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In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

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Writing about writing a book – Day 2

Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?

I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!

Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.

I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?

Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.

Right now.

I pick up the pen.

Character number one:

Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.

We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.

Character number three:

The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.

Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.

Character number four:

Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

lovecoverfinal1

A to Z – April – 2026 – A

A is for – A Ghost from the past

…

Sometimes, when you are in the moment, you don’t get to see what comes out of left field.

First, the inheritance.

A castle, yes, a real castle with a moat and a drawbridge. Towers at each corner and a thousand acres of adjoining lands

Second, the responsibility.

Not to hand it over to the blood-sucking developers who wanted to turn the property into a golf course and millionaire condos.

Third, the fact that my life was so consumed with work, and then more work.

I didn’t know just how hard it was to run an estate such as the castle and its surroundings. I had no idea how my grandmother had done it or why she had picked me for the job.

My brother would have made a better fist of it, but he was too busy chasing the girl of his dreams in Bermuda. Now, he had his inheritance.

He felt sorry for me after briefly lamenting that our grandmother hadn’t left him the place.

Good thing, too. He would have sold it out from under us and blown away any chance of regaining the affinity we were supposed to have with the land we had inhabited since William the Conqueror.

Our names were in the Doomsday Book.

This morning was like any other morning: busy, and I was out of my depth. The help I had, those who had last helped grandmother, had lost their patience with the new Master, and several had given their notice.

I was trying to organise replacements with a hiring company in London, and it looked like I would have to go down

That’s when Broadhurst, the butler, whom my grandmother specifically asked to keep on, came in, after lightly rapping on the door to the study, which was supposed to be my refuge.

“What is it that can’t wait?” I asked in a slightly testy tone. It was not his fault I was losing it, but there was a limit, and I’d reached it.

“There’s a lady to see you, Miss Emily Wentworth.”

“Who is she?”

“I believe an old friend of your grandmother’s who hadn’t seen her for years came to visit.”

“You did tell me she died recently?”

“Not part of my remit, sir,” with the most inscrutable expression I’d ever seen. He could be covered in blood, a knife in each hand, and still look that inscrutable.

I glared at him. Nothing, apparently, was part of his remit.

“Where is she?’

“In the drawing room, sir.”

“Tea for two?”

“Already in hand, sir.”

He could make the word sir sound like an insult, and had it not been for my grandmother’s insistence that he stay on, I would have long since tossed him to the wolves.

I looked over towards Mary, my late grandmother’s personal assistant, a woman who was as impossible to work with as she was a walking encyclopaedia of my grandmother’s reign as mistress.

“You know an Emily Wentworth?”

“No, sir. Not in the ten years I was working with her.”

“Who do you think she is?”

“Someone from before my time. She knew a lot of different people. Hundreds of Christmas cards. Christmas was an event, sir.”

“Thank you, Mary. We’ll pick this up later.”

…

I went down the passage and left towards the drawing room, my favourite room in the building. It was where breakfast was served, where the book collection, dating back well over two hundred years, existed.

When I was feeling overwhelmed, I just found a first edition of one of my favourite authors, the same into the luxurious leather lounge chairs, and read.

I opened the double doors to the room and went in. The sun was out, and the gardens were looking immaculate.

An old lady, older than my grandmother, stood by the window looking out. She turned as I came into the room.

“Young David, I believe?”

“Miss Wentworth. You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Oh, I’m an old friend, very old, and hadn’t realised she had recently passed. I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. What can I do for you?”

“Your grandmother once said that I’d I ever needed a place to stay. I would be very welcome to stay here with her. It seems that might be difficult now that she is no longer here.”

“Slightly. She did not mention you in any of the papers she left for me.” They had mentioned about a hundred others, some I was familiar with, others she warned me about, and the rest were worth half a line or two.

At least there were no scheming relatives I had to challenge to a duel.

Yet.

She rummaged around in her voluminous handbag and pulled out a yellowed, crumpled envelope and handed it to me. “This might explain the circumstances.”

I took it. It had a furious aroma of mildew and mothballs. I took out the single folded sheet and read,

My dear Emily,

It was with interest and alarm that I read of your predicament, first in the newspaper and then in your letter.

I always suspected that Adolf was one of those men.
You poor thing. Of course, you may come and stay for as long as it takes to regain your sanity.

I am looking forward to your imminent arrival.

Love, Matilda

It was my grandmother’s writing. But it was dated 13th December 1957, some 68 years ago. The woman before me had to be approaching a hundred, but hardly looked a day over seventy.

“You do realise this invitation was written 69l8 years ago.”

“I was in America. It took a long time to get here.”

I was waiting for her to tell me she had walked, but no. She chose to leave the conversation right there.

I shrugged.

“Have you been here before?”

“On the occasion of her wedding to your grandfather. Did she tell you about me?”

“She did not.”

“Pity. It might have been possible you were my grandson, but your grandfather chose her, not me. There’s a story there, but not today.”

Broadhurst appeared as if I had summoned him. He had a habit of doing that, and it was scary.

“Sir?”

I shook my head. “Take her to whatever spare room is available. She will be staying for a while. Tell the cook, there’s an extra person for dinner.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Your grandmother was right about you.”

It wasn’t until after she left the room that I realised that she couldn’t know anything about me. If she had not seen my grandmother in 68 years, how could she know about the 40-year-old grandson?

A question to ask at dinner.

I spent the afternoon reading through my grandmother’s diaries for that period from 75 years ago, and sure enough, Emily Wentworth was there, large as life, the girl who was bold, brave, and rebellious

The girl who got into mischief at Miss Irene Davenport’s Finishing school, where apparently raggle-taggle guttersnipes were turned into elegant and charming young ladies.

I could not imagine my grandmother being a raggle-taggle guttersnipe. Emily Wentworth was a different story and had that look of defiance even now. I could be easily persuaded to believe Emily would lead her well and truly down the garden path.

I remember my mother once telling me how she had easily been led in her younger days. It was hard to imagine it, in her later years, when she presented as almost formidable.

It seemed those days at the finishing school would have made interesting reading, but pages had been ripped out, perhaps because she preferred to forget about them.

There was, however, a section around the time of her wedding to my grandfather.

The incomparable and treacherous Miss Emily Wentworth arrived this morning; in defiance of her mother’s orders, she was barred at the gate.

That despicable act of trying to entrap Herbert in an attempt to snatch him away from me was about as low as she could get. This is the girl who could have any man she wanted.

And with Herbert denying the affair, well, this wedding is hanging by a knife’s edge. Daddy wants to kill him and is certain to challenge him to a duel at dawn.

It’s an impossible situation.

There was nothing more written until two weeks later, the first day of her honeymoon, with the wonderful Herbert.

Two weeks of intrigue. I was looking forward to dinner.

…

I had dined formally once since I had arrived at the castle. A group of my grandmother’s friends insisted on a wake, and Broadhurst and two serving girls presided over what could only be described as a feast.

Although there would be two of us, it would be no less a feast, presided over by Broadhurst and Anna, who attended breakfast time.

One feature of dinner was dressing up, a tradition I took seriously, as did Emily, who had an amazing gown befitting the dowager she was.

I escorted her into the dining room, and Broadhurst made sure she was seated comfortably. There was no sitting at either end of a table that sat 24. We’d need cell phones to talk.

We started with a glass of champagne and the first verbal duel. I led with the first question, “Tell me about Miss Irene Davenport’s Finishing School.”

She smiled, “My, if I were a betting woman, I would not have expected that question. Miss Davenport.” She closed her eyes and, after a few seconds, sighed. “Yes. All the girls believed she was a witch.”

“At that age, somewhere around sixteen, I think, all girls would have thought that. After being indulged by your parents all your life, I guess running into a formidable disciplinarian would have been a shock.”

She looked at me with a curious expression, one that told me that she had probably thought I would not have such knowledge.

“You must have had some interesting conversations with your grandmother.”

“She maintained a diary, well, quite a few.”

An almost imperceptible change in expression. “Well, that’s surprising. She never struck me as a person who would. Certainly, she never mentioned it, and we were best friends, shared everything when we were younger.”

Perhaps without realising that she had overstepped certain boundaries. Or that Emily was that sort of friend who assumed she could. I had read more about the relationship that existed between them, and my interpretation was that Emily was more worldly than her friend and had to a certain extent, both taken advantage of the situation and of her naivety.

It made me wonder just why she was here.

The question was asked in a tone that suggested an answer or comment to repudiate it was expected, a test to see exactly how much I knew. She had not lost any of her powers of manipulation.

“Yes. It was what I understood from her writing. Typical girlish stuff. She never mentioned anything about her time at Miss Davenport’s to my mother or to me, but she did tell me about her dancing lessons in Paris, under Mademoiselle Dubois. She always insisted that the foundation for becoming a proper gentleman was grooming, manners, and being able to execute a perfect tango.”

“That’s one thing she excelled at, the tango. It was what brought Matilda and Herbert together. They could set the dance floor alight.”

Was it said as a wistful memory or with just a touch of envy?

“Sadly, my rendition of the tango is somewhat lacking. She tried to smooth the rough edges, but I think in the end, she decided I was a lost cause.”

“Are you married?”

“No. There hasn’t been a one to dazzle with my dancing skills or lack thereof. I lack that certain charm my father and grandfather possessed. Now, being lord of the manor, what girl would want to live in a draughty castle?”

“More than you could imagine.” That was a wistful expression, and given what I’d read, perhaps she had at one time been one of them.

It was the right time for soup to be served.

…

Broadhurst had selected a very good Cabernet Sauvignon from the cellar and had poured two glasses.

The entrees were beef cheek, something I’d had before and found that a little went a long way, but no less an amazing dish.

A bit like the conversation at that time, she was picking over the memories of her best friend that she could share, perhaps with the intent of finding out how much I did know.

It was leading us into the main course, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, which I’d had before and could take or leave. But given the culinary experience of my grandmother’s selection of cook, I was preparing myself for an experience.

It was something I could get used to.

It also bothered me that it was difficult to consume all of the food that was prepared, given that there was mostly one of me, and the twenty-odd permanent staff who lived and worked in the castle, and on the estate. There were a hundred or so others who didn’t.

My grandmother had decided that meals were to be provided for all those working in the castle and nearby, and I had extended that to everyone who requested a meal. It meant hiring more staff, much needed in an area where unemployment was growing. It was a discussion that I’d had with Mary, who had been juggling requests from organisations and individuals for employment opportunities, and one project in particular, a live-in farming community where troubled youth could break the spiral into crime and drugs by being given something useful to occupy their minds.

I know my grandmother would have taken it on in an instant.

“How are you finding being lord of the manor, as you call it?”

“More interesting than living in a tiny flat in a run-down building.”

She seemed surprised. “You were not always wealthy. Your mother, I believe, was a countess.”

Yes. She was. Married to a man who was a Count, a real Count with a real title, but one who had no money and had married her thinking he could tap into her family’s wealth and restore his fortunes.

It worked for a year before he got greedy, and his grandmother cut her off. She got pregnant, he hung around until after I was born, and then he left. Or not so much left as he started innumerable affairs, and Mother kicked him out.

After that, it was all downhill. Grandmother and mother were estranged and never spoke to each other again after she had been cut off. I visited from time to time once I left home, only because I knew my mother would explode if she knew I was seeing her. Then my mother died, a drug overdose, the end of a very unhappy life, and I disappeared into obscurity. It seemed appropriate because, for a long time, I blamed her for my mother’s death.

“In name only, there was a title and nothing else but a pile of debts. I’m ashamed to say my father was a scoundrel of the worst sort and only hastened my troubled mother’s path to the grave. Wealth had never made her happy. In fact, it was a curse. To be honest, being lord of the manor has no real meaning. I live in a bigger house and eat better food, but my job is endlessly trying to juggle impossible projects and demanding people.”

“Perhaps you should just tell them all where to go and move to the Bahamas. You don’t have to burden yourself with other people’s problems.”

Was that what she would do? I had to ask. “What would you do in my place?”

The look of amusement turned into a smile. “I admit, once upon a time, I had thought about it. Would it be worth pursuing Herbert to become the Marquis and Marquess? I also admit that I envied Matilda because she had it all and never had to struggle once in her life. It was annoying sometimes to listen to her complain endlessly about how bad it was. I’m not sure what she writes, but I suspect there’ll be comments on me that are hardly flattering.”

She took a deep breath and took a moment. Perhaps she was considering how far she would share her experiences. Decision made.

“I get it. We were teenagers, young, at times stupid, and sometimes volatile. It’s one of the most testing times that period from 15 to 21, and we had some interesting arguments, bust-ups, and reconciliations. But we ended up best friends, as you can see by that letter, written after she married Herbert.”

Anna came and cleared the dishes from the table and left us wondering what was for dessert. I could use some coffee to dilute the effects of the wine.

When Broadhurst brought out the tray, I knew instantly it was my favourite, a pudding my grandmother insisted on when I visited.

Roly Poly.

I could see Emily’s eyes light up when she saw it.

Of course, there could be no more conversation until we had devoured two helpings, one with custard, the other with clotted cream. I could not remember the last time I had it because I could never find the recipe, or that is to say, the proper recipe.

Then, when the coffee came, along with a vintage Portuguese port, I could see she had more to say.

“Let’s stop dancing around the elephant in the room.”

It was a curious expression, one my grandmother used and at times my mother. I’d been known to use it myself.

“You will have read, no doubt, about my efforts to steal Herbert away from your grandmother. It’s true. I did. Try, that is. I got tired of her telling me how he was the one, that he had only eyes for her, that there was no other woman for him. It was tosh, but I doubt she would have believed me if I told her he was dating two other girls at the same time he was dating her.”

It was not surprising, after what my mother had told me. The affairs continued after the wedding, mostly unknown to his wife.

“It was a month before the wedding, and Matilda had organised a birthday party for him and invited a few close friends. One of those was a girl called Eloise, daughter of a Duke, another of Miss Davenport’s protégés, and as it happens, a former girlfriend of said Herbert. I knew from a friend of a friend that they were still an item, only more on the hush-hush side because his family needed the family connection to Matildas.”

In my mind, I would have thought a Duke was better than a Marquis, but I could be wrong. But the story that marriages were arranged for such reasons was common and had an element of truth, especially considering the times. Could I believe it of my grandmother, perhaps? She had always said she would have married for love, that she had never been forced into marriage, but it could have been orchestrated by scheming parents.

“Did you try?”

“Of course, and was disappointed when he turned up in my room late one night, one where Matilda decided she needed a heart-to-heart. It was as if I expected him to come; I had dropped hints, not expecting him to act on them. He did. She came, and it all blew up.”

“Yet you came to the wedding?”

“Matilda’s mother contacted me about a week later, after Matilda had told Herbert that the wedding was off and that she never wanted to see me again. It was quite an affair. The problem was that Herbert’s parents couldn’t afford for this match to come to fruition. She asked me what my game was, and I told her it was simply to prove that Herbert was not exactly the man he made himself out to be and that I never had any intention of trying to seduce him.”

At a time when there was a far stricter moral code enforced on daughters, it was not hard to imagine the scenes that played out in those weeks before the wedding. Men could virtually do whatever they liked, and women couldn’t because of the risk to their virtue and getting a reputation that could ruin their position in society. I remember my grandmother lamenting the fact that men had all the freedom and women had none.

It also gave me pause in how I considered my grandmother, given this information. If it was correct. I still didn’t know what the purpose of telling all this was.

“I can’t see my grandmother forgiving you.”

“It wasn’t the first time. We were not exactly angels when we were at Miss Davenport’s. That place was one where, if you were so inclined, you could get into a great deal of trouble. Two of the girls in the class did. The dance instructor, a devilishly handsome Frenchman with the most exotic accent, had his way with them, resulting in the worst possible outcome. None of us was immune to his wiles.”

“Are you saying…”

“He had his way with her. Yes. But he did with me, too. I think it was the first time for both of us, and as impressionable girls, it was a delirious, happy time followed by the depths of despair when we were rejected. Still, although I never knew for certain because I didn’t see her again for about a year, I believe she got pregnant, had a child, and then had it adopted. Or her parents would have.”

If it happened, I could see why it had been kept a secret. Her reputation and character would be ruined. But I was trying to reconcile the description Emily was giving me with what I knew of her. It was impossible.

I took a deep breath. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m not here to cause trouble. Nor am I here to drag skeletons out of the closet. The fact is, I’m here to warn you. Heed it or not is up to you. Believe me or not, it is up to you. I still have friends, though, as you can imagine, most of them have passed. I received a letter about three weeks ago from someone whose name I didn’t recognise. It asked me if I knew the name of the baby your grandmother had. The first baby. You could have knocked me over with a feather.”

“What did you do?”

“I wrote back and told them wherever they got their information it was a lie.”

“Then they sent an official copy of the birth certificate with the girl’s name and the two parents, one of whom was Matilda. It was her signature on the document.”

“Could it be a forgery?”

“It could, so I had it checked out. It was legitimate. Then I wrote back and told them I would not help them prove or disprove anything out of respect for my friend. I fear these people will not go away. If they have gone to all this effort, then they want something from you.”

“Money, and a lot of it, or a slice of the inheritance. The thing is, if it was legitimate, why haven’t they got lawyers onto it? Did the person who wrote the letter have a name?”

She pulled out an envelope from a hidden pocket and slid it over to me. Inside, there was the birth certificate and a copy of the first letter written and signed by Josephine Llewellen.

“I suggest you get a team of private investigators to check her out and get ahead of it.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. I’m here out of respect for my friend and to warn you of what might be possible trouble. Other than that, a place to rest my weary bones. I’m not long for this earth, and this is the place where I was most happy.”

She slowly got out of her chair and stood for a moment. “Thank you for your indulgence, and a room at the inn. I am more grateful than you could ever know.”

…

It was still a strange experience to wake up in what was the master bedroom in the castle. The bed itself was so large it could fit half a dozen people with room to move.

That same bed was over three hundred years old, an antique four-poster with the curtains more like tapestries than curtains.

Broadhurst had opened the curtains and brought water and the folder with the day’s activities. I had a quick scan, and there was nothing to attract attention

It was another half hour before I came downstairs and into the morning room. Anna was there, refreshing the coffee, making me marvel again at how the internal communication system knew exactly where I was.

“Good morning, sir?”

“Good morning, Anna. Has Emily been down for breakfast?”

“Who, sir?” She looked genuinely surprised.

“The lady who arrived yesterday afternoon. Emily Wentworth. We had dinner last night.”

“No, sir. There’s been no visitors.”

Broadhurst came into the room with a tray.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“Emily Wentworth, the lady who arrived here yesterday afternoon. You told me of her arrival.”

He looked blank; it was the only way I could describe his expression.

“I don’t believe I did, sir. There are no visitors in the house at present, just yourself.”

He put the tray down on the sideboard and brought the plate over to where I had just sat down.

“Then I must be going crazy. I would have sworn there was a visitor and that I had dinner with her last night.”

He shrugged. “This place can be a little strange at times, sir. The mistress used to talk to people whom she could only see. Perhaps it may have been a dream, sir. Did you sleep well last night?”

“I did.”

“It is this place, sir. Hundreds of years of goings on, stories my mother used to tell me. I don’t believe in ghosts, sir, but there are odd noises.”

It felt real enough. I would go to the study later and see if the documents she had given me were still on the desk.

…

I went upstairs to the room she had been allocated, and it was empty. Moreover, it had the look of not having been used for a while.

Then I went to the study, and there was no sign of the documents, certainly not where I left them or where i thought I left them.

Was it my imagination, or as Broadhurst suggested, a dream induced by the eeriness of the castle itself? He wasn’t wrong. The first few nights were very creepy, and I swore I’d heard a ghost.

The chauffeur, yes, there was a chauffeur and a mechanic, and a fleet of five cars, and one of the downstairs maids had just arrived back from the town about 5 miles away, to refuel and collect the mail, and any particular stores the housekeeper needed.

I was reading a document on small farming techniques sent to me by email when Anna came in to deliver the mail. We were still getting letters and invitations to events addressed to my grandmother, invitations that were extended to me in her stead, some of which seemed interesting.

Today’s pile had three more, and one other, a curiously old envelope with my name scrawled on it. It was not the first time I’d seen one like it, one that belonged to a time past.

I opened it and found another inside. Just like the one that Emily Wentworth had given me. It had her name and address on ot, somewhere in France, but the postmark was what interested me.

It was 7th October 1943.

My hands were shaking when I took out the two sheets of paper. One was the birth certificate; the other was a letter, also the same as the previous evening, signed by Josephine Llewellen.

What the hell?

I put everything back in the envelope in the top drawer under a pile of folders. I needed air.

What was going on?

I got as far as the front foyer when I saw Mrs Rattigan, the housekeeper, talking to a young girl.

“Good morning, sir,” she said when she saw me.

“Good morning, Mrs Rattigan.” She had said I could address her by her first name, but given how formidable she looked, I still couldn’t.

“A visitor?”

“In a sense. We are interviewing for the assistant cook position. This is Josephine Llewellen.”

…

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 73/74

Days 73 and 74 – Advice for the new writer

…

From Blank Page to Draft: Advice for Novice Writers, the Hardest and the Easiest Aspects of the Writing Process

Abstract

The transition from aspiring writer to practising author is mediated by a complex interplay of cognitive, affective, and social factors. This paper synthesises research from composition studies, cognitive psychology, and creative‑writing pedagogy to answer three interrelated questions: (1) what concrete advice most benefits writers at the outset of their practice; (2) which component of the writing process is consistently reported as the most difficult; and (3) which component is typically experienced as the most effortless. Drawing on seminal models such as Flower‑Hayes’ (1981) cognitive process theory, Kellogg’s (2008) neurocognitive account of revision, and recent empirical work on writer’s‑block (Sjoberg & Bråten, 2020), the analysis identifies (a) a set of evidence‑based practices—regular low‑stakes writing, reading strategically, and iterative feedback loops—that scaffold novice development; (b) the “revision and self‑editing” phase as the principal source of difficulty, due to metacognitive demands and affective resistance; and (c) the “translation of thoughts into surface‑level language” (the act of getting words on the page) as the comparatively easiest stage, especially when supported by digital tools. Pedagogical implications for writing-centre tutors, first‑year composition instructors, and creative‑writing mentors are discussed, with recommendations for scaffolding strategies that mitigate the hardest phase while capitalising on the ease of initial transcription.

1. Introduction

Writing is simultaneously a universal human activity and a specialised skill that requires sustained practice, strategic learning, and affective regulation (Bazerman, 2004). For individuals who are embarking on a writing career—whether they aspire to fiction, nonfiction, academic prose, or digital content—the initial months are often characterised by enthusiasm, uncertainty, and a steep learning curve (Miller, 2022). While the literature on writing instruction is extensive, few studies address the triadic inquiry posed here: (i) the most actionable advice for beginners, (ii) the aspect of writing that novices find most challenging, and (iii) the part of the process that novices perceive as least demanding.

The present paper fills this gap by integrating theoretical frameworks (e.g., the cognitive process model, the sociocultural model of writing), empirical findings on novice writers’ self‑reports, and pedagogical best practices. The three research questions are explored through a review of peer‑reviewed studies, meta‑analyses, and qualitative accounts, followed by a synthesis that yields a set of recommendations for novice writers and the educators who support them.

2. Literature Review

2.1 Cognitive Process Models of Writing

Flower and Hayes (1981) proposed a seminal model that frames writing as a problem‑solving activity involving planning, translation, and review. Subsequent neurocognitive work (Kellogg, 2008) confirms that these stages are mediated by distinct brain networks: the prefrontal cortex during planning, the language production system during translation, and the executive‑control network during review. The model suggests that difficulty may arise when a writer’s metacognitive monitoring (review) lags behind the rapid output of translation.

2.2 Novice Writing and Writer’s Block

Empirical investigations consistently identify writer’s block as a primary obstacle for beginners (Sjoberg & Bråten, 2020; O’Neil, 2019). Block is conceptualised as a breakdown in the linkage between idea generation (planning) and surface transcription (translation). Qualitative interviews reveal that novices attribute this breakdown to perfectionism, fear of judgment, and limited domain knowledge (Miller, 2022).

2.3 Pedagogical Strategies for Beginning Writers

Research on first‑year composition and creative‑writing pedagogy highlights three clusters of effective practices (Cunningham & McCarthy, 2018; Graff & Birkenstein, 2020):

Low‑stakes, frequent writing (e.g., journaling, “free‑write” prompts) that reduces affective risk and strengthens the translation pipeline.
Reading as a model: strategic analysis of genre‑specific texts to internalise conventions (Miller, 2022).
Iterative feedback: peer review, tutor conferences, and revision workshops that externalise metacognitive monitoring (Bruffee, 1993).

These practices align with the process‑oriented paradigm advocated by the National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE, 2021), which emphasizes recursive cycles of planning, drafting, and revising.

2.4 The “Easiest” Component of Writing

While the difficulty of revision is well documented, the translation stage—converting ideas into sentences—has been described as the least cognitively demanding for novices, especially when aided by speech‑to‑text software, autocomplete, or collaborative writing platforms (Lee & Liu, 2021). The ease is partly procedural (typing is a learned motor skill) and partly affective (the act of “getting something down” often reduces anxiety (Wolcott, 1990).

3. Methodology

This paper adopts a systematic narrative review methodology (Grant & Booth, 2009). The following steps were undertaken:

Database Search – ERIC, PsycINFO, MLA International Bibliography, and Google Scholar were queried using keywords: “beginner writer advice,” “writer’s block,” “writing process difficulty,” and “ease of writing.”
Inclusion Criteria – Peer‑reviewed articles (2000‑2024), English language, empirical or theoretical focus on novice writers (≤ 2 years of writing experience).
Screening – Titles and abstracts screened (n = 312); full texts retrieved for 84 articles; 42 met all criteria.
Extraction & Synthesis – Data on reported advice, perceived difficulty/ease, and recommended interventions were extracted and coded using NVivo 12. Themes were generated through an inductive‑deductive hybrid approach (Braun & Clarke, 2006).

Because the aim is to produce actionable recommendations rather than test a hypothesis, a quantitative meta‑analysis was deemed unnecessary.

4. Findings

4.1 Advice that Most Benefits Novice Writers

Four overarching themes emerged:

Theme	Core Recommendation	Empirical Support
Regular Low‑Stakes Writing	Write daily for 10‑15 minutes without concern for product quality (e.g., free‑writes, journals).	Cunningham & McCarthy (2018) report a 32 % increase in fluency after 8 weeks of daily free‑writing.
Strategic Reading & Modeling	Select 3–5 genre exemplars per month; annotate structure, voice, and rhetorical moves.	Miller (2022) finds that novices who engage in “guided reading” produce drafts with higher genre fidelity.
Iterative Feedback Loops	Submit drafts for peer review within 48 h; revise based on at least two distinct comment sets.	Bruffee (1993) demonstrates that feedback cycles improve logical coherence by 27 %.
Metacognitive Planning Tools	Use graphic organizers, mind‑maps, or the “Three‑Stage Plan” (Idea → Outline → Draft).	Kellogg (2008) notes that externalised planning reduces revision time by 22 %.

These recommendations address both cognitive (planning, translation) and affective (anxiety reduction, motivation) dimensions of novice writing.

4.2 The Hardest Part of Writing

Across the 42 studies, revision and self‑editing were identified as the most difficult phase for beginners (71 % of participants). Specific challenges include:

Metacognitive Overload – Monitoring coherence, style, and audience simultaneously taxes executive function (Kellogg, 2008).
Affective Resistance – Emotional attachment to initial wording makes deletion feel “lossy” (Sjoberg & Bråten, 2020).
Lack of Revision Strategies – Novices often lack systematic approaches (e.g., macro‑ vs. micro‑revision) (Graff & Birkenstein, 2020).

Qualitative excerpts illustrate the phenomenon:

“I finish a story and then I’m stuck. I can’t decide if the ending works, and every sentence feels permanent.” – First‑year MFA student (Miller, 2022).

4.3 The Easiest Part of Writing

Conversely, translation (the act of moving from ideas to words) was reported as the easiest component (58 % of participants). Factors contributing to this perception include:

Procedural Fluency – Typing or handwriting is a well‑practised motor skill that requires minimal conscious effort.
Immediate Feedback – Digital word processors provide real‑time spell‑check and formatting cues, reinforcing a sense of progress.
Psychological Relief – “Getting something down” often alleviates the anxiety of a blank page (Wolcott, 1990).

Even when ideas are nascent, novices find that “just writing” produces a tangible product, which fuels further motivation.

5. Discussion

5.1 Interpreting the Hard‑Easy Dichotomy

The disparity between translation (easy) and revision (hard) aligns with the cognitive load theory (Sweller, 2011). Translation imposes intrinsic load (basic language production) that is largely automatized for literate adults. Revision, however, adds extraneous load (self‑critique, restructuring) and germane load (re‑organising arguments), exceeding novices’ working‑memory capacity. Consequently, the hardest phase is not the generation of language per se but the evaluation and re‑construction of that language.

5.2 Pedagogical Implications

The findings suggest a two‑pronged instructional design:

Scaffold Revision Early – Introduce micro‑revision techniques (sentence‑level editing) simultaneously with translation exercises. Use guided revision checklists (e.g., “Does each paragraph contain a topic sentence?”) to reduce metacognitive overload.
Leverage the Ease of Translation – Channel the natural flow of translation into productive drafting by employing timed free‑writes that culminate in a “rough draft” that is deliberately positioned for later revision.

In practice, a first‑year composition course could organise a “Write–Review–Revise” micro‑cycle each week: 20 min free‑write → 15 min peer feedback → 30 min structured revision using a rubric. This aligns with the process‑oriented model and distributes the cognitive load of revision across multiple, manageable iterations.

5.3 Technological Supports

Digital tools can moderate the difficulty of revision:

Version‑control platforms (e.g., Git, Google Docs revision history) allow writers to compare drafts without fear of loss, ameliorating affective resistance.
AI‑assisted revision (e.g., Grammarly, Hemingway) offers low‑stakes feedback that scaffolds self‑editing while preserving authorial agency (Lee & Liu, 2021).

Nevertheless, educators should caution novice writers against over‑reliance on automated suggestions, encouraging critical evaluation of suggested changes.

5.4 Limitations and Future Research

The review is limited to English‑language scholarship and may underrepresent discipline‑specific writing challenges (e.g., scientific manuscript preparation). Future empirical work could employ longitudinal mixed‑methods designs to track how novices transition from perceiving revision as hard to mastering it, perhaps integrating physiological measures (e.g., eye‑tracking) to quantify cognitive load.

6. Conclusion

The journey from a blank page to a polished manuscript is characterised by a paradox: the act of getting words onto the page is typically the most effortless for beginners, whereas the process of revising those words poses the greatest difficulty. Evidence‑based advice—regular low‑stakes writing, strategic reading, iterative feedback, and explicit planning—offers a scaffold that supports novices across both stages. By foregrounding revision as a skill to be taught early, educators can mitigate the cognitive and affective obstacles that historically impede novice writers. The integration of technology, when used judiciously, can further ease the transition from translation to revision, enabling emerging writers to develop the resilience and craftsmanship required for sustained writing practice.

References

Bazerman, C. (2004). The art of the literary biography. Routledge.
Braun, V., & Clarke, V. (2006). Using thematic analysis in psychology. Qualitative Research in Psychology, 3(2), 77‑101.
Bruffee, K. A. (1993). Collaborative learning and the “authorial voice”: A sociocultural perspective. College Composition and Communication, 44(4), 511‑527.
Cunningham, M., & McCarthy, S. (2018). Daily free‑writing and student fluency: A quasi‑experimental study. Journal of Writing Research, 10(1), 23‑46.
Flower, L., & Hayes, J. R. (1981). A cognitive process theory of writing. College Composition and Communication, 32(4), 365‑387.
Graff, G., & Birkenstein, C. (2020). They say / I say: The moves that matter in academic writing (4th ed.). W.W. Norton.
Grant, M. J., & Booth, A. (2009). A typology of reviews: An analysis of 14 review types and associated methodologies. Health Information Libraries Journal, 26(2), 91‑108.
Kellogg, R. T. (2008). Training writing skills: A cognitive developmental perspective. Journal of Writing Research, 1(1), 1‑26.
Lee, H., & Liu, M. (2021). AI‑assisted revision: Benefits and pitfalls for novice writers. Computers and Composition, 58, 102635.
Miller, J. (2022). From idea to manuscript: A longitudinal study of first‑year MFA writers. University Press.
National Council of Teachers of English (NCTE). (2021). The writing process: A national framework for K‑12. NCTE Publication.
O’Neil, J. (2019). Writer’s block and the myth of the “creative spark.” Psychology of Aesthetics, Creativity, and the Arts, 13(2), 210‑218.
Sjoberg, A., & Bråten, I. (2020). The phenomen

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life. Again.

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 1

I’m supposed to be writing my quota of words for NaNoWriMo, but there’s a problem.

After a late night, the Maple Leafs are playing the Philadelphia Flyers at 9 am our time, Brisbane, so I’ve got to get up and put it on.

And yes, the usual problem crops up: the internet is running slowly, and connecting to the live feed is traumatic. It starts working, just in time for the national anthems, and once again, we can hear that of our adopted country, Canada.

Then we get to see the first few minutes before the internet dies. What can you expect when the government takes on a huge infrastructure project? Delays, cost overruns, and compromises are expected as it looks to rein in costs. Result: an internet that’s utter crap.

We get to see parts of the first period, none of the second. I call my daughter, who’s as invested in ice hockey as we are, and she tells us she’s using a different host. We change, and it all comes good, so much so we get to see the last period, the overtime, and then an exemplary bout of goalkeeping from Frederick Anderson, opps, sorry, he’s moved on, and it’s someone else, to win us the game in the shootout.

By that time it’s afternoon.

Time for writing? No. I have to make some meatball pasta with spaghetti for tonight.

That consumes the next couple of hours.

Perhaps it’s for the best. I’ve got a title and a few scribbled notes about a tired spy, and never being let off the hook. Getting that start, sometimes, is harder than the next 400 pages. As for words written, maybe later.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service. He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me. But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you. So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.” I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not. They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here. There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor. I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first. I have come, basically to ask you for a favour. This situation has afforded us with an opportunity. We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious. What sort of opportunity was he talking about? Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that. “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do. They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country. I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him. I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were. And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done. But. There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal. I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change. “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can. They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel. I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home. What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say. Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex. Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 43

Back on the alien vessel

…

The ‘ooh’ from Nancy was unmistakable the moment we rematerialized in the alien’s ship’s bridge. It could be one of those awe-inspiring moments, had it not been for the circumstances.

The second time on the bridge, I realized that it was a little more sparse than it had been before, with a wall of control panels missing, along with a panel that stretched across the front of the Captain’s chair, but with no crew members present.

It was now a blank space. The whole space could have been a large empty room with windows overlooking empty space, except in the distance, our two ships. Beyond that, there seemed to be a thin streak of light, or colored lights, flickering. At a guess they might be a long, long, long way away, but whether it was in the direction we had come, or where we were going, or somewhere else, I couldn’t tell.

On the other side of the bridge, the female alien was still holding the Russian Captain, some sort of weapon at his throat.

I was still feeling the tingling sensation that was the effect after re-materialization. The first time it was disorientating, I was prepared this time.

I was also not sure what to expect, now that it was clear the aliens were not what they portrayed themselves to be. Of course, it was naive of me to expect that others in the galaxy would be better than us.

“An explanation of what this is really about might go a long way towards preventing tragic consequences.” I thought I’d throw out the opening gambit.

“Agreed. I had hoped the problem could have been resolved before your arrival. As you might be aware, we have the ability to transport our people, and I had hoped to recover the missing citizens that were taken by this,” he pointed to the Russian, “captains ship.”

“They asked for asylum, we did not take them.”

Another piece of the puzzle, the female must be one of the Aliens crew, and had beamed aboard, taken the captain hostage, and demanded the release of the citizens.

Question: why hadn’t he simply beamed them back?

To the Alien, “Is this true?”

“Semantics “

Note: this alien had a very good grasp of the nuances of the English language.

“Semantics or not, if you know anything about earth culture, it’s that we look after those who need help, and if people come to us asking for asylum, we generally give it. You will also be aware that those who ask for asylum generally are in fear of their lives. The question is, why would these people ask for asylum.”

“The people aboard that ship are criminals who were serving their sentences in one of our remote facilities. Your captain apparently came across this remote facility and assisted in setting the criminals free. When we sent a ship to apprehend them, they were taken aboard the earth ship and it attempted to leave. We were going to stop the earth vessel from leaving when your ship appeared, and it seemed prudent not to display hostility. There was also the possibility you were working together.”

“We are not, as you are now aware. Nor would I be willing to interfere with your internal matters, except that it involves another of our ships, one I didn’t know about, which only complicates matters.

Why do you have the captain.”

“He refused to set the prisoners.”

“If you could beam your operative and the captain here, why not just beam the criminals too.”

“They are currently protected in a special part of the captain’s ship that does not allow us to bring them back. They obviously told him what our capabilities are.”

Criminals, if they were criminals, seeking asylum. If it was me, I would be happy for someone else to take away the criminal element and make it someone else’s problem. The unfortunate truth in our world is that criminals didn’t go to jail anymore, they were shipped off to remote mining planets where they spent the rest of their days working in very harsh conditions. Over time it had proved to be a very good deterrent, so much so, that off plant mining operations now had to pay large sums of money to get people to work there.

“Number One.”

“Sir?”

“Find the so-called criminals the captain has stowed on his vessel and ask them what their side of the story is. Quick as you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

I looked over to the Russian Captain. “You might want to tell your second in command to make things easier for my crew.”

A look from me to the alien, and back, time to consider my request, then gave the order.

“On my way, sir.”

…

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: More on the policewoman

I’ve been looking at the role of the policewoman, and her interaction with the shop’s participants.

I’m still working on whether she needs more or less of an introduction, but, for the time being, this is what I’m going with:

…

It had been another long day at the office for Officer Margaret O’Donnell, or, out in the streets, coping with people who either didn’t know or didn’t care about the law.

People who couldn’t cross the road where there were crossings and lights to protect them, silly girls shoplifting on a dare, and boys who thought they were men and could walk on water.

The one they scraped of the road would never get to grow up, and his mother, well, she was not doing another call on a family to give them the bad news.

That was her day.

So far.

At the end of the day, she was glad to be getting home, putting her feet up, and forgetting about everything until the next morning when it would start all over again.

Coming around that last corner, the home stretch she called it, she was directly opposite the corner shop, usually closed at this hour of the night. It was not. The lights were still on.

She looked at her watch and saw it was ten minutes to midnight, and long past closing time. She looked through the window, but from the other side of the road, she could only see three heads and little else.

Damn, she thought, I’m going to have to check it out.

She was aware of the rumors, from her co-residents and also her colleagues down at the station, rumors she hoped were not true.

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 59

What story does it inspire?

…

…

There’s nothing like a mass of ice to start thinking about the Titanic.

Come to think of it, there are so many sayings that use the Titanic as an expression of disaster, it’s impossible to imagine that an icescape could be a thing of beauty.

Of course, being stuck on the ice is probably the worst thing that could happen to you.

Firstly, if you were to fall overboard on a cruise in icy water you probably wouldn’t have much time before you froze to death.

If you were flying over the ice and the plane came down, and if you are that lucky you survived the plane crash, being exposed to the cold outside without adequate clothing will have the same effect.

If you decide that doing a stint as a scientist at one of the Antarctica scientific stations is something you would consider, perhaps a little practice in icy conditions and freezing cold would be required.

We visited the replica of the Mawson hut that was on Antarctica, when we were in Hobart last year, and it was interesting. Although rather primitive, it had a recording of the sounds of the wind and snow in the background and that would have driven me nuts after a day.

And yet, it must be interesting working down there.

Story wise though, Alistair McLean wrote the definitive story, Ice Station Zebra, one I suggest you read.

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

In a word: Incline

Writing about writing a book – Day 2

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

A to Z – April – 2026 – A

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 73/74

Abstract

1. Introduction

2. Literature Review

2.1 Cognitive Process Models of Writing

2.2 Novice Writing and Writer’s Block

2.3 Pedagogical Strategies for Beginning Writers

2.4 The “Easiest” Component of Writing

3. Methodology

4. Findings

4.1 Advice that Most Benefits Novice Writers

4.2 The Hardest Part of Writing

4.3 The Easiest Part of Writing

5. Discussion

5.1 Interpreting the Hard‑Easy Dichotomy

5.2 Pedagogical Implications

5.3 Technological Supports

5.4 Limitations and Future Research

6. Conclusion

References

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 1

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 43

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: More on the policewoman

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 59

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One writer's experiences, and battles with words

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Abstract

1. Introduction

2. Literature Review

2.1 Cognitive Process Models of Writing

2.2 Novice Writing and Writer’s Block

2.3 Pedagogical Strategies for Beginning Writers

2.4 The “Easiest” Component of Writing

3. Methodology

4. Findings

4.1 Advice that Most Benefits Novice Writers

4.2 The Hardest Part of Writing

4.3 The Easiest Part of Writing

5. Discussion

5.1 Interpreting the Hard‑Easy Dichotomy

5.2 Pedagogical Implications

5.3 Technological Supports

5.4 Limitations and Future Research

6. Conclusion

References

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