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 Art of the Split Consciousness: Why Every Writer Must Be Two People
Writing is a profession built on paradox. We sit in silence to communicate with the world; we spend hours in solitude to understand the collective human experience; and, perhaps most curiously, we must be both the creator and the critic at the exact same moment.
Albert Camus, a titan of literature and philosophy, famously captured this internal friction when he noted that a writer “must be two persons.”
But what does it mean to split one’s consciousness in the service of the craft? And why is this internal duality the secret to truly connecting with an audience?
The Creator and the Stranger
Camus argued that a writer must possess a dual identity to effectively “translate what one feels into what one wants others to feel.”
If you only write from the perspective of the Creator, you are essentially journaling. You are purging your own emotions, fueled by the raw, unrefined intensity of your personal experience. This is necessary for the spark of an idea, but it is rarely enough to sustain a reader. The Creator knows exactly what you mean; the Creator feels the weight of the memories behind every word.
But the reader? The reader arrives at your page as a stranger. They don’t know your context, your history, or the specific ache in your chest that birthed the sentence.
This is where the second person—the Stranger—must step in.
The Power of Detachment
The “Stranger” is the part of the writer that treats the manuscript like an alien artifact. It is the cold, analytical eye that looks at a paragraph and asks, “Does this make sense if I have never lived this moment?”
To write well is to master the art of detachment. You must be able to step outside of your own ego and look at your prose as if you were picking it up in a library, written by an author you’ve never met. When you read as a stranger, you start to notice where the logic gaps are, where the prose becomes self-indulgent, and where the emotional core is buried under too many adjectives.
Bridging the Gap: Why Writers Need Readers
Ultimately, the goal of this internal division is connection. We don’t write solely to process our thoughts; we write to bridge the gap between two minds.
Camus knew that writing is a form of translation. You are taking the abstract, messy, and deeply personal language of your internal life and converting it into a language that others can consume, understand, and feel. Without that “Stranger” perspective, we are merely shouting into a void. We are writing for the person who already knows what we’re saying: ourselves.
Embracing the Duality
If you find yourself struggling to edit your own work, or feeling like your writing doesn’t quite “land” with your audience, you might be leaning too heavily on one side of your personality.
You need the Creator to dream up the vision, to bleed onto the page, and to find the truth. But you need the Stranger to finish the job. You need the Stranger to be the audience-in-residence—the one who holds the pen steady and asks, “Is this true for them, too?”
Writing is a contradiction because it requires you to be both deeply vulnerable and completely objective. It’s a difficult balance to strike, but it’s the only way to ensure that what we feel, someone else will feel, too.
So, the next time you sit down to write, don’t just ask yourself what you want to say. Ask yourself if the stranger reading your work will understand why it matters.
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.
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.
Onboard the plane shortly after it took off, I watched Monroe go to each of the team and give them a folder with their role, and, no doubt, instructions on what they had to do, and to handle the equipment they were assigned. The list I’d seen required a sound technician, a grip, a cameraman, his assistant, the director, the producer, which I took to be Monroe, and a few other production assistants.
None looked happy, and probably already knew what the cover story would be. I didn’t see or hear any objections, each just took their folder and started on their homework.
She didn’t spend much time with Jacobi, just enough to tell him he was going to be the guide. It was a role he was most suited to, and that of local liaison. At least it would explain why he was with us.
After that, she came to see me.
“Was it your idea or Lallo’s?” I asked.
“Lallo’s. I’m as surprised as you, but you have to admit it’s a great cover story.”
“For a group who wouldn’t know one end of the camera from the other.”
“Plenty of time to learn. You don’t have to worry. All you have to do is be perennially bad-tempered and yell a lot. I’m sure you can do that without having me tell you how to.”
“No. probably not. Bamfield said it all the equipment worked.”
“When we take the C4, detonators, grenades, and a few other assorted armaments out it will.”
“You know where the other stuff is,” I said, hoping she understood that it was the diamonds I was talking about.
“Somewhere in one of the boxes. It was best not to tell anyone, so if anything happens, we can’t give it away. We can worry about that once we get past the border. I suggest you get your head down. At least one of us has to be sharp at the other end when we land.”
With that, she went back to her corner, ran her eye over the team now deep in their studies, then looked like she was going to get some sleep.
After a few hours, the enthusiasm to learn had died down, and each of the team members made themselves comfortable. There would be more time to study on the other side of the fuel stop. Everyone on board got what sleep they could, not that it was the best of places in the cargo hold of a C-130. One destination we were all familiar with was that of Djibouti when we would set down to refuel at the airbase there.
It was a half-hour stop, and, as Monroe advised, we didn’t leave the plane. It was best no one knew we were aboard or what we were doing, a feat I thought quite remarkable because if it was my airbase, I’d want to know.
But, as airbases went, it was the same as the rest.
Back in the air, we were heading for Uganda. It was another 6 or 7 hours, so it was a good time to get some more rest before we landed. I had no idea when the next time would be that there would be time for some shuteye.
I’d been keeping an eye on Monroe. She appeared to be the liaison for everything, and had accompanied the pilot to the base tower, most likely to file the flight plan, one of several I imagine, and to report back to Bamfield. It explained why the pilot returned without her, and she didn’t get back until 15 minutes before we were due to leave.
Should I be worried? There wasn’t much point.
After an hour, I went up the back of the plane and sat next to Jacobi. He had been ostracised by the rest of the team; an order given by Monroe for them to leave him alone. He’d been escorted onto the plane by two burly military policemen, and his bag of equipment given to Monroe for safekeeping, so we were sure from the time he left the cell at the black site to getting on the plane he had communicated with anyone.
Even so, I was sure he had been in similar situations before, and he was still alive to tell about it. If he had a plan, whatever that plan was, we would soon find out.
In the meantime, I thought he might have an interesting story to tell, and I had a few hours to kill.
He sullenly watched me come down the fuselage, and then sit next to him, loosely putting what passed as a seat belt on just in case we hit an air pocket. The flight was not as smooth as it might be on a commercial airliner and was certainly a lot noisier.
“Have you spoken to the right people yet?” I almost had to yell in his ear.
Lallo had said he was going to get Jacobi to call his friendly General in the Congo army to smooth the way, and it would be interesting to know under what circumstances Jacobi had explained our arrival at his border. And another to tell the kidnappers we were on our way. Monroe said he had made several supervised phone calls, but not exactly who to.
We had to pray that the General would be among those to also help us locate the targets and, once the exchange was made, assist us in our departure, for a small sum to compensate them for the inconvenience.
He knew why I’d come to see him. “The captors know we are coming, and hopefully before the time limit has passed. They will kill them this time if we don’t get there in time.”
“I’m sure they’d like us to think that, but you know as well as I do they need the ransom for their ongoing operations. Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to plan f which is where they kill us, the hostages, and just take the ransom. Either way, I hate to be the one who is only going to make things worse, but I don’t get to decide what’s right or wrong.”
“It’s how it works out there. Everyone is available for a price. If it wasn’t this lot, it’d be another or another.”
“Or the military, maybe, looking to cash in because the state doesn’t pay them enough. That’s why we’re putting you at the head of the procession. If we’re ambushed, you’ll be the first to go.”
“I admire your lack of faith in me.”
“You haven’t done anything to inspire faith, Jacobi. But so long as you keep your word, and do everything right, I won’t have to shoot you.”
There was no horrified look. He knew the score of being in the ‘Mr. In-Between’ business. He would no doubt get a share of the diamonds for brokering the deal, on top of whatever Lallo offered him, and a cut of the General and his men’s fees for guaranteeing our safety. I guess his business also had its hazards, wasn’t for the faint-hearted, and for those working all sides of the fence, a particularly exciting time.
Generals, soldiers, kidnappers, rebels, practically every man and his dog had an itchy trigger finger.
“It’s not me you have to worry about.”
“How so?”
“I didn’t betray them the last time, and that person was never identified.”
A good point. “Then let’s hope no one else knows we’re coming, or what we’re bringing as ransom.”
He looked at me, a look that told me I thought he might just make a play for the diamonds himself and forget about the targets. It was a very tempting ransom.
“You know how it is. Spies are everywhere.”
“Just make sure you’re not one of them.”
I think I said it with just enough sincerity that he believed me.
“It’s not worth my while, I assure you. Once you’re involved in a double-cross, you cease to be of worth to anyone. I will not be the source of your problems if there are any.”
For a man who’d already been caught out in a raft of lies, there was nothing he could say that would make me trust him. He was going to require an escort once we landed.
I had two perfect candidates for the job. Williamson and Shurl. From what I had observed on the ground before we boarded the plane, and in the plane, they stuck together. I got the impression they knew each other.
After I left Jacobi, I told them what I wanted them to do.
It was the day for sullen responses. They didn’t want to be babysitters. Tough.
Next, I went and visited Mobley, sitting closer to the front of the plane, by himself. Monroe had sat with him for an hour or so before we reached Djibouti, and it had raised a small flag.
I staggered towards him, the pilots deciding to take the rough path through the sky, and almost fell into the seat next to him.
He didn’t look at me the whole time, even when I’d sat down. Was he pretending to ignore me, or had he decided he was above taking my orders?
“I’ve got a few hours to waste so if you think I’m going away forget it,” I said, loud enough to get his attention.
A slight flutter of an eyelid. Not asleep.
“Monroe tells me you’re in charge of this motley crew,” he said, still not looking at me.
“Not because I want to be. I’m not sure what your reason is to be here, and, frankly, I don’t care, but I really don’t want to be here. I wasn’t given a choice. I’m guessing you did from what I’ve been told. We don’t have time to debate the issue. What I want you to do is when we arrive at the base, is hang back, come up with whatever excuse will fly, and give us several hours head start. You’ll be with one of Chiswick’s men. What’s important is to check no one follows us.”
“You think someone might?” A look of almost interest.
“I’m sure of it. There’s no way we will get to the base in Uganda, no matter how far from civilization it is, and not be noticed, or worse, that someone already knows we’re coming.”
“What’s the ultimate rendezvous?”
“Over the border in the Congo.” I passed him a hand-drawn map of the area, from the landing strip to the GPS co-ordinates of the exchange point in the Congo, but not the track that we would be taking, some of which I hoped might be by the river. I think Monroe had given him as much detail of the job as she could, as she probably had all of them.
“Monroe in the loop?”
“She will be by the time we land.”
“Good.”
Eyes closed again; the conversation was over.
Time to have a talk to Monroe.
“Got some good news,” she said when I sat next to her.
“We’re turning around and going home?”
“Where is home?”
It was an interesting question. I’d been bounced around so many airbases, I don’t think I’d had a permanent fixed address from the day I signed up. Was it where I used to live? No point going back, everyone I’d known back then had either moved on or died. Technically I was now an orphan, and unlike others, I had no family of my own to go home to.
“No idea anymore, I’m afraid. So, what’s this good news.”
“We have an exit strategy. Bamfield told me to tell you everything is in place. All we have to do is liberate a plane and we’re on our way home. It’s the reason why Davies is on the mission, Bamfield says she can fly anything.”
“I’ve never heard of a plane called ‘anything’.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Any other details?”
“We’ll know exactly what the score is when we get there. That’s all I know at the moment.”
“There’s more?”
“Hopefully through the pilot’s last contact with Bamfield. Otherwise, it’s going to be just another boring day at the office.”
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.
I joined Cecelia on the side of a hill about 500 yards from the front of the main entrance to the Burkehardt residence. On one side there were several outbuildings, and beyond those, the vines, acres and acres of them. On the other side, where we were, there was more vines and gardens.
It was warm, but we were under the trees and had a hedgerow to hide behind, so we were quite safe from being seen.
Cecelia had picked her spot with care. Clear sight to the front entrance, clear sight of the driveway from the road to the house, and the opportunity to like up targets with the rifle, already set out.
It was not loaded. She was using the sight to home in on those at home.
“A mother, a father, two girls and a boy. The parents fight a lot. Th mother and the three children left about a half hour ago, and the old man is sitting at a table reading the newspaper. You’d think he’d be out working.”
“Anyone call?”
“One. The man answered a cell phone, spoke for a minute then went back to the paper. If he starts doing the crossword, I’m going to shoot him.”
She took another look, then sat up. She had brought a hamper with food and drinks. No wine. We needed to remain focused.
It was a fine day, and just started to get hot, despite the fact we were quite buried by the surrounding trees. The heat was tempered by a slight breeze, and the sound of it rustling the leaves was oddly soothing.
One of the more pleasant stake outs I’d been on.
My phone buzzed. A message.
‘One of the phones called a man named Dicostini about twenty minutes ago and said they were on their way, there was a problem.’
As I suspected, the fake countess was working with Dicostini.
“And…?” Cecelia looked at me expectantly.
“Expect to see the fake countess. They are on their way.”
We didn’t have to wait very long. I had expected they would arrive about an hour after I had, but then, the countess did have some disconcerting news. What surprised me was the fact she just didn’t tell him over the phone. If I were Dicostini, I would have told her to stay away for fear of being linked together, and that was still a possibility if there were other people in the house, loyal to the Dicostini or not.
Cecelia had picked up the gun and was pointing it at every car that passed the driveway entrance, checking on the drivers and passengers if there were any.
“Got them.”
I saw the car stop at the driveway entrance for a minute, and then start slowly along the driveway.
“Juliet is driving the car. The two women are in the back. Odd.”
“Perhaps they’re practising being wealthy dowagers.”
She put the gun back facing the house.
“You got your phone?”
“Why?
“Alfie would have put an app on it so you can listen to the conversation. I didn’t think about it until now otherwise we could have listened to them on the way here.”
I gave it to her, and she fiddled with it for a minute, handing it back and the car stopped outside the house.
“You think it would be that riveting?”
“No. But it might give us some idea what they’re up to?”
Then a voice came over the speaker, not too loud but loud enough for us to hear.
“You stay in the car, Juliet. The fewer people who know about this the better.” I could not put a face to the voice.
“Distinction for the uninvolved. I will not be breaking you out of prison just so you know.”
“Don’t be such a spoilt brat.”
I heard two doors slam and then silence, other than feet crunching on the gravel. Cecelia lined them up in her sights and said, “Just say the word.”
At the top of the stairs, I could just see them stop at the door and rang the bell. It took several minutes before Dicostini answered.
“This is not a good idea, coming here,” he said.
“Well, the phones aren’t safe. We disabled the GPS, and I sure as hell aren’t going to tell you anything using one. Let’s go inside.”
“You shouldn’t be here. If anyone sees, you…”
“Not if we come, say our piece, and go. Arguing is only making it more dangerous.”
He stood to one side and let them pass.
Three minutes later I heard Cecelia say, “Got them again.”
The vices came back.
“What’s so pressing you have to come here.”
“The signing had been delayed.”
“The Burkehardt’s. The suspect something. You? What do you do wrong?”
“I’ve seen the solicitor, and the family in London, even that fool Rodby insisted I use as an escort. They all think I’m the countess.”
“Except now you are missing, they’re worried. Rodby should have kept out of it, but you going missing the way you did, has only caused us trouble. The Burkhardt’s called him and then he had to do something about it.”
“You know that was for effect, to get away from the family because the longer I’m with them the more chance they’ll discover the truth. Rodby should be happy to know I have been found, which is exactly as it was planned, and that his man will be taking me to the signing. Rodby will do as he’s told.”
“A week’s a long time for things to go wrong. You have to say in hiding.”
“It’s another week and I have people pressing me for money.” Vittoria wasn’t happy.
“You know the deal. The countess signs the papers, and you get your payment. I can’t help it if it’s been delayed. They can’t delay it forever. You’ve delivered the message, now go, before anyone finds you here.”
This is my least-favoured option for spending a Sunday morning, but having married a Catholic and agreeing to adopt Catholicism, it’s one of those things that has to be done on rare occasions, usually a child’s milestone.
Yes, we went through our children’s moments like baptism, first communion, and confirmation, or these days in a somewhat different order. Then it came to the turn of our grandchildren, and today the last child is making her first communion, and there will end our involvement till the last rites.
Hopefully.
Church to me doesn’t hold any real significance. It doesn’t mean that I would debunk the idea of religion, and I firmly believe that if anyone believes in God, then that’s their right.
And it seems there are a lot of believers. I’m sitting in the church now, and it is packed. It might be that it’s a captive audience, given that it’s a first communion for grade three students and others, but given the enthusiasm of the children involved, I’d say the church was about to get over a hundred new followers.
Of course, a lot depends on the enthusiasm and devoutness of the parents who may wish to spend their Sundays differently, but I suspect there are many here who will continue their devoutness in some form or other.
As for me, sadly, I will continue to use the only day of the week it’s possible to sleep in.
The Writer’s Dilemma: Why the Money-Paying Tale Often Takes Centre Stage (and What It Means for Your Craft)
Every writer knows this internal monologue. It’s late, the house is quiet, and the cursor blinks expectantly. Before you, on one screen, is the outline for that sprawling, genre-bending novel that called you to writing in the first place – your magnum opus, your heart project. On another tab, emails from a client remind you of the looming deadline for that article on “The Top 10 Uses for Biodegradable Sponges” or that ghostwritten piece on “Modern Pet Grooming Techniques.”
And if you’re like many authors, the biodegradable sponges often win.
It’s a source of quiet guilt for some, a pragmatic acceptance for others, but the question remains: Why is it often postulated that it’s better to work on the money-paying tales, rather than the serious writing that sparked your passion, or that beloved pet project? Let’s peel back the layers of this very real writer’s dilemma.
1. The Unsexy Truth: Bills Don’t Pay Themselves
This is, overwhelmingly, the primary driver. Writing, for most, isn’t a guaranteed goldmine, especially when you’re starting out or delving into niche literary fiction. While the dream is to live off your art, the reality is that rent, groceries, internet bills, and – let’s be honest – that ever-growing coffee habit, require immediate, tangible income.
Money-paying tales – be it freelance articles, copywriting gigs, ghostwriting assignments, or even genre fiction with a reliable market – offer a more predictable cash flow. They keep the lights on, the laptop charged, and food on the table. Without this foundational stability, the mental and emotional space required for deeply serious, often financially unrewarding, creative work becomes almost impossible to cultivate.
2. Sharpening the Axe: Professionalism and Practice
Think of money-paying projects not as a distraction, but as a different kind of training. Even if the subject matter isn’t your passion, these gigs offer invaluable professional development:
Meeting Deadlines: A crucial skill for any published author, even in the literary world.
Adhering to Briefs/Guidelines: Learning to work within constraints hones your precision and adaptability.
Understanding Your Audience: Every paying gig requires you to write for a specific reader, which is a transferable skill for any type of writing.
Honing Craft: Whether it’s crafting compelling sentences, structuring arguments, or developing clear prose, every word you write is practice. Even “mundane” writing can teach you about flow, conciseness, and impact.
Building a Reputation: Delivering quality work consistently, even on commercial projects, establishes you as a reliable and professional writer. This professional goodwill can open doors later.
Sometimes, the very act of writing anything takes the pressure off. Your “serious” work can feel monumental, intimidating. A paying gig, while perhaps less creatively fulfilling, can be a welcome change of pace, a chance to simply put words on a page without the intense emotional investment.
3. Building the Foundation (and the Platform)
For many, the “money tales” are a strategic investment in their larger writing career.
Financial Runway: Earning money now means you might save up enough to take dedicated time off later to really immerse yourself in your passion project without immediate financial pressure.
Publishing Credits: Even if it’s not the type of writing you ultimately want to be famous for, any published work builds a portfolio. It shows you’re a working writer, capable of producing content.
Networking: Commercial projects often connect you with editors, publishers, and other industry professionals. These connections can be invaluable when you eventually pitch your more serious work.
Market Intelligence: Working on commercially viable projects gives you a direct line to understanding what sells, what the market demands, and how publishing houses operate. This insight, while not dictating your art, can be useful for strategising the release of your passion project.
4. The Creative Tug-of-War: Balancing Act, Not Betrayal
It’s natural to feel a pang of guilt or a sense of creative betrayal when you prioritise a paying gig over your deep-seated artistic ambitions. However, many authors view this not as an either/or, but as a strategic balancing act.
Allocate Time: Dedicate specific hours or days to your passion project, even if it’s just 30 minutes a day. Consistency is key.
Refuel Your Muse: Sometimes, the “light” work of a commercial gig can be less creatively draining than wrestling with your masterpiece, leaving you with more energy for your passion project when you do turn to it.
Remember Your “Why”: Keep a tangible reminder of your larger goal – a sticky note, a vision board, a printed outline. This helps combat the feeling of drift.
In essence, for many, working on money-paying tales isn’t a surrender of artistic integrity, but a practical, often necessary, step on the path to sustaining a writing life. It’s about building a solid foundation, sharpening the tools of the trade, and sometimes, simply ensuring you have the time and resources to eventually tell the stories that truly matter most to your heart.
It’s a marathon, not a sprint, and sometimes the best way to keep running is to earn a little cash along the way.
What’s your take on this writer’s dilemma? How do you balance the demands of paying work with your passion projects? Share your strategies and insights in the comments below!
The Blank Page Blues: Understanding the Real Effects of Writer’s Block (And How to Beat It)
Every writer, whether they are penning a Pulitzer-winning novel, a corporate newsletter, or a simple blog post, has been there. You sit down, open your laptop, crack your knuckles, and… nothing. The cursor blinks at you, rhythmically mocking your lack of progress.
Writer’s block is the universal enemy of creativity. But what actually happens when we hit that wall, and how can we climb over it? Let’s break down the mechanics of the “block” and, more importantly, how to get your momentum back.
The Hidden Effects: More Than Just “Stuck”
We often think of writer’s block as a simple pause in production. However, the effects are usually deeper and more taxing than just an empty page.
1. The Erosion of Confidence The longer you stare at a blank screen, the more your inner critic takes the wheel. You start to doubt your premise, your vocabulary, and eventually, your aptitude as a writer. This “imposter syndrome” can linger long after the initial block has passed.
2. The “Avoidance Cycle” When writing becomes associated with the frustration of being stuck, you naturally start to avoid it. You find “productive” distractions—doing the dishes, organising your email, or doom-scrolling—which only increases the anxiety you feel when you finally do return to the desk.
3. Creative Atrophy Writing is a muscle. When you stop writing for extended periods, the “creative flow”—that effortless state of articulation—becomes harder to tap into. The longer the blockage persists, the more you have to fight your own brain to regain that rhythm.
How to Break the Cycle
The good news? Writer’s block is not a permanent state; it’s a temporary neurological bottleneck. Here is how to unclog it:
1. Lower the Stakes
Often, we get blocked because we are trying to write something “perfect” on the first pass. Give yourself permission to write “garbage.” Write the worst draft imaginable. Once the words are on the page, you can edit them. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a bad paragraph.
2. The “Pomodoro” Trick
If the task feels gargantuan, break it down. Set a timer for 15 minutes. Tell yourself you only have to write for that long. Often, the hardest part of writing is the starting—once the gears are turning, continuing becomes much easier.
3. Change Your Environment
If your brain associates your desk with anxiety, move to a coffee shop, a library, or even your kitchen table. Sometimes a change of scenery, ambient noise, or a different chair is enough to signal to your brain that it’s time for a new mode of thinking.
4. Switch Mediums
If the laptop screen feels stifling, go analog. Grab a legal pad and a pen. The physical act of handwriting taps into different creative pathways in the brain and removes the temptation to delete, backspace, and over-edit as you go.
5. Use Prompts to Prime the Pump
If you don’t know where to start, stop trying to write the “masterpiece” and just write five sentences about anything. Describe the room you’re in. Describe your breakfast. Once you break the silence of the page, the transition to your actual project will be much smoother.
The Bottom Line
Writer’s block isn’t a sign that you’ve lost your talent; it’s a sign that your brain needs a different strategy. Don’t try to force your way through it with sheer willpower alone. Sometimes, the best way to move forward is to step back, change the environment, and lower your expectations until the words begin to flow again.
Remember: You are a writer because you write, not because you never get stuck.
So, close this tab, take a breath, and write one sentence. Just one. That’s how the block ends.
This morning started with a visit to the car rental place in Vancouver. It reinforced the notion that you can be given the address and still not find the place. It happened in Washington where it was hiding in the back of the main railway station, and it happened again in Vancouver when it was hidden inside a hotel.
We simply walked straight past it. Pity there wasn’t a sign to let people know.
However…
We went in expecting a Grand Jeep Cherokee and walked out with a Ford Flex, suitable for three people and four large suitcases. It actually seats 7, but forget the baggage, you’d be lucky to get two large suitcases in that configuration.
It is more than adequate for our requirements.
Things to note, it was delivered with just over a quarter of a tank of gas, and it had only done about 11,000 km, so it’s relatively new. It’s reasonably spacious, and when the extra seats are folded down, there is plenty of baggage space.
So far, so good.
We finally leave the hotel at about half-past ten, and it is raining. It is a simple task to get on Highway 1, the TransCanada Highway, initially, and then onto Highway 5, the Coquihalla Highway for the trip to Kamloops.
It rains all the way to the top of the mountain, progress hampered from time to time by water sprays from both vehicles and trucks. The rain is relentless. At the top of the mountain, the rain turns into snow and the road surface to slush. It’s 0 degrees, but being the afternoon, I was not expecting it to turn to ice very quickly.
On the other side of the mountain, closer to Kamloops, there was sleet, then rain, then nothing, the last 100kms or so, in reasonably dry conditions.
Outside Kamloops, and in the town itself, there was evidence of snow recently cleared, and slushy roads. Cars in various places were covered in snow, indicating the most recent falls had been the night before.
We’re staying at the Park Hotel, a heritage building, apparently built in the later 1920s. In the style of the time, it is a little like a rabbit warren with passages turning off in a number of directions, and showing it is spread across a number of different buildings.
It has the original Otis elevator that can take a maximum of four passengers, and a sign on the wall that says “no horseplay inside the elevator” which is a rather interesting expression that only someone of my vintage would understand. And, for those without a sense of humor, you definitely couldn’t fit a horse in it to play with.
The thing is, how do you find a balance between keeping the old world charm with modern-day expectations. You can’t. Some hotels try valiantly to get that balance. Here, it is simply old world charm, which I guess we should be grateful for because sooner rather than later it’s going to disappear forever.
In my writer’s mind, given the importance of the railways, this was probably a thriving place for travelers, and once upon a time, there were a lot more hotels like this one.
Everyone loves a drink, and that interesting expression, ‘what’s your poison’ often resonates at a bar when among friends.
The thing is, we are supposed to know what our friends drink, me, for instance, I like beer, preferably in a bottle and not local mass-produced brew if I can avoid it.
But, some like white wine, no preference to type, some like cocktails like a Manhattan, or a Long Island Iced Tea, very dangerous if made correctly which quite often it isn’t, or champagne, the real thing not just leftover wine carbonated and given a name like ‘sparkling …’ something.
Every now and then we need to have more than one drink, and that desire is fuelled by our emotions. A celebration, it’s two or three, just enough to allow the euphoria to seep in. A tragedy of any sort means more than a few, usually prefixed with a statement like, ‘I need to get hammered’, but not literally.
Perhaps that’s why it’s called drowning our sorrows.
Of course, there are other meanings for the word ‘drink’ and often poets, and romance novelists will refer to a phrase such as ‘drink in…’ where it may refer to a loving gaze or a look of adulation. You could also, at a stretch, drink in the sight of a magnificent landscape.
Then, at the end of that drinking session, good or bad, where you may have had the opportunity to drink in looks or locations, you might, if you didn’t play your cards right, get thrown in the drink.
Not in the glass, that’s a bit small, but it means a much larger body of water such as a pool, a lake, or the ocean.
And lastly, but probably not the only context for the word ‘drink’, it could be said you were ‘driven to drink’, and I don’t mean by another drinker to the hotel, bar, restaurant or party.
Driven to drink means you blame someone else for your recently acquired desire to drink as much as you can so that it blots out something or someone.
I’m officially blaming my dog for my drinking problem. He drove me to drink.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 