tiramisu, red wine, coffee and conversation, from the outside could be construed as three friends meeting up and having a leisurely dinner and reminiscing.
Cecelia was genuinely interested in car accident victims, to help her in her auditions, and Juliet was genuinely interested in the movie business. I was fascinated watching the two women together, wondering if Juliet thought there was something between us.
Back in Venice, that was the impression she was giving Juliet. Here, I got the occasional glance, and a touch on the hand, the sort of touchy-feely things a girlfriend might do. I hadn’t thought of her a lot since Venice, but she hadn’t completely disappeared.
By the time we left, most of the other customers had gone, and the staff were cleaning up. I paid the bill and said I would be back. Those pizzas were to die for. We had ordered another just before leaving, to take back for her mother.
If she was there.
Cecelia had gone ahead to make sure there wasn’t an ambush waiting for us, and when we reached the door of her apartment, she was waiting in the shadows.
Juliet got out her key and opened the door, and after opening it, yelled out “I’m home.” Then she went in, and I followed.
There were two guns pointed at me as I stepped into the room, Vittoria was pointing one at me, and the countess was pointing the other at Cecelia.
I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one. That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though you are not alone in this quest.
I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!
Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.
Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.
I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.
The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna. I am not that cat!
Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time. Not while you are writing that next masterpiece. It’s a steady sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.
Stories have to be written from beginning to end, not a bit here and a bit there.
It’s a bit like running a marathon. You are in a zone, the first few miles are the hardest, the middle is just getting the rhythm and breathing under control, and then you hope you get to the end because it can seem that you’ve been going forever and the end is never in sight.
But, when you reach the end, oh, isn’t the feeling one of pure joy and relief.
And, yes, perhaps you’ve just created another masterpiece!
One of the how-to books I was reading once made several statements about what you could write about.
The first was to write about what you know. To me, that means if you were in the military, you would have the inside knowledge on how the army, navy or air force worked and you could apply that to the scenarios, the situations and the people.
Then there’s the idea that your work environment could provide you with enough inspiration and authentic information to make the story sound realistic.
I’m going with the latter because the place where I worked, in one instance, provided the detail to incorporate into a story. That workplace is a phosphate mining company, and the place where that mining took place is on a small Pacific Island.
I was also lucky enough to work on a history of the company for several years as the principal research officer. It wasn’t long before I began writing a parallel story, which I had tentatively called The phosphateers, and as each piece of research yielded yet another gem of information, so began the story.
It started in the aftermath of World War 1, and the first volume was to end when the island was evacuated, after several of the company’s ships were sunk by a German raider in World War 2.
But that was not the only story…
My acquisition of knowledge about computer systems, and in particular in those early days, the primitive sort of networking available with cables, connectors and network cards, was the basis for another story.
So, yes, a real-life job can be a gold mine of information.
Day 124 – Setting an internal appointment to start work
…
The Art of the Internal Contract: Why “Just Deciding” Isn’t Enough
We’ve all been there. You close your laptop on a Tuesday night, feeling motivated, and tell yourself, “Tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM, I am going to sit down and write.”
You wake up the next day, grab a coffee, check your email, handle a “quick” task, and suddenly it’s 11:30 AM. The writing didn’t happen. You rationalise it with the classic: “I just wasn’t in the flow,” or “Something came up.”
But let’s be honest: that wasn’t a choice; it was a failed intention.
There is a massive, structural difference between telling yourself you will do something and setting an internal contract to make it happen. Most of us mistake the former for the latter.
The Illusion of “Just Saying So”
When you tell yourself, “I’ll write at 10:00 AM,” you are making a suggestion to your future self.
The problem? Your future self is a different person. When 10:00 AM rolls around, your future self is dealing with new stimuli: a tired brain, an overflowing inbox, a distracting notification, or the seductive pull of “productive procrastination.” If your intention is just a gentle suggestion, your future self will almost always opt for the path of least resistance.
A suggestion is a wish. A contract is a commitment.
What is an Internal Contract?
An internal contract is the psychological act of treating your future self as a business partner to whom you are strictly accountable. It’s the difference between saying “I hope I do this” and saying “This is a non-negotiable obligation.”
To move from suggestion to contract, you need three things:
1. Clear Terms and Conditions
A suggestion is vague: “I’ll write tomorrow.” An internal contract is specific: “At 10:00 AM, I will open my document, turn off Wi-Fi, and write for 45 minutes.” If the terms are vague, your brain will find a loophole. Define the “what,” the “when,” and the “how.”
2. The Penalty Clause
In a real-world contract, there are consequences for breach. When you break a promise to yourself, the only consequence is a slight dip in self-trust. Over time, that adds up to a total collapse of your personal mission.
Set a “penalty” for breaking the contract. Maybe you lose a privilege (no social media until the writing is done) or you have to do a chore you hate. The point is to make the breach of contract more painful than the work itself.
3. Environmental Backup
You wouldn’t sign a contract and then put it in a box you never open. You’d keep it on your desk.
If you want to write at 10:00 AM, don’t just rely on your willpower. Rearrange your environment the night before. Close every tab on your computer except your writing software. Leave your notebook open on your desk. By preparing your environment, you are essentially “signing” the contract with your physical space, making it harder to ignore when the time comes.
Moving From “I’ll Try” to “I Will”
The next time you set a goal, stop treating it like a New Year’s resolution or a vague hope. Stop “telling” yourself you will do it.
Instead, sit down, look at the task, and recognise that you are making a binding agreement. You are the employer, and you are the employee. If you consistently fail to show up for your own shifts, you won’t keep the job.
Are you just making suggestions to yourself? Or are you ready to sign the contract and actually honour the deal?
The writing (or whatever task you’re avoiding) isn’t waiting for you to “feel like it.” It’s waiting for you to decide that your word is worth something. Sign the contract, and show up.
The Henan Museum is one of the oldest museums in China. In June 1927, General Feng Yuxiang proposed that a museum be built, and it was completed the next year. In 1961, along with the move of the provincial capital, Henan Museum moved from Kaifeng to Zhengzhou.
It currently holds about 130,000 individual pieces, more of which are mostly cultural relics, bronze vessels of the Shang and Zhou Dynasties, and pottery and porcelain wares of the various dynasties.
Eventually, we arrive at the museum and get off the bus adjacent to a scooter track and despite the efforts of the guide, there’s no stopping them from nearly running us over.
We arrive to find the museum has been moved to a different and somewhat smaller building nearby as the existing, and rather distinctively designed, building is being renovated.
While we are waiting for the tickets to enter, we are given another view of industrial life in that there is nothing that resembles proper health and safety on worksites in this country, and the workers are basically standing on what looks to be a flimsy bamboo ladder with nothing to stop them from falling off.
The museum itself has exhibits dating back a few thousand years and consist of bronze and ceramic items. One of the highlights was a tortoiseshell with reportedly the oldest know writing ever found.
Other than that it was a series of cooking utensils, a table, and ceramic pots, some in very good condition considering their age.
Of course, we all know this word is a colour, or colour depending on where you live. You know, blue sky, deep blue sea, blonde hair blue eyes.
Very descriptive.
But it can also mean you are down in the dumps, a rather strange, for some, an expression that means you are sad or unhappy.
For others to have a blue means to have a fight with someone
And oddly, and I know this from first-hand experience, a red-haired person will be called bluey, or less pleasing either carrot top or blood nut. I used to ignore those people who used those expressions, except for my father-in-law.
You can do something until you are blue in the face, which means do it without result until exhaustion, another way of saying you’re wasting your time.
And if something comes out of the blue, it usually means it’s entirely unexpected. For me, that’s always a bill I wasn’t expecting, for someone else an inheritance.
And in some parts of the world, blue is used as a synonym for a conservative political party, for insistence, the Liberal party in Australia, and the Democrats in the United States
Blue should not be confused with the word blew, which is the past tense of the blow, which is wind causing an air current or blowing air through pursed lips.
That doesn’t mean that if something blew up it was just a giant air mass exploding because it can’t. If a bomb blew up it means it detonated.
And if that sounds complicated:
What if something blew my mind? Does that mean my head exploded? No, it just means it’s incomprehensible, whether good or bad.
Or
What if I blew a fortune on a three-legged horse? We all throw good money after bad, but you can quickly lose a fortune, or blew it.
It’s the same thing with opportunities, for instance, he had a chance and blew it. Yes, obviously something better came along, not, or he just ignored a sterling opportunity.
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
Like all the hotels we’re staying in, it has an impressive foyer. You walk in and you think on appearances it’s going to be 5 stars, and not the 3 and a half rating on trip advisor.
Pity then that it all goes downhill from there.
We have a corner room and no bathroom.
Have you ever stayed in a hotel that has rooms with no bathroom? Yes, it’s a first for us too. Still, this is China and I suspect if you complain there’s always a worse room to put you in.
For us, it’s just going to be an amusing situation we’d bear and give it a one-star rating on TripAdvisor for the hotel.
And just a word of warning, if you decide to book the hotel directly make sure you don’t get a corner room.
At least everything else was reasonably ok. Ok, not so much, the safe doesn’t work.
This doesn’t augur well for the rest of the tour in this particular place.
Before we leave, some photos of our room, and the lack of a bathroom.
Separate doors for shower and toilet, and on the other side of the passage, the washbasin
Feng Shui seems to have been forgotten when planning this room.
The next morning we discover that other rooms do have bathrooms but they’re small. Some have neither tissues or toilet paper, another has a faulty power socket and cannot recharge the phone, and I’m sure there are other problems.
All in all, it seemed very odd to have the toilet and shower on one side, and the wash basin on the other side of the passage.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
Day 124 – Setting an internal appointment to start work
…
The Art of the Internal Contract: Why “Just Deciding” Isn’t Enough
We’ve all been there. You close your laptop on a Tuesday night, feeling motivated, and tell yourself, “Tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM, I am going to sit down and write.”
You wake up the next day, grab a coffee, check your email, handle a “quick” task, and suddenly it’s 11:30 AM. The writing didn’t happen. You rationalise it with the classic: “I just wasn’t in the flow,” or “Something came up.”
But let’s be honest: that wasn’t a choice; it was a failed intention.
There is a massive, structural difference between telling yourself you will do something and setting an internal contract to make it happen. Most of us mistake the former for the latter.
The Illusion of “Just Saying So”
When you tell yourself, “I’ll write at 10:00 AM,” you are making a suggestion to your future self.
The problem? Your future self is a different person. When 10:00 AM rolls around, your future self is dealing with new stimuli: a tired brain, an overflowing inbox, a distracting notification, or the seductive pull of “productive procrastination.” If your intention is just a gentle suggestion, your future self will almost always opt for the path of least resistance.
A suggestion is a wish. A contract is a commitment.
What is an Internal Contract?
An internal contract is the psychological act of treating your future self as a business partner to whom you are strictly accountable. It’s the difference between saying “I hope I do this” and saying “This is a non-negotiable obligation.”
To move from suggestion to contract, you need three things:
1. Clear Terms and Conditions
A suggestion is vague: “I’ll write tomorrow.” An internal contract is specific: “At 10:00 AM, I will open my document, turn off Wi-Fi, and write for 45 minutes.” If the terms are vague, your brain will find a loophole. Define the “what,” the “when,” and the “how.”
2. The Penalty Clause
In a real-world contract, there are consequences for breach. When you break a promise to yourself, the only consequence is a slight dip in self-trust. Over time, that adds up to a total collapse of your personal mission.
Set a “penalty” for breaking the contract. Maybe you lose a privilege (no social media until the writing is done) or you have to do a chore you hate. The point is to make the breach of contract more painful than the work itself.
3. Environmental Backup
You wouldn’t sign a contract and then put it in a box you never open. You’d keep it on your desk.
If you want to write at 10:00 AM, don’t just rely on your willpower. Rearrange your environment the night before. Close every tab on your computer except your writing software. Leave your notebook open on your desk. By preparing your environment, you are essentially “signing” the contract with your physical space, making it harder to ignore when the time comes.
Moving From “I’ll Try” to “I Will”
The next time you set a goal, stop treating it like a New Year’s resolution or a vague hope. Stop “telling” yourself you will do it.
Instead, sit down, look at the task, and recognise that you are making a binding agreement. You are the employer, and you are the employee. If you consistently fail to show up for your own shifts, you won’t keep the job.
Are you just making suggestions to yourself? Or are you ready to sign the contract and actually honour the deal?
The writing (or whatever task you’re avoiding) isn’t waiting for you to “feel like it.” It’s waiting for you to decide that your word is worth something. Sign the contract, and show up.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 