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.
The Bit and Reins of Writing: How to Ride Your Creativity Without Falling in the Ditch
“Writing is like riding a fine steed: Even if it has a noble air, you must control it with the bit and reins. Don’t let it go off the tracks, gallop to its heart’s content, and fall into a ditch somewhere.” — Yan Zhitui
We’ve all been there. You sit down to write, and inspiration strikes like lightning. Your imagination rears up, proud and powerful. Words flow effortlessly, ideas cascade onto the page, and for a moment, you feel like a literary god.
And then, disaster strikes.
You look up an hour later, blinking in confusion. You started writing a blog post about time management, but somehow you are deep into a tangent about the history of hourglasses, debating the philosophy of time, and questioning your life choices. Your magnificent steed has bolted off the path, leaped over the guardrails, and dropped you headfirst into a muddy ditch.
Writing is a wild, beautiful, and exhilarating beast. But as sixth-century scholar Yan Zhitui so brilliantly observed, raw talent and unbridled passion aren’t enough. Without the bit and reins of discipline, structure, and editing, even the noblest piece of writing will crash.
Here is how to master the art of the equestrian writer—how to give your creativity enough room to run, while keeping it safely on the path.
1. Why the “Fine Steed” Needs Freedom First
Before we talk about control, we have to acknowledge the horse. Yan Zhitui calls it a fine steed with a noble air.
In writing terms, this is your raw inspiration, your voice, and your creative flow. If you immediately slap a heavy saddle on a horse and beat it into submission, it won’t move. Likewise, if you stifle your writing with too many rules, outlines, and self-censorship before you even begin, you kill the magic.
The Draft Phase is the Gallop: When you first sit down to write, let the horse run. Turn off your inner critic. Allow yourself to explore unexpected avenues, type out messy paragraphs, and chase the thrill of discovery.
Embrace the Chaos (Temporarily): Great writing often requires a messy first draft. Don’t worry about grammar, formatting, or word count while the adrenaline is pumping. Just let the steed move.
2. Recognising the Ditch: When Freedom Becomes Chaos
The danger of the blank page is no longer just writer’s block; often, it’s writer’s avalanche. We get lost in our own verbosity.
How do you know your creative steed has gone off the tracks and is heading for a ditch? Watch out for these warning signs:
The Rabbit Hole: You are three paragraphs deep into a sub-point that has almost nothing to do with your main headline.
The Bloated Sentence: You’ve used four adjectives where one strong noun would do, simply because it felt poetic in the moment.
The Lost Point: You reach the end of a section and realise you’ve completely forgotten what question you were trying to answer.
If left unchecked, unbridled creativity doesn’t lead to a masterpiece; it leads to reader fatigue and writer burnout.
3. Forging the Bit and Reins: Tools for Control
This is where the real craft of writing begins. Taming the steed doesn’t mean breaking its spirit; it means directing its immense power toward a specific destination.
Here is how you apply the bit and reins to your writing process:
A. The Outline (The Pre-Ride Check)
Before you let the horse run wild, map out where you are going. An outline doesn’t have to be rigid—think of it as the trail map. Knowing your destination (your core thesis) and your major waypoints (your sub-headings) ensures that even if your horse gallops wildly between points, it is still heading in the right direction.
B. The Discipline of Cutting (The Reins)
Stephen King famously advises writers to “kill your darlings.” This is the ultimate pull on the reins. That clever sentence you spent twenty minutes crafting? The one that sounds amazing, but adds nothing to the argument? Pull back. Yank the reins. Cut it. A disciplined writer knows that what is left out of a piece is often just as important as what is left in.
C. The Editing Phase (Riding the Trail Again)
Never let your first draft be your final draft. The first draft is the wild ride; the editing phase is where you groom the horse, fix its footing, and polish its coat. Read through your work with a critical eye. Ask yourself:
Does every paragraph serve the main idea?
Are there any linguistic ditches (confusing metaphors, run-on sentences) I need to steer clear of?
Is the pacing smooth, or does it jerk the reader around?
Conclusion: Master the Ride
Writing is a lifelong balancing act. Lean too far toward absolute control, and your writing becomes stiff, academic, and lifeless. Lean too far toward unbridled freedom, and you’ll end up lost in a swamp of your own making, leaving your readers behind.
Be a master equestrian of your own thoughts. Let your imagination provide the fire, the speed, and the nobility. But always keep your hands firm on the reins, guiding your ideas down the path of clarity, purpose, and impact.
After all, it’s much better to cross the finish line in style than to win a fast race straight into a ditch.
What about you? Do you tend to let your writing run wild, or do you keep a tight grip on the reins? Let us know in the comments below!
Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
Carlo had returned, as promised, just over an hour later, and over the map, he showed where the explosives had been placed, under the tank, and where the men were camped.
They were set to go off in the early morning, giving them several hours before they had to assemble for the assault. According to Carlo, the explosives would neutralise the tank and immobilise about 30 of the enemy.
That was only one problem.
The other was the men that the new commandant had sent out of the castle to presumably hunt down Atherton and whatever resistance was left. They were noisy and failed to see Carlo following them, listening to their conversation.
It was obvious they were not trained for stealth.
The first mission was to take those men out of the equation.
Then there was a third problem, the last of the resistance in the castle, those left behind by Fernando, had taken all the prisoners out of the castle and executed them.
Carlo had then killed those men and left them with the bodies of the murdered defectors, and, unlike his German counterparts, he had undertaken it swiftly and silently.
Our force of eight moved quietly in the direction Carlo last saw the soldiers heading, he assumed towards the underground wine cellar where Martina had taken me after I had been captured.
We managed to hide Chiara in a spot where the enemy if they came to the church, would not find her. The plan was to find them before they got to or left the cellar.
Of course, like any plan, it could always be guaranteed to go wrong.
The last time I went from the cellar to the church, it had been by an old truck, and by my estimation, it would take us about half an hour by foot. It might, by the time we got there, and found them missing, make us late for the main event.
I looked at my watch about a dozen times on that trek, fretting about time which for some odd reason seemed to be passing faster than usual.
Then, Carlo was waving his hands, a signal I assumed was to tell us to stop. We were not far from the cellar. I recognised the landmark used to find it. We formed up in a line just inside the thicket line, a bunch of overgrown bushes providing excellent cover.
Beyond that, we could see intermittent flashes of light from torches. The soldiers were making no attempt to hide their presence.
Blinky was beside me. “What the hell are they playing at?”
“Perhaps they thought if they made a bold attack we’d wilt under the surprise.”
“Or just shoot them. Why are we waiting?”
“Carlo is ascertaining their position.”
“You trust this Carlo. He could be leading us into a trap up at the castle.”
I was surprised he’d taken this long to express his reservations. “Don’t be surprised if he kills everyone in the German squad himself. His home was in that castle. It was his life. They killed his friends. He is not forgiving.”
Jack chose that moment to return from wherever he’d gone soon after we reached the thicket. He had come with me from the church, and I wondered if he knew just how dangerous it could be. He flopped down beside me, waiting.
“What’s with the dog?”
“We found each other at an ambush. Been with me ever since. I have no idea if he’s German, or Italian, or if he understands English. But there’s no questioning his loyalty, he helped me take down Jackerby.
“Well, just as long as I don’t trip over him in the fray of battle.”
We watched the German soldiers who remained on sentry duty when I thought the entrance to the cellar was, and I assumed the others were down in the cellar.
It was what Carlo said was the case when he returned.
Ten in the cellar, two on guard, though I would not call what they were doing sentry duty. They were smoking and talking, guns leaning up against a tree.
Easy shots for our sniper who at this moment had both in his sights.
Carlo kneeled beside me and said, “Cover your ears, pass it on.”
I did, and thirty seconds later there was a huge explosion followed by a storm of soil particles falling on his. The sniper, in the instance following the boom, shot the two sentries.
German forces were eliminated.
The only issue was the castle was now alerted to our presence, so our arrival at the castle was going to be a little more difficult.
I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.
I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.
It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.
The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.
I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.
We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.
We were so happy then.
Before the tragedy.
When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.
It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.
Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.
Until one day she couldn’t.
Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.
The doctors were wrong.
She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.
Justice would have to be served by other means.
I was outside the Bannister’s home.
I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.
Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.
I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.
I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.
“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.
It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.
“Justice.”
“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”
“She said otherwise, Archie.”
“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.
I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”
“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.
“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”
It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.
She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.
If only I’d not been late…
When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.
At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.
I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.
He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.
He didn’t.
It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.
When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.
When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.
At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.
Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.
Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.
Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.
I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.
David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.
He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.
Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.
When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.
I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.
He took nineteen bullets to die.
Then came Archie.
The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.
Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.
A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.
Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.
Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.
He was a little more worried about his sister.
I told him it was confession time.
He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.
I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.
I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.
“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”
Then she shot him. Six times.
To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.
They were not allowed to.
For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.
Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.
Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”
When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.
I was beginning to think I was going mad.
I ignored him.
“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”
Death sounded good. I told him to go away.
He didn’t. Persistent bugger.
I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.
“Why’d you do it?”
“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.
“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”
“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”
“You like killing?”
“No-one does.”
“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”
“We?”
“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”
I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.
Trained, cleared, and ready to go.
I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.
People like me.
In a mall, I became a shopper.
In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.
On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.
At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.
I had a passkey.
I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.
That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.
Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.
Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.
Me.
Quick, clean, merciless. Done.
I was now an operational field agent.
I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.
I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.
It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.
Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.
Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.
I was Barry Gamble.
I was Lenny Buckman.
I was Jimmy Hosen.
I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.
That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.
Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.
God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.
New York, New Years Eve.
I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.
This time I failed.
A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…
Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.
I was done.
I’d had enough.
I gave her the gun.
I begged her to kill me.
She didn’t.
Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.
How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.
I remembered her name after she had gone.
Amanda.
I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.
Someone else had the same imperfection.
I couldn’t remember who that was.
Not then.
I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.
The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.
It was late.
People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.
A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.
He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”
Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.
I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”
They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.
I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.
She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.
I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”
“Dunno.”
“You need help?”
She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.
“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”
She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.
Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.
“Where are your friends?” I asked again.
“Got none.”
“Perhaps I should take you home.”
“I have no home.”
“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.
She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”
“I have my moments.”
“Have them somewhere else.”
She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.
“Take me home,” she said suddenly.
“Where is your place?”
“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”
I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”
“Charlotte.”
The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.
On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.
I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.
Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.
And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.
Aunt Agatha.
She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.
“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.
“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.
“You know why.”
Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”
OK, now she officially scared me.
She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.
“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.
“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”
Charlotte never mentioned her again.
Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.
Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.
Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.
We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.
I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.
Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.
Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.
But…
This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.
And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.
“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”
“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.
“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.
Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.
I was crying, tears streaming down my face.
I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.
It was like coming up for air.
It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.
And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”
I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
There was blood spatter along one wall, and more underneath a chair just out from the wall. On the other side of the room was a table with some rather gruesome instruments on it.
I immediately felt sorry for the archaeologist. He must have endured serious pain before dying. It would be interesting to see a copy of the Medical Examiners report. The room had another overlying aroma other than the mustiness.
What did death smell like?
“Do you think this is where Alex and his cronies hang out?”
“Well, I can tell you for sure it’s not Vince’s lair. He has a house back at Patterson’s Reach. Besides, this mall is Benderby’s territory. It’s his security people who look after this place.”
Then that meant Alex or one of the Benderby’s was responsible for the murder of the archaeologist. Clearly, they were trying to get information out of him, not kill him.
“You think we should tell the cops?”
“You’re asking a Cossatino that question. I thought you knew better.”
“I happen to be in good with the Sheriff. It might make a difference.”
“No, I can assure you it won’t. Too much water under that bridge I’m afraid.”
Perhaps I was hoping she was not like the rest. Of course, if I actually stopped for a minute to think about it, it was probably a lot wiser not to say anything, simply because of the questions it would raise, and the grief the Benderby’s, and particularly Alex, would rain down on me.
We had a piece of evidence we couldn’t do anything with.
For now. That might change in the future.
There were also several filing cabinets and a cupboard in the room, but there was nothing of interest in any of them. It was simply a torture chamber. I had to hope I’d never finish up in here.
“Let’s get out here,” Nadia said, “It’s giving me the creeps.”
I’d felt a shudder or two go down my spine too. If it belonged to the Benderby’s and Alex in particular, he had already passed the point of no return. Alex was a bastard, but I didn’t think he could stoop to this sort of behavior. Vince? Maybe. Like the other members of the Cossatino family, excluding Nadia, he was as psychopathic as the rest.
It just goes to show you couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Alex’s boyish good looks hid something far more sinister underneath.
Just as we stepped out of the room and Nadia pulled the door shut, relocking it, we heard a sound coming from downstairs. The acoustics in the passage and stairwells was quite good, enough, at least, to alert us that someone else was in the building nearby.
“Someone is coming?” Nadia muttered.
“Here?” It was obvious where they were coming to, it was just the surprise anyone else would be around at this hour of the morning.
She glared at me. “Where else would they be going, shopping?”
Annoyance.
We quickly moved towards the next room, the door open, and stepped inside, taking a quick look around. There was another room running off it, and we went in there and closed the door. It had a manual lock, not using a key, and she put it in place.
A quick look around the room showed it to be a bathroom and didn’t exactly have the best of aromas. Perhaps stagnant water.
We stood side by side near the door. We could hear footsteps coming up the stairs, it sounded like two people, and then voices, slightly muffled.
“What did you say we’re here for?”
A male voice I hadn’t heard before.
“A map.”
Alex. I’d know that voice anywhere.
A few seconds later I heard him speak again, “Who the hell left these maps out? Who’s been here? They know the rules.”
“No one. I’m sure of it.” The other voice had a tremor in it.
Alex probably left them out himself, but he was not one to take the blame for anything.
“Someone’s been here. The footprints on the floor. They look fresh.”
We could then hear him coming up the passage. Had we left footprints into the other room and possibly this one? I was almost at the stage of holding my breath.
He went to the end, that last room that had been used as a torture chamber.
“You got the key to this room?”
“No. You know that’s not where we’re allowed to go. Your father’s orders remember.”
“What about this room?”
He was standing in the doorway, and I could see the torchlight from under the door.
“There’s nothing here, no one here. No one had been here, Alex. No one knows about this place. You said so yourself.”
“Except Vince. Mall cops dragged him up here one and beat him up. That was a good day.”
Once more he flashed the light around the room, and along the floor, and it seemed our footprints weren’t showing a path to this door. If he was to come in and start pounding on it, I’d have a heart attack.
“Perhaps no one has been here then, except Ed. We’ll talk to him later.”
The light disappeared, and the footsteps receded.
There were no more voices for a few minutes, then Alex said, “Got it. Now let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
The footsteps and voices receded quickly as they retraced their steps, leaving us, once again, in silence. Except I swear I could hear my heart beating very rapidly.
“Wow,” She said. “That was exciting.”
“What? We nearly got caught.”
“No matter. I could have used my charms on him.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Instead, I have you.”
You would think that going away for a few days, you would be able to drag yourself away from writing.
You would think, after doing it every day for the last six months, it would be time to take a break. But, the trouble with good intentions and being in a different place, there’s a ton of new and different places and things to write about.
We are away primarily for a wedding, with part of it being a Chinese Tea Ceremony, and at course I’ve been reading up on it, and there is any number of descriptions, making it difficult to get a clear idea of what happens.
I guess I’m going to have to wait until the day, next Friday.
In between, there will be a dinner that will have as the centrepiece, Peking duck, my absolute favourite duck dish.
I had it last in Hong Kong two years back before the riots at the restaurant in the Peninsular hotel, and it was exquisite.
Then it’s my brother’s 70th birthday. As he is working feverishly on the family history, and having jetted off many times overseas tracking down the long lost relatives we knew nothing about, it’ll be time for a progress report.
I must admit that some of those relatives have roused my writer’s curiosity. When I helped clear out my parent’s house after they moved into a retirement home, we found a great deal of ancestral material, the most interesting of which is, would you believe, was about my mother.
We have found a whole lot of letters she received from her first boyfriend and then from my father. It shows a side to her I never knew about, and a side to my father that given what I know of him, is totally out of character.
There will no doubt be more on this subject later.
And finally but not least there was a baby announcement, always a subject of much joy and happiness.
This is only day two. There is definitely more to come.
Don’t Be Obsessed, Be Obsessedly Curious: The Balanced Art of Writing a Compelling Play
Playwriting is a thrilling dance between creativity and discipline. It’s a craft that demands passion, yet many aspiring playwrights believe they must be obsessively consumed by their work to succeed. But here’s the truth: you don’t need to be obsessive to write a great play. Instead, what you need is curiosity, patience, and a toolkit of strategies to bring your vision to life. Let’s explore why obsession isn’t the answer—and how to write a play that lingers in the hearts of audiences long after the curtain falls.
The Myth of the “Obsessed Artist”
Pop culture loves the image of the tormented artist locked in a studio for months, surviving on coffee and sheer willpower. But this myth is a red herring. While dedication is key, obsession—borderline compulsion, neglecting self-care, or losing balance—can lead to burnout, poor writing, and even health issues.
Consider this: Great plays are born from sustainable creativity, not self-destruction. Playwrights like Lynn Nottage and David Mamet thrived by setting boundaries, sleeping, and nourishing their minds with diverse experiences. The goal isn’t to “die for your art” but to live for it in a way that fuels your creativity without stealing your joy.
5 Strategies to Write a Compelling Play (Without Going Crazy)
1. Start with a Core Question, Not a Plot
Every great play is driven by an emotional or philosophical “what if?” Ask yourself:
What story haunts me?
What truth am I desperate to explore? Your answer might be as simple as, “What if a single mother lost her job and had to choose between her kids and a dream?” That question becomes the heartbeat of your play. Build your plot and characters to answer it—or, better yet, to challenge it.
2. Craft Nuanced Characters, Not Stereotypes
Audiences don’t want perfect heroes or villains. They want characters who feel human: flawed, vulnerable, and complicated.
Give each character a hidden motive. (Example: A grieving father might lash out, but his rage masks guilt.)
Avoid monologues that “explain” everything—let their actions and subtext do the work.
3. Fuel the Fire with Conflict and Stakes
Conflict isn’t just a punchy line—it’s the engine of drama. Ask:
What do my characters want?
What’s stopping them?
What do they stand to lose?
Think of Glengarry Glen Ross by David Mamet: The fight for a car sales job isn’t just about money—it’s about dignity. Raise the stakes by making the cost of failure personal.
4. Dialogue That Bites: Less Is More
Play dialogue should echo real speech—but with purpose.
Trim the filler: Delete “ums” and “you know.”
Subtext is your friend: Let characters say one thing but mean another. (This is how Shakespeare’s Ophelia truly speaks.)
Conflict in soundbites: Short, sharp lines pack more punch than long speeches.
Need help? Try the “Rewrite as a Screenplay” method: If your lines would feel at home on a Zoom call, they’re not dramatic enough.
5. Edit Ruthlessly and Collaborate Relentlessly
First drafts are drafts for a reason. Let them simmer, then revise with a surgeon’s precision.
Cut scenes that don’t serve the core question.
Work with others: Read your play aloud to beta readers, actors, or writers’ groups. Fresh ears catch what you miss.
Remember: Even August Wilson revised his plays 20+ times. Perfection isn’t a starting point—it’s a destination.
The Secret Sauce: Curiosity Over Compulsion
The key to writing a compelling play isn’t marathon sessions fueled by espresso but consistency and exploration. Take walks, read poetry, or attend stranger’s conversations. Inspiration isn’t just about being a “crazy artist”—it’s about living with open eyes and ears.
And when you feel stuck? Pace yourself. A daily 30-minute writing habit can build a masterpiece faster than a week-long caffeine-fueled sprint followed by burnout.
Final Thought: Write to Be Free, Not Trapped
A play is a mirror held up to life. It doesn’t have to be born of obsessive frenzy—just honest curiosity. The stage is for stories that matter, not for self-imposed suffering. So write from your deepest joys, fears, and questions. And remember: Your best work will come when you’re energised to tell it—not exhausted by the process.
Now go. Let the world see what makes you uniquely human. The audience is waiting.
Days 206 and 207 – From a Broken Keyboard to a Global Conspiracy
…
From a Broken Keyboard to a Global Conspiracy: How to Flesh Out Your Thriller’s Plot
Every great thriller starts with a relatable spark. Yours begins with a brilliant, highly grounded premise: an ordinary, overworked everyman is stuck in a dreary office at 1:00 AM, dealing with cheap corporate equipment. Out of sheer frustration with a broken keyboard—and management’s refusal to replace it—he mashes a strange key combination.
Suddenly, he triggers something he was never meant to find.
As the quiet hum of the night office is broken by footsteps he assumes belong to security, his life shifts from mundane corporate misery to a high-stakes nightmare. If you want to turn this fantastic premise into a gripping, fast-paced narrative featuring a faceless organisation, unreliable allies, and a race to expose the truth, you need a solid narrative roadmap.
Here is a comprehensive guide on how to flesh out your storyline from the first keystroke to the final, high-risk broadcast.
Act I: The Catalyst (The 1 a.m. Discovery)
To make the conspiracy hit hard, the beginning must establish the protagonist’s mundane reality. Show, don’t just tell, how soul-crushing his job is.
The Setup: Establish the late hour. The office is a graveyard of half-eaten takeout and flickering fluorescent lights. He’s dealing with a mechanical artifact—a keyboard where the Spacebar sticks and the Enter key requires a hammer blow.
The Accident: In a fit of sleep-deprived rage, he slams a specific, unnatural sequence of keys (perhaps an old legacy shortcut bypassed by IT decades ago). Instead of an error screen, a terminal window opens, bypassing corporate firewalls entirely.
The Intruder: He finds data he shouldn’t—off-the-books ledgers, surveillance logs, or algorithmic predictions of human behaviour. Suddenly, he hears footsteps. He hides beneath his cubicle, expecting a night-shift security guard with a flashlight. Instead, he watches expensive, scuff-free Italian leather shoes walk past his desk. These people aren’t security; they are clean-up crew operatives or corporate fixers, and they know someone accessed the terminal.
Act II: Expanding the Circle (The Impossible Situation)
An ordinary man on the run can be thrilling, but adding a partner-in-crime elevates the tension through interpersonal dynamics and shared jeopardy.
The Unlikely Accomplice: Introduce a colleague. Maybe it’s the cynical night-shift data analyst who stayed late, or an ambitious junior compliance officer who is equally sick of the system. They accidentally get dragged into the mess when the protagonist tries to escape or confide in someone.
The Impossible Situation: Now, they aren’t just hiding; they are chained to a ticking clock. The faceless organisation locks down the building’s digital and physical infrastructure. Keycards stop working, elevators freeze, and the digital trail proves they accessed the files. They are trapped in a concrete-and-glass labyrinth where the hunters control every door.
Anatomy of the Faceless Organisation: Give this shadow entity weight. They shouldn’t be cartoon villains; they should feel like an omnipresent corporate leviathan. They mask their malice behind HR jargon, automated compliance threats, and terrifying efficiency. To them, the protagonists aren’t enemies—they are simply data anomalies that need to be deleted.
Act III: The Mirage of Allies (Trust No One)
As the walls close in, our protagonists need help—or so they think. This is where you subvert reader expectations.
The “Saviours”: Introduce characters who claim they want to help. Perhaps it’s a sympathetic middle-manager from a different department who “knows how the system works,” or an external cybersecurity consultant who mysteriously arrives to offer an escape route.
The Betrayal: Build the trust, drop breadcrumbs of doubt, and then pull the rug out. Maybe the “friendly manager” slips up by referencing a detail only the killers would know, or the cybersecurity expert leads them right into a trap.
The Psychological Toll: This realisation breaks the protagonists’ morale. They realise that within the ecosystem of this massive corporation, anyone could be compromised, monitored, or bought off. They are completely on their own.
Act IV: The Climax and Resolution (To the Right People)
Surviving the night is only half the battle. If they simply walk out the front door, the organisation will silence them legally, financially, or permanently. They have to go on the offensive.
The Arsenal: What did they discover on that broken keyboard? It’s not just dirty secrets; it’s verifiable digital leverage—encryption keys, financial transfers, or blueprints of a wider conspiracy.
Choosing the Target: Who are “the right people”?
Option A (The Media): A disgraced investigative journalist desperate for a comeback, or an independent whistleblower platform. The risk? Traditional media outlets can be bought, pressured, or legally gagged before the story drops.
Option B (A Shadow Group): An underground collective of hacktivists or a rival corporate faction who operates in the gray areas of the law. The risk? These allies might have a dark agenda of their own, forcing our heroes to make a deal with the devil.
The Final Transmission: Build to a cinematic climax where the protagonists must breach a secure location (or survive one final onslaught) long enough to hit “Send” or broadcast the files live.
Tips for Writing This Thriller
Use Sensory Details: Lean into the claustrophobia of the office at night—the hum of the vending machine, the blinking red light of a security camera, the cold sweat of panic.
Pacing is Everything: Alternate quiet, suspenseful moments of hiding with frantic, breathless bursts of action.
Keep the Stakes Grounded: Remind the reader why these two ordinary people care. They aren’t secret agents; they just want to survive, clear their names, and expose a system that treats human lives as collateral damage.
By grounding your story in the universal frustration of a broken office tool and scaling it up into a high-stakes corporate conspiracy, you’ll hook readers from page one and keep them guessing until the very final keystroke.
Discover Geneva’s Hidden Charms: 5 Off‑The‑Beaten‑Path Experiences Worth Your Time
Geneva is famous for its Jet d’Eau, luxury watches, and the United Nations. But beyond the postcard views lies a quieter, more authentic side of the city that most visitors never see. If you’re craving a genuine Swiss adventure, step off the tourist trail and explore these five lesser‑known gems.
1. Stroll Through the Bohemian Quarter of Carouge
Why it’s a road‑less‑travelled treasure Carouge feels like a slice of Mediterranean Italy tucked into Swiss territory. Founded in the 18th century by the Sardinian king, its pastel‑colored façades, wrought‑iron balconies, and narrow cobblestone lanes create an intimate, artsy vibe that’s a world away from Geneva’s polished business district.
What to do
Boutique hunting: Pop into independent fashion studios, vintage shops, and artisanal leather workshops.
Café culture: Grab a cappuccino at Café du Centre or a craft coffee at Café de la Tour while people‑watching on the lively Place du Bourg‑de‑Four.
Artisan markets: Every Saturday morning, the Marché de Carouge offers handmade ceramics, jewellery, and local produce.
Practical tips
Getting there: Take tram 12 from the city centre (stop “Carouge‑Mairie”) – a 10‑minute ride.
Best time: Late afternoon (around 4 pm) when the cafés fill up but the streets haven’t yet emptied.
Cost: Free to wander; budget CHF 15–30 for a coffee and a small souvenir.
2. Peek Inside the CERN Microcosm & Large Hadron Collider
Why it’s a road‑less‑travelled treasure While CERN is a magnet for physics aficionados, most tourists never step inside the underground world where the universe’s smallest particles are smashed together. The Microcosm exhibition demystifies complex science with interactive displays, and the guided tunnel tour lets you stand at the edge of the famous LHC ring.
What to do
Microcosm museum: Touch a replica of a proton, watch a 3‑D video of the Higgs boson discovery, and explore the history of particle physics.
LHC tunnel tour: Walk (or take a shuttle) into the 27‑km circular tunnel that lies 100 m beneath the French‑Swiss border.
Practical tips
Booking: Free admission, but you must reserve a tunnel tour online at least 48 hours in advance (slots fill quickly).
Getting there: Take the train from Geneva’s main station to CERN (approx. 10 min) or the tram 18 to “CERN – Meyrin”.
Best time: Early morning (first tour slots at 9 am) for the smallest crowds.
Safety: Wear comfortable shoes; the tunnel is cool and slightly humid.
3. Hike the Salève – Geneva’s “Balcony”
Why it’s a road‑less‑travelled treasure Often eclipsed by the Alpine giants, the Salève is a modest limestone mountain just across the border in France. Its gentle slopes and panoramic vistas make it a perfect day‑trip for hikers who want sweeping views of Geneva, Mont Blanc, and the Jura without the crowds of larger peaks.
What to do
Trail options: From the easy “Le Petit Plateau” loop (2 km) to the more challenging “Sentier du Grand Fossé” (6 km).
Summit café: Stop at Le Café du Salève for a hot chocolate while soaking up 360° vistas.
Paragliding: For the adventurous, the summit launch site offers tandem flights with certified pilots.
Practical tips
Getting there: Take the bus 57 from “Place des Eaux-Vives” to “Veyrier‑Le‑Pilat”, then a short 15‑minute walk to the trailhead.
Best time: Late spring (May–June) when wildflowers bloom, or early autumn for crisp air and fewer hikers.
Gear: Sturdy hiking boots, water bottle, and a light jacket (weather changes quickly on the summit).
4. Dip into Local Life at Bains des Pâquis
Why it’s a road‑less‑travelled treasure Nestled on a small pier in Lake Geneva, the Bains des Pâquis is a beloved community spot where locals swim, sauna, and enjoy affordable meals. It’s a rare chance to mingle with Genevans in a relaxed, multicultural setting—something you rarely experience at the glitzy hotel pools.
What to do
Open‑air swimming: The lake’s water is chilly (12–16 °C), but the experience is invigorating, especially in summer.
Sauna & hammam: Warm up after a dip in the traditional Finnish sauna or the fragrant hammam.
Fondue night: From dusk till late, the on‑site restaurant serves classic cheese fondue and raclette at wallet‑friendly prices (CHF 12–18).
Practical tips
Getting there: Walk 10 minutes from the “Moulin” bus stop (tram line 12) or take a short boat ride from the jetty near the Jet d’Eau.
Opening hours: 7 am–11 pm (sauna closes at 9 pm).
Cost: Swimming area CHF 5; sauna CHF 7; meals as listed above. Bring a towel and a swimsuit (no rentals).
5. Wander the Conservatory and Botanical Garden (Jardin Botanique)
Why it’s a road‑less‑travelled treasure Tucked behind the historic Cité des Sciences building, the botanical garden is a serene oasis featuring more than 7,000 plant species, themed greenhouses, and a tranquil pond that mirrors the surrounding trees. It’s a perfect sanctuary for nature lovers seeking quiet contemplation away from the city buzz.
What to do
Themed greenhouses: Explore the tropical rainforest house, the succulent desert dome, and the elegant orchid collection.
Seasonal exhibitions: Spring brings a dazzling tulip display; autumn showcases native alpine flora.
Educational workshops: Free guided tours on plant conservation are offered on weekends.
Practical tips
Getting there: Tram 15 to “Conservatoire” (stop “Conservatoire”). The garden entrance is a two‑minute walk from the tram stop.
Best time: Early morning (8–10 am) for soft lighting and minimal foot traffic.
Admission: Free (donations welcomed).
What to bring: Comfortable shoes, a notebook for sketching, and a camera (no flash in the greenhouses).
Wrap‑Up: Embrace Geneva’s Quiet Side
While the Jet d’Eau and the Old Town sparkle with tourist energy, Geneva’s hidden corners reveal a city that balances cosmopolitan flair with authentic local life. From the artisan streets of Carouge to the scientific wonder of CERN, the lofty views of Salève, the communal warmth of the Bains, and the botanical whispers of the Conservatory—each experience invites you to travel a road less travelled and return home with stories that only a handful of travellers have heard.
Ready to explore? Pack a light backpack, swap your guidebook for a curiosity‑filled mind, and let Geneva’s secret sides surprise you.
Got a favourite off‑the‑beaten‑path spot in Geneva? Share it in the comments below and inspire the next wanderer!
I think it’s stating the obvious, we are expressing something definitively and clearly. I stated my case, but it was not good enough to save me from the hangman’s noose.
Or, they stated their case, but with an unforgiving government, it didn’t save them from being deported.
Or maybe not, maybe a state is a territory or nation under one government, though sometimes we might think that governance is not all that great
But it could also mean a subdivision within a single country, like the 52 states of the US, and the 5 states in Australia
And woe betide you if you become a state-less person, it means living in the international transit lounge for the rest of your life.
Or it might be how I feel at the time, you know, I’m not in a fit state of mind to be writing this post, or that I might be agitated, with someone else saying ‘he’s in a state’, or having said something quite odd, it might be said that my state of mind is clouded by grief.
If I was an important person, such as a king or prince, and had the unfortunate luck of dying, I could lie in state, though I could never understand why you’d want to hang around after you died.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 