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 Myth of the Blank Page: Why “Writer’s Block” Is More Than Just a Stuck Pen
Every writer knows the sensation: you stare at the cursor, blinking rhythmically against a stark white screen, and your brain feels like a locked door. You can’t find the key. You call it “writer’s block.” You blame it on the caffeine crash, the deadline pressure, or a lack of inspiration.
But have you ever stopped to wonder if the term itself is actually to blame?
If you trace the history of those two words back to their source, you’ll find that “writer’s block” isn’t a medical condition or an inevitable creative cycle. It’s a diagnosis—and one that carries a heavy, somewhat dark, psychological weight.
The Invention of a Diagnosis
For most of literary history, writers simply struggled. They had “dry spells,” they “hit a wall,” or they were “out of ideas.” Then, in 1947, a psychoanalyst named Edmund Bergler coined the term “writer’s block.”
To understand Bergler, you have to understand the era. He was working in the shadow of Sigmund Freud, and he viewed the creative process through a very specific, psychoanalytic lens. Bergler didn’t think you were stuck because you were tired or uninspired. He believed that the “block” was actually an unconscious act of self-sabotage.
According to Bergler, writers were suffering from a deep-seated, masochistic drive. He argued that the writer unconsciously sabotaged their own work to enjoy the “self-constructed defeat” of failing to write. In his view, the agony of not being able to finish a manuscript wasn’t a struggle against a narrative problem; it was a psychological compulsion to suffer.
Is This Really About Word Counts?
If we accept Bergler’s definition, then “writer’s block” stops being a productivity issue and starts being an internal conflict.
This is where things get interesting. If you’re struggling to reach your daily word count, you usually look for practical solutions: try the Pomodoro technique, change your environment, or outline your chapters more clearly. But if the problem is actually a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself, those practical fixes will never work.
By framing our struggles as “writer’s block,” we’ve inherited a diagnosis that suggests the problem lies deep within our psyche, rather than on the page. It turns a professional hurdle into a personal failing.
Moving Beyond the “Block”
Maybe it’s time we retire the phrasing. When we tell ourselves we have “writer’s block,” we are giving ourselves permission to stop. We are turning a temporary lapse in flow into an identity—a “blocked” writer.
Perhaps the next time you feel stuck, you shouldn’t ask, “Why am I sabotaging myself?” or “How do I overcome this block?” Instead, try asking:
Is this section actually necessary for the story? (Maybe you’re stuck because the narrative is heading in the wrong direction.)
Am I exhausted or burnt out? (Sometimes, the tank is just empty.)
Is my goal too big? (Breaking a chapter into 100-word segments is far less daunting than “finishing the book.”)
Writer’s block might be a useful shorthand for the frustration of the craft, but it’s worth remembering that it was invented by a man who looked for internal demons behind every closed door. You don’t have to be a masochist to struggle with a sentence. Sometimes, a hard day of writing is just a hard day of writing—no analysis required.
Next time the words won’t come, don’t blame your subconscious. Just close the laptop, take a walk, and remember: you aren’t “blocked.” You’re just in the middle of the work.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
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.
I left the others out the front of the hut in Barnes charge, except for Williamson who stayed inside, feigning illness. If everything went according to plan, a sketchy plan at best, Monroe would slip the diamonds to Williamson, and then melt back into the bush, heading back towards the fork in the road heading to the airstrip. She would then report on what troops were between us and our objective.
I signaled for Davies to join me.
The commander and the man who’d reported to him earlier strode across the compound to a smaller building that might pass as a jail. There was a guard out the front who jumped up and snapped to attention when the commander came up the steps.
“Open the door.”
The guard fumbled with a ring of keys, found the one for the door, and unlocked it.
The commander looked at me. “You may speak to them for five minutes.”
“Alone. You have my word we’ll not try anything.”
He nodded at the guard. “Bottom of the steps. Don’t let them out of your sight.” To me, he pointed to another building about 50 yards away, “I’ll be there, don’t keep me waiting.”
We waited for him to come down the steps and start striding to his office, then went up the stairs, and I knocked on the door. “My name is James, and I’m here with Davies to take you home. We’re coming in.”
I opened the door slowly pulling it towards me, and the odor that came out of the room was that of people who had not been allowed to wash for several days, if not longer. Once the door was fully open and the interior lit, I could see two stretchers and two men sitting up, struggling with the light in their eyes.
At least they were able to sit up.
Our information was they had been captive now for about seven months, and, looking at them, they didn’t seem to appear to badly off. They showed signs of weight loss, and pallid skin, but not to the point of being maltreated or starved.
“Who did you say you were?” The man on the left was about 50ish, grey thinning hair, and I suspect once a lot bulkier than he was now. There was an air of brashness about him, but that would have been beaten out of him long ago. Now he was just a shell of his former self.
“Sgt James, and Lieutenant Davies. Part of the rescue team sent to bring you home. A Colonel Bamfield sent us.”
“You took your time.”
Th either man spoke. Younger, a military type, perhaps the other man’s bodyguard. He had a few scars, so I expect he had offered some resistance and paid for it with the butt of a gun or two.
“We tried once, but it failed. There were not the people who had been holding you at the time though, were they?”
“No. If that was an attempt, they were the people who came to ‘rescue’ us, only it was a means for them to use us for ransom. It’s taken them a while to find the right people. Bamfield you say? Who is he?”
“Runs the military’s operations that the military doesn’t want to acknowledge. We’re here, but we’re not here if you know what I mean.”
The older man shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. What happens now?”
“I go and have another chat with the commander. We exchange gifts, and we leave.”
“You do realize that’s not going to happen,” the military type said with a degree of despondency.
“How so?”
“There are about 50 men here, possibly more, all armed, and all waiting for you to arrive. I expect they’ll take the ransom and then kill all of us.”
“Yes, I had thought that might be the case. But, don’t worry. We have a few tricks up our sleeve. So, gather your belongings, if you have any, and wait for us to come back and get you.”
“Are you going to drive out of here?” The military man spoke again.
“A short distance, yes. There’s an airstrip not far from here, so all we have to do is get there, and we’re halfway home.”
“There’ll be government troops there. It’s used for people coming in to visit the national park and they provide local security. Boroko knows the Captain in charge there, and they have an arrangement. He’ll know what your options are, and you’ll just be walking into a trap.”
That had always been a possibility, but Bamfield wouldn’t send us there unless there was a chance we could use it for our escape. But, what the man was saying was just another wrinkle in a plan that had lots of wrinkles.
“Provided you get a mile from this place before being attacked.”
“All very interesting points,” I said. “But, like I said, pack your stuff and let me worry about the details. Feel free to take in some fresh air while we’re gone. It won’t be long.”
“I’ll stay,” Davies said.
“OK.”
I took a last look at the two, both now struggling to their feet. They might not be in as good a condition as the commander had said. As long as they could cover about half a mile at best, everything would be fine.
I walked slowly back to the hut where Williamson had just emerged, and I went over to him.
He handed me a package that hardly made a dent in my pocket. It was probably the reason why diamonds were used, small, and easily transportable. Gold bars would have been a different, and far more difficult, proposition.
From there, I walked more briskly to the commander’s hut and as I approached he came out.
“Everything in order?”
“It is.”
I pulled the package out of my pocket and handed it to him. “You can check the contents while I wait here.”
A smile, like a cat who swallowed the canary. A nod to a soldier standing behind me, I could hear the weapon being trained on me.
“I guess this is where…”
A second later the soldier crumpled to the ground, a bloody mess where his head had just been. A second raised his gun and suffered the same result.
“Call off your dogs’ commander. I’m sure we both don’t want to see people die needlessly.”
Two hands for a signal to lower weapons.
“Your missing people.”
“Out there, strategically placed. Excellent marksmen too. At the moment they’re showing restraint. It’s up to you how long that lasts.”
He motioned to the guard at the prisoner’s hut to take them to the cars, “Join them, Sargeant James, I’ll be along when I’ve checked the diamonds.”
By the time the two men had joined the rest of the team at the cars, the commander had come out of his office and was walking towards us.
“Three cars, we’ll keep the other. I assume you’re heading towards the airstrip.”
“It’s one of our options. I hear the government had a platoon of soldiers there under the command of a Captain. You might want to warn him we’re coming. You might also want to warn whoever you have in the field between here and there we’re coming.”
“I can’t guarantee your safety once you leave the compound. If there is anyone out there, it will not be my men. We have an agreement remember.”
“Good.”
While we were talking the others had got themselves into the cars and started the engines. Time was of the essence.
We walked down to the barrier, and once again he ordered his guards to remove it.
Once they had the cars drove past and then the last car stopped just the other side, waiting for me.
“I wish you good luck, Sargeant James.”
“Let’s hope the atmospherics don’t interfere with my call to my people. I’d hate to see this place destroyed because of a misunderstanding.”
I hadn’t seen Jacobi since just after we arrived, and he had headed straight to the commander’s hut. No doubt they had a lot to talk about.
I got in the car, and we drove off.
I was half expecting a hail of bullets, but all I could see was the two guards replacing the barrier and the commander standing behind it, arms crossed, still looking like the cat who swallowed the canary.
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.
After an hour passed, and no one had come looking for our intruder, darkness had fallen, the mother had taken the three children off in the car, and the people in the house had all left, leaving Dicostini to sit at the table reading a newspaper.
He didn’t seem to be too interested in running or working on his farm. Maybe if he took more of an interest, it might be turning over a profit.
Behind me, I could hear our would-be assailant stirring and finding himself very tightly bound and gagged. I turned around. “If you know what’s good for you, I’d go back to sleep. Either way, make any noise I will shoot you.” I held up the silenced gun and waved it for emphasis.
“You do realise he has seen us, don’t you?”
“Do you want me to shoot him?”
“Well, you know what he’s going to do when he gets free.”
I did, but I wasn’t going to tell her. I’d sent a text message to Alfie and he would be collected the moment we left the clearing.
Another hour passed when I noticed a shadow behind Dicostini who, now, had slumped forward, perhaps asleep. The shadow materialised into a human form, and then a woman. When the pale light from a wall lamp shone on her face, I recognised it instantly.
The fake countess.
She shook him by the shoulder, and when he roused, he stood and looked like he was yelling at her.
Juliet came over and lay down next to me. “What’s happening?”
“The fake countess just came out of the woodwork. That’s our cue?”
“For what?”
“Storming the battlements. Taking no prisoners. Or perhaps just ask a few questions and reasonably expect answers.”
I stood and dismantled the rifle and put the parts back in the case.
“Grab the bag, we’re on the clock.”
“What about him?” She nodded in the man’s direction. His eyes told the story, he didn’t like being tied up like that.
“Hopefully he’s learned a valuable lesson, don’t go blundering around in the undergrowth.”
We stowed the gun and bag in the car and headed back towards the farmhouse by a different route. It was dark enough that we didn’t have to try too hard to stay in the shadows.
Lucking Juliet had thought to wear black.
“When we stopped behind the wall of one of the outhouses, I could hear her in my ear, “So, do I get a gun?”
“No.”
“What do I do when the shit hits the fan?”
“The same as me. Duck.”
She punched me, which was not unexpected.
We made it to the back of the house, and to a window that looked in over an open-plan living area. We had heard voices as we approached the house, now they were clearer we could see them.
“…part of staying out of sight didn’t you get?” Dicostini was angry.
“In that little hole, you put me in?”
“You’re safe there, for the time being.”
“They know, you know. It’s just a question of whether they’ve told Von Burkhardt.”
“Do you want me to go over there and ask?”
“You should have killed them all when you had the chance, not just the son and the father. Like everything else you’ve done, this is going to end up an utter failure.”
He was going to say something but didn’t. Instead, filled with pent-up rage, he hit her. I thought it had been with an open hand, but it was a fist, and so hard she spun sideways, hit her head on the solid wooden table with a sickening thud and then just flopped like a rag doll on the ground.
So engrossed in watching those events unfold, I forgot about Juliet and suddenly felt what might be the barrel of a gun in my back.
Who could imagine that one visit to the local hospital could fuel a medical nightmare?
Aside from the original suspicion I was having heart problems, doctors started lining up appointments for an endoscopy and colonoscopy, though I suspect these were for a different malady, and the main event, an angiogram.
I didn’t have heart problems, though I might have had angina, the reason for the angiogram, but I did have acute kidney failure, which was interesting, to say the least, and possibly attributed to ibuprofen, though it was impossible to say if the medication for psoriatic arthritis, a venomous little pill called methotrexate, was or was not a contributing factor.
But is was great to learn that my psoriatic arthritis could lead to heart attack, and lung issues, a few problems my original arthritis consultant conveniently forgot to tell me about.
No sooner than I was released from the hospital after this first set of maladies, I was back three or four days later with hospital-acquired pneumonia, a devil of a problem that requires some very invasive searches for the type of bug so it could be treated properly.
It led to five days of antibiotics, a considerable inability to breathe without help from an oxygen mask, and several CT scans with and without dye to get a better look at the problem.
If only that were all that was wrong with me.
The CT scan showed a lump or lesion on my right thyroid, which led to further investigation, an ultrasound, a biopsy, and a visit to the surgeon to be told it had to come out.
But that’s not all. No, I didn’t get a set of steak knives for being one of the first ten this week to be diagnosed with anything. I was told my PSA reading was twice the average for my age, a clear indication I might have prostate cancer.
Wow. Just to sort of news you need to hear before the weekend. Worse perhaps than a rainstorm when camping in a floorless tent. I had to wait for the results of a new blood test.
Ok. I get it that things are bound to go wrong when you get older, but what I object to is everything going wrong at once.
Perhaps when we stop the aging process, a lot of these issues will go away, but I fear not. The human body is surprisingly robust for quite a long time, despite our attempts to test it to the limits of endurance.
It is advice too late for me to make sure my misspent youth is not wasted on being stupid or believing I’m indestructible. The plain truth is, we are not, and I didn’t get the memo.
Now, I guess, it is time to actually do everything, or as much as I can, before I start to deteriorate further and not be able to do anything. I have a few good years before arthritis sets in and makes life more difficult than it already is.
Sharpen Your Words: Simple Tips for Better Writing
Ever finish writing something and feel like it’s just… not quite right? We’ve all been there. Polishing your writing is key to making sure your message shines through. Here are a few handy tips to help you review your work and make it stronger.
Keep it Concise
Don’t write long sentences. Shorter sentences are easier to follow. They pack a punch.
Each sentence should make a clear statement. Get straight to the point. Avoid rambling. Every sentence needs a purpose.
Watch Your Vocabulary
Don’t use big words. Choose words that everyone understands. Simple language is powerful language.
Never use words whose meanings you are not sure of. If you’re second-guessing a word, swap it out. Clarity is king.
Be Concrete
Avoid the abstract. Stick to what you can see, hear, touch, taste, and smell. Give examples. Paint a picture with your words.
What Else?
These are great starting points, but what else can help you make your writing shine?
Read it aloud: This is a game-changer. You’ll catch awkward phrasing and sentences that are too long. Your ears will tell you what your eyes miss.
Get a second opinion: Ask a friend or colleague to read your work. They’ll see things you’re too close to notice.
Take a break: Step away from your writing. Come back with fresh eyes.
Focus on flow: Do your ideas connect smoothly? Are your paragraphs logically ordered?
Check for repetition: Are you saying the same thing over and over? Find different ways to express your ideas.
Reviewing your writing doesn’t have to be a chore. By keeping these simple tips in mind, you can transform your drafts into clear, engaging pieces that truly connect with your readers. Happy writing!
The Art of the Spark: Why Your Best Ideas Don’t Happen at a Desk
We are taught from a young age that productivity is a sedentary activity. We’re told to sit down, open the laptop, force a furrowed brow, and “get to work.” We treat creativity like a math equation: Inputs + Desk Time = Output.
But if you look at the creative process of the world’s most interesting thinkers, you’ll find a common truth: The best work rarely happens when you’re forcing it.
I don’t sit at my desk and think. That’s not how the magic works. For me, the process is far more ethereal, and infinitely more effective.
The Midnight Line
My creative process starts in the quiet, disjointed landscape of a dream. I wake up, often in the haze of the early morning, with a single line etched into my consciousness. It’s a fragment—a stray thought that feels like it carries the weight of a thousand words.
I write it down immediately, before the logic of the waking world can dilute it. And then, I look at it.
At that moment, the line is just a point—a single dot on a blank page. But that dot is powerful because it’s unresolved. It isn’t a finished sentence; it’s a compass needle. It can lean in a dozen different directions.
Inventing the Context
Here is the secret that most people are too afraid to admit: I don’t always know what my own ideas mean at first.
When I look at that line, I’m not analysing it. I’m playing with it. I’m acting as an architect for an idea that has no home yet. If the line is strange or opaque, I have to work backward. I have to invent a context. I have to build a world around that fragment so that it finally makes sense.
This is the opposite of the “desk-bound” approach. Instead of starting with a rigid structure and trying to fill it, I start with a spark and wait to see what it sets on fire.
The Death of Failure
When you view creativity as a process of discovery—of waking up and following a thread—the fear of failure evaporates.
If I sit down to write a “perfect” piece of work and it doesn’t land, it feels like a failure. But if I wake up and write down a line, and then spend my day trying to figure out what that line could be, there is no such thing as failure.
If the direction I choose doesn’t quite fit, I simply change the context. If the concept doesn’t work, I turn the page. Every attempt is just another way of exploring the potential of that original point. It isn’t a mistake; it’s a draft. It’s an exploration. It’s the process of turning fog into solid ground.
Your Next Step
If you feel blocked, stop trying to force your brain to function like a machine at your desk. Let go of the need to have a “final plan” before you begin.
Start with a line. Don’t judge it. Don’t worry if it doesn’t make sense yet. Treat your idea like a point that can lean in any direction, and give yourself the freedom to invent the world that houses it.
After all, the most compelling stories aren’t the ones we plan—they’re the ones we discover by listening to the quiet fragments of our own minds.
Whilst I found this tree house to be interesting, it seems to be far from practical because there was little to keep the wind and rain out, though I suppose, in the book, that might not be such a problem.
Be that as it may, and if it was relatively waterproof, then the furnishings would probably survive, and one had to also assume that much of the furnishings, such as the writing desk below, would have washed up as debris from the shipwreck.
The stove and oven would have to be built by hand, and it is ‘remarkable’ such well-fitting stones were available. It doesn’t look like it’s been used for a while judging by the amount of gree on it. Perhaps it is not in a waterproof area.
The dining table and the shelf in the background have that rough-hewn look about them
A bit of man-made equipment here for drawing water from the stream
And though not made in the era of electricity, there is an opportunity to use the water wheel to do more than it appears to be doing
And tucked away in a corner the all-important study where one can read, or play a little music on the organ. One could say, for the period, one had all the comforts of home.
Have you ever heard of someone rabbiting on, you know, endlessly rattling on about nothing?
That’s just one use of the word rabbit.
The most obvious is the animal, a rabbit. You know, that burrowing, plant-eating, long-eared, short-tailed animal that goes by the name of Bugs Bunny, maybe.
Nearly every child has a stuffed, cuddly one.
Of course, it’s of some significance at the moment because it’s Easter, and there are countless chocolate versions of the so-called Easter bunny.
Then there is that 6-foot-high invisible rabbit called Harvey, or not necessarily a rabbit, but a pookah.
We use the expression rabbit ears to describe those old interior television antennas.
There’s rabbit stew, rabbit pie, and white rabbit beer.
But my favourite is when the magician pulls the proverbial rabbit out of a hat. It’s an expression we also use for someone who pulls off an impossible task.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 