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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.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 146

Day 146 – Writing exercise

After what happened, he knew that his first day at the post office was also going to be his last.

…

Of course, it depended on what your version of a post office was.

To most, it was a place where one went to buy stamps and put mail into collection boxes, and where letters and parcels arriving there were sorted and delivered.

To a select group of people, charged with protecting the country and its people from foreign intervention, a post office was something completely different.

It was a post where a selective group of experts worked, a team of operatives, their handler, the researchers, the briefer, the supply chain.

Those posts were called post offices and their employees were postal workers.

We had post offices all over the world, though it would be true to say that when overseas, they were part of the embassy or consulate.

We coexisted with other services, those more well-known and had a much higher profile.

It was the perfect cover, because anyone clever enough to hack into the post office computer servers would find we were all simply ordinary people.

Who did extraordinary things.

Sometimes.

….

As the officer at the training establishment said when we were given a departing lecture before getting our first assignments, we put the secret into a secret agent.

Most of us thought that was amusing, being only ten out of the two hundred that applied. I had only applied as a joke, after spending two years roaming Europe after graduating from University.

I didn’t want to become a lawyer, and had fought the family tradition as long as I’d could until succumbing to pressure. Like father, like son, like his father before him.

It was more about power and wealth, two things I was not interested in. Call it rebellion, but unlike my brothers and sisters, I did not like the life that it afforded us. Perhaps once, but once you mingle with the less fortunate, you get to see the world as it really is.

It was something my gather couldn’t understand.

So, according to my parents, I went off the rails. I became the black sheep, the one everyone has; the others turned out just fine, thank you.

I saw them once before I finally disappeared, when they were in Paris at the apartment that my paternal grandmother had bequeathed to my father.

She had died the week before, and I made the effort to go to her funeral. She had understood my disdain, though she did not understand why I stayed away.

I meant to stay out of sight, but my sister, Eileen, had seen me standing back from the others and came over, at first not recognising me.

She was not as bad as my brothers, had her moments of both acquiescence and rebellion, but had settled down to follow tradition.

I had expressed disappointment and our last words were harsh.

I watched her come over, trying to figure out who would turn up at a funeral and not want to be seen.

It was cold, but it was not why a shiver went down my spine. Fear? Maybe, but I just saw my father, and that brought back a far worse memory.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

“Does it matter?”

Then her expression changed. Recognition. We could change our appearance, sometimes radically, but not our eyes or voices. Especially in a moment where we forget we’re playing a role.

“Gerry?”

I sighed. “Don’t tell the rest of them I was here. They wouldn’t understand.”

“And i would?” There was a touch of anger in her tone, not surprising. “Where have you been?”

“Bumming around Europe. You know, I sent postcards.”

To her, no one else. Whether she kept them or tossed them in the bin was of no consequence.

“Yes. When you felt like it. Are you coming home?”

“No.”

“You going to see the others?”

The thought had crossed my mind until I remembered the last argument with both my parents. I had expected some support from my mother, but she just agreed with my father. It was the deciding factor in leaving.

“No. I got sick of the same old arguments. Dad cut me off, so I learned to fly on my own. It’s a whole different world out there.”

“You’d cut your nose off to spite your face, Gerry. You finished your law degree, then wasted it.”

That was my father speaking. She had a mind of her own. Once. Now she had folded perfectly into the family mould.

“Law is boring. Working for my father would be even more so. We both know his attentions are firmly focused on the prodigal son, James. The rest are just pawns to be manipulated.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

I shook my head. She would, like the others, never understand.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Diplomacy with the state department.” It was the go-to explanation of our lives to anyone we used to know. “I get my first posting in a few days. It’ll probably be somewhere in Africa, knowing my luck.”

She looked me up and down, and I suspect she didn’t believe a word I was telling her. She was the only one who could tell when I was lying, though I was a lot better at it now than back then.

“So, this is it, and you’re off again.”

“I’m the black sheep, Sis. The stain on the family name. I think I have reached Uncle Harry’s level of infamy.”

“So that’s what Dad was going on about. The one in every generation. Wow. Despite the fact you’re nothing like him.” Then she rounded on me. “Unless you are. What’s really going on with you?”

I could imagine my father filling her head with nonsense.

“I simply chose a different vocation. See the world, help solve crises before they become crises, not help criminals get away with murder. I’m sorry if I have a conscience, and it doesn’t suit family values. I think I’ve seen and heard enough, Eileen. Tell them you saw me or not, I don’t care.”

It was foolish of me to think they might have changed. They had not. If anything, my father had succeeded in turning my siblings against me, and if that was the case, so be it.

It made it easy for me to just walk away and never see them again.

…

I was sent to Rome for my first posting. In the briefing with the assignments officer, I was told that the handler, Jacob Weissman, was old school, a man who had a particular way of doing things, and he expected obedience. He was also in the last year before retirement.

It was also the office with the highest turnover of agents. The incentive to go there was that if I lasted the distance, I would be considered for a leadership role.

It wasn’t particularly high on my list of priorities; I was more interested in getting experience in the field first, and that generally took five years at least. If you survived.

I flew to Rome on a Wednesday and was due in the office on Thursday. I’d been to Italy and Rome before, post graduation and didn’t like it, instead staying in Florence, and getting lost in the ancient history.

The Rome post office was in a back street, cobbled roadway and ancient bricks, making the inside very cool compared to the heat outside.

There was a man in a suit sitting at a desk with a computer and, no doubt, a gun ready to shoot anyone who looked like trouble.

I gave him my letter of introduction, which was specially coded and verified by fingerprint.

He gave me a temporary pass that got me into the main office, where I was met by the administrative officer and taken to the situation room. There, the panel was waiting.

Jacob Weissman, handler and Head of Station.

Rebecca Abernathy, Administrative Officer.

Julie Grassmier, Operations Manager.

Bethany Myers and Jack Blumenthal, the research team.

Five on one side of the table and me on the other, just like my university admissions interview. Not a welcoming smile among them. I had expected one or more agents to be in attendance.

Jacob opened the file he had in front of him. It was thin, with plenty of room for additions. It held the documents from the training camp.

“Gerald Walker. Any relation to the Pittsburgh Walkers?”

There would be nothing about any relation to anyone in the file. The interview at the training camp made the same association, which I denied. Different branch, distant relatives, we didn’t associate with them for obvious reasons

“We have the same surname.”

“Not the answer to the question I asked.”

I could see that Jacob and I were not going to get along.

“No. No relation.”

I looked at the five faces in front of me, and not one was friendly. I could see why there was such a large turnaround of agents, and how easy it could be that the first day could be the last.

Jacob looked especially unwelcoming.

“We do things differently. We do not usually take new recruits out of the Academy, but we’re a man down and apparently you’re it. We do not like mavericks or loners. You will proceed to the brief.”

“As you wish. What about liaising with the local authorities?’

“If you come in contact with them, which you should assiduously avoid at all costs, then you will come to me, and I will handle it.”

“Do they know about us?”

“They do nothing unless it is necessary. You are expected not to put yourself in their way. They take a very dim view of us working on their patch, so discretion is necessary.”

“Is there an assignment?”

“One is in development. Get acquainted with Rome while you can.”

The folder closed, the interview, introduction, whatever it was, was over. My only impression from it, Jacob was a micro-manager, and it was going to be impossible to work with.

…

From what I remember of my last visit to Rome, it had a lot of ancient sites, and we had made a point of visiting most of them.

It was a period when my sister had decided she was going to study archaeology and that her father would be happy to sponsor a dig somewhere in Egypt or Italy, preferably near the Mediterranean, so she could stay on a yacht.

Her father wasn’t particularly pleased, humoured her and like everything she did, it lasted a month or two; then he declared it boring and moved on.

She still stayed on the yacht for a few weeks with her suitably impressed friends.

I wasn’t that interested then, but this time I bought a guidebook and decided to go full on tourist.

That first day I visited the Colosseum and tried to imagine what it was like back in the days of ancient Rome and the people who had graced the seats looking down on the carnage that was supposed to be ‘games’.

Like throwing Christians to the lions.

Like Gladiators fighting to the death.

Like accidentally noticing a particular woman who was following me, or perhaps it was my overactive imagination.

It felt like the home team were putting me through a few exercises to see if they hadn’t made a mistake putting me in the field.

So the watcher became the watched.

I considered the odds of anyone even knowing that I was in Rime, and if they did, why I was there. Unless it was mandatory for all staff passing through the embassy. An exercise to keep us on our toes.

I saw her five times, one actually looking in my direction. She did not appear to be with anyone else, but good surveillance required more than one person and preferably a four-man rotating squad.

I moved to the city ruins not far from the Colosseum, and it appeared she had not followed me.

The next day, I visited the Trevi Fountain, and while sitting back having a cup of coffee, I found her, trying a different disguise but nonetheless easily identified to the trained eye.

She was definitely following me around.

Having planned to visit and got a ticket for the Parthenon, I took my time before heading to it in an annoyingly slow stroll that made it difficult for surveillance.

Once outside, I waited for my moment, dodged her and went inside. As soon as she couldn’t see me, I knew she’d follow me in.

Inside, there was nowhere to hide, so I took up a posting by some columns not far from the entrance. Of course, my interest was not entirely taken up with the surveillance team; right now, it was in the large concrete dome that had been standing for a very long time.

Certainly a lot longer than our man-made structures.

I watched her do a circuit of the main hall and end up standing next to me. Was it a deliberate move to unsettle me, or something else?

She knew that I knew she was following me.

That meant, as far as I could tell, she was one of the Italian police forces, the plain clothes suggesting a branch of the Carabinieri.

She looked sideways at me and had a half smile. “You are a very interesting man, Gerard Walker.”

I shrugged. It was a bit late to play the confused or apprehensive tourist card. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“As it should be. Your handler, for want of a better description, knows the rules and yet he continually breaks them. That would indicate he has not told you the ground rules for operating in this country.”

“Probably not, but I have specific instructions from the people back home, which I’m sure you are aware of, of which I promised to observe “

The smile widened. “Words, Gerald Walker, words you believe I, and my superiors want to hear. Your predecessors went down the same path, and they did not fare well.” She handed me a card. “Before you launch World War Three, give me a call, and time, day or night. You will find that cooperation with the appropriate authorities will make life for you much simpler and safer. My compatriots sometimes shoot first, then ask questions. Have a nice tour.”

“You should be my guide “

“I have criminals to catch and watch over errant spies. Never a free moment.” She sighed, then left.

To be honest, for a moment, I believed she was trouble, whether working for Italian law enforcement or not.

How could she possibly know I was in the city and what I would be doing there, unless…

Someone in the embassy told her.

Or she had more on the inside, reporting everything. If it was, my money was on Jacob, trying to boost his retirement fund before leaving.

Working with local authorities was always part of the transparency catchphrase people like you think was a manageable option, but it wasn’t. There were things that no one needed to know beyond the objective being achieved. The how was almost always by any and all means available.

Using the phrase kill or be killed always seemed unpalatable, and no one, if they were not personally faced with a life or death situation, would ever understand. I hadn’t yet, but the point was, until you are, taking a life was never a good idea.

It was described to us as the worst-case scenario.

Another was having your cover blown

Effectively, the moment she approached me, my usefulness was over. Clandestine operations only worked if you remained clandestine. That she and her whole department knew meant I should report it and ask for reassignment.

I had to consider that it was Jacob’s intent all along, not only for me but also for others in his group. The question to ask was why?

…

I doubt officers back in the training establishment ever expected to hear from their graduates again, unless sent back to hone their skills or learn new skills and techniques.

I was determined to break that mould. The problem I had was being caught out before I started. I was not sure that had happened before, or if it had, whether it was significant, or a stain on my record.

I called a number for emergencies only.

And left a message. Typically, there was no one on the other end. After an hour had passed, I believed that no one really cared, that this was a test, and I was failing miserably.

Two hours later, my cell phone rang. I was sitting in a park watching the rest of the work
I’d been getting on with their lives, and I was beginning to believe this was not what I expected or wanted.

What had happened to the other candidates before me who had found themselves in a sticky situation?

I answered with a noncommittal, “Yes?” As per protocol.

“Your mission, in case you haven’t worked it out by this time, is to find who it is that is betraying our agents to the local authorities.”

“That wasn’t explicitly expressed.”

“You have to read between the lines. If you hadn’t come to a similar conclusion, you would not have called. We have lost three agents in the last 12 months. Find them.”

“The leak is not at your end?”

“No. Handle it any way you see fit, but it stops now. Understood?”

“Understood.”

I felt rather than saw a person sit on the other end of the bench, odd, because there were several free nearby.

A glance took in the woman who had accosted me earlier.

“No criminals to be chasing down?”

“Only errant spies. I believe you made a call.”

I tried not to look shocked, but I was not that clever yet.

“How…”

“I’m paid to know everything, yet surprisingly often still left in the dark. My superiors must thing is need to know, and I need to know. You and I, I’m told, are about to become good friends. We are seeking the same person.”

“Who are you?”

She smiled. “I believe I am what you might call the Cheshire Cat. She looked over at another bench where a man was sitting.

He wore a trenchcoat, smoking a pipe and reading, or pretending to read, a newspaper.

“Go over to the conspicuous man on that bench, and he will verify who I am, and give the code word your masters gave you back home. I’ll wait.”

This was like a bad 1960s spy movie.

I shrugged. It was either going to be an interesting assignment, or my life was over before it started. Either way, at least I got to see the Ancient Roman Ruins.

…

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream. She didn’t.

She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”

“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled. “As you say, I was never here.”

…

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 37

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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.

An hour later we were stopped by the side of the road, at a point where another road, or, rather, a track headed to the left into the forest.

A short distance before that I noticed a sign, battered and faded, advertising an airport, a sign I thought had been put there as a joke.

Of course, when I remembered the conversation I had with Monroe back on the plane and the fact we had a specialist pilot in our group, it all began to make sense.

Our exit strategy.

I only wished I had internet coverage so I could check the presence of an airport in what looked to be the middle of nowhere.

Only Davies seemed unperturbed.

I had to ask. “Did you know there was an airport here?”

“Of one, used by fly-ins for the Garamba National Park. Not much of an airstrip though, and we don’t exactly have up to the minute details on its surface, but as recently as a week ago a small plane had landed there.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“All you had to do was ask the right question.”

It seems I didn’t know what the right questions were, what might be called an occupational hazard on a job like this.

Everyone had got out of their cars to stretch their legs and prepare for the next phase of the operation, which was to meet with the kidnappers. I expected Jacobi would be on the sat phone talking to their leader, advising we had arrived.

I went back to Mobley, standing with the Ugandan soldier that had been assigned as his driver, smoking a cigarette. I was surprised he hadn’t joined the others who had gathered ahead of the lead vehicle.

“Nice shooting back there,” I said. It was for a man under pressure to make the shots, and give the rest of us a chance to take care of the others. That no one else got shot was a miracle.

“Just another day at the office.”

“Well, it hasn’t ended yet. I want you to go to the airstrip and get it under surveillance. There is supposed to be an aircraft there, whether for our use or just there so we can steal it I’m not quite sure. But if there’s a plane there, I want you to make sure it doesn’t leave, but as quietly as possible. We should be along later with the packages. I’m going up to tell the Colonel he’ll be joining you. He might not want to, but he’s done enough for us. I don’t want him to make enemies unnecessarily.”

“As you wish. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Good. Make sure your radio is working and on. I need to know if anything goes sideways.”

“It won’t.”

I wish I had his confidence.

A minute later I reached the front of the convoy and saw why there seemed little animation among the group. Monroe had Jacobi on his knees and a gun on the back of his neck.

“This is an interesting development Lieutenant. Is there a problem I should know about?”

“I reckon the weasel sold us out back there. Maybe even called them in to shake us down for one reason or another. Didn’t try too hard to negotiate with the commander.”

No, he hadn’t. And the thought had crossed my mind too. A bit of cash on the side, split with the commander. There didn’t seem to be any intent of the commander’s part to shoot us, so it was a pity we had to kill them all. If they were part of the kidnapper’s operations, things might get a little dangerous.

“Before you kill him,” I said, “Did he tell you how the call to the kidnappers went?”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Mobley picked that moment to drive up alongside Jacobi and the Lieutenant.

“Problem?” he asked through the window.

“No. We’re practicing our run at the kidnappers.”

He shrugged. I looked over at the Colonel. “Time for you to be moving on. You don’t need to be in on the next part, for plausible deniability. I suspect if the leader of this group sees you, and makes any connection back to the Ugandans, it could cause trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Better if you didn’t have to. My man needs help at the airstrip and a man of your authority might just smooth over problems if he needs it.”

“You’re having a plane sent in?”

“I’d like to think so, might even get you home in time for a late supper.” I glared at Jacobi. “How does he get to the airstrip?”

“Normally, through the town, but there’s a track about 200 yards up the road. Go left, follow the road, then turn right at the first fork.”

He stood staring at the ground for a minute, hopefully considering doing as I asked. I was not sure what I was going to do if he didn’t. It was preferable he didn’t come with us.

“OK. You have a point. No need stirring up my Congo friends any more than I already have.”

He went over to Mobley’s car and got in, replacing the Ugandan soldier as a driver.

“See you when we see you,” Mobley said, and the Colonel drove off after a wave.

Back to my other problem.

“You’ve had time to think about your answer, Jacobi, so tell us.”

“An eight-mile drive along the next track, then instead of taking the fork to the airstrip, go left, and drive to you reach the checkpoint.”

“The meeting is on.”

“They’re waiting for us.”

“In more ways than one, I’d say,” Monroe muttered. “He’s outlived his usefulness in my book.”

Ordinarily, I would agree with her, but we still needed him. There might have been an initial negotiation, but it was far from what the end deal would be, and he had to be there to complete it. And if he was leading us into a trap, well, we’d just have to wait and see.

“We still need him, so ease up on the aggression. If he has double-crossed us, you can shoot him. Until then, play nice. But, just as a precaution, you and Stark can bring up the rear, stop about a mile short, and do some recon between there and the checkpoint. If anyone is thinking of sneaking up behind us, I want to know about it.”

Monroe shook her head, then eased the gun away from him. A nod to me.

“He can go with you in the lead car. Davies can come with me and keep driving the car. They’ll be expecting four vehicles.”

“Fair enough.” I turned to Baines, the first time I’d addressed him since getting on the plane at the black site. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a portable rocket launcher among that film equipment, would you?”

“And half a dozen shells. Don’t know how they managed it, but it’s there.”

“Easy to get at?”

“If need be.”

“Good.” I looked around at the rest of the team. “Everyone had time to calm their nerves.”

I’d watched Jacobi drag himself to his feet and try to brush the dust of his clothes. It didn’t help restore what was once quite clean and crisp linen. No one helped him, in fact, if I gave the order to shoot, all of them would. Monroe’s accusation struck a chord with the others.

“We’d better get going,” she said, heading for the last vehicle after being joined by Davies. Out of earshot, she said something to her, and I heard them laughing.

I was not sure what it was about, but as long as it eased the tension in her. She had discovered which car was carrying the diamonds, co-incidentally the car I’d been driving, so we needed a situation so that we could remove the diamonds from the equation when we arrived at the checkpoint. There was no way the kidnappers were going to let us retrieve the package once we got there, and I had no doubt we would be separated from the cars, and the equipment, so that, if possible, the kidnappers could gain the upper hand.

Or that was how I suspected it would go down. It was only a matter of time before I was proved right or wrong.

Everyone else got back into the cars, and with Jacobi sitting in the front with me, I started moving forward.

I wasn’t prepared, not mentally anyway. I never was when going into battle.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 59

Aftermath of a kidnapping

…

“You knew what was going to happen?”

“Of course. Did you think you were dealing with rank amateurs?”

“Maybe my boss did. Who are you two really?”

“We’re the sort of people who kill people like you, then go down the pub and have a few pints and laugh about it.” It was almost a treat to see Cecelia acting so cavalier.

I glanced up at her, and her expression told me this was just another role, she was playing the bitch from hell. And so much more dripping venom than Anna would ever muster.

That statement, of course, delivered in the deadpan voice of a deranged killer had the desired effect. Francesca was suitably frightened.

“It was not my idea. I just do as I’m told.”

“That’s what the Germans said at the Nuremberg trials. Didn’t save them from being shot or hung or whatever. Can I shoot her now?” I almost laughed at the sincerity.

Francesca looked at me. “You only told me because you knew what I’d do? I told you who we were working for.”

“Who your boss told you to tell me. Now we’re going to find out the truth. I hope he told you the truth because if he didn’t, he isn’t going to be your boss for much longer.”

“Finally,” Cecelia sighed.

I almost laughed. She was playing the role too well.

Alfie’s voice returned. “What were you expecting?”

“Another party stepping in the rescue the countess.”

“How…”

“She can’t afford to have Anna find out who she really is. Not yet. Not until it is fait accompli.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“At the appropriate time, which is now. Let it go for now. I know who’s got her. And I know where she will go though not the exact location yet. We have more work to do.”

“Who are you talking to?” Francesca asked.

“I have a plethora of friends Francesca, a plethora of friends.”

What happened next was like watching a bad stage play unfold in an unexpected manner.

Vittoria decided to turn up after the party had ended.

Seeing the door half open she blundered in and ended up with Cecelia’s gun in the back of her head, the door closing, and Francesca slowly getting back up off the floor.

Cecelia told Vittoria to walk slowly into the room and not try anything. Vittoria was smart. She did as she was told.

Francesca did the same. She knew she had to humour me. Then her phone rang.

“That will be your boss. Answer it on speaker.”

She pulled it out of her bag and did as she was told.

“Sir.”

“What the hell is going on?”

I decided to answer that question for her. “I might ask the same of you. Had you just simply come and asked me, we could have sorted this out together, but no, you had to do it your way. Now you have nothing.”

“Neither have you.”

“No. What happened was exactly what I wanted to happen. It gave me three valuable pieces of information. Now you get nothing. Go back to Rome and leave the professionals to get this done. I am keeping Francesca with me. She is the one concession I’m granting you.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Then you will have to explain to her family how you got her killed because unless you agree, she will not leave this room alive. Make up your mind. My assistant has no patience and an itchy trigger finger.”

I counted to ten under my breath. Francesca was getting more terrified by the minute.

“This is not acceptable, but I agree, only under extreme duress. If anything happens to her, I will hold you personally responsible.”

“Agreed. She will keep you posted.”

Francesca disconnected the call.

“It was a good job while it lasted,” she muttered.

“You’re a private detective and an art historian. I’m not sure which day job you should not give up, but you can do better. Now, enough retrospection. We have work to do, and more feet on the ground. Alfie, back to our hotel for a meeting.”

I heard him mutter, so I took that to mean he would be there soon.

In all the excitement I had forgotten about Juliet, and when I looked over to where she had been standing, near the countess before they took her, I saw her on the ground, just moving.

I went to her and knelt down to check on her head.

There was a bloody gash on the back of it, and it appeared one of the intruders had hit her. Then I realised that I had seen her try to grab the countess back from one of the intruders and the other hit her with the butt of his gun.

She turned her head and looked at me with glassy eyes. “What happened?”

“You tried to be brave, and as the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished.”

“And a lot of good that did. She’s not here.” That was the result of her quick search.

“Never take on impossible odds. Bad for your health. Stay there and I’ll get a wet cloth. You’re going to have a bad headache for a while.”

Vittoria had taken in the scene, seen her daughter, and yet it was me who got to her first to help. It only reinforced my assumption about her. No one could be that callous towards their daughter.

“Where’s the countess?” she asked, finally realising she was not there.

“Masked gunmen took her away,” I said. “I believe they were taking her to Anna Von Burkehardt. That’s going to be some reunion, don’t you think?”

The look on her face was priceless.

The 2am Rant: Why is writing so hard

In just about every book about how to be a good writer, there seems to be a pile of problems that at some time in a writer’s life will need to be overcome.

Writer’s block

Don’t have it. The ideas pour out of my head like water over a waterfall

Don’t use abstract descriptions in your writing

Damn, I do that all the time

But, back to writer’s block, is that where you write 37 chapters and there the story stops?

Oops.

Plan your book and have an outline so you can write it from start to finish

Plan? What Plan?

That only happens when I’ve written the book and prior to the first edit, I make a precise of each chapter to make sure of continuity.

Plan your characters and give them a timeline

Oh God is that why characters’ names are often changing as the story progresses.

Believe it or not, I’m working on this issue.

Manage your time.

Still can’t get it right.

Write at least a thousand words a day, no matter if it’s rubbish or not.

Does that include writing for social media?

Apparently not.

At least this is one of the requirements I follow religiously. Sometimes it’s a lot more words but a least some writing finished up either on paper in on the word processor.

Now it’s time to write those thousand words.

Look, there, I’ve at least got one part of time management under control.

What I learned about writing – Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?

Unleash Your Inner Poet: The Surprisingly Simple Path to Writing Poetry

For many, the word “poetry” conjures images of dusty tomes, cryptic verses, and the terrifying prospect of iambic pentameter. It feels like a secret club with an impossible initiation. But what if I told you that, at its heart, poetry is actually one of the most accessible and freeing forms of expression?

The question “Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?” can be answered with a resounding yes. It’s not about memorising rules, it’s about re-learning how to see, feel, and play with words.

Here’s how to demystify the process and start your own poetic journey:

1. Ditch the “Rules” (For Now)

The biggest barrier to writing poetry is the self-imposed pressure to conform to traditional structures. Forget rhyme schemes, meter, and sonnet forms when you’re starting out. Think of them as advanced techniques you can explore later, if you choose.

Your focus should be on free verse. This is poetry without a strict rhythm or rhyme, allowing you to focus purely on imagery, emotion, and word choice. It’s the perfect playground for beginners.

2. Become a Keen Observer

Poetry is born from attention. The most powerful poems often come from everyday moments, seen through a fresh lens.

Engage your senses: What do you see, hear, smell, taste, touch right now?
Notice the details: Not just “a tree,” but “the ancient oak, its bark grooved like an old man’s face, leaves shivering in the morning breeze.”
Capture emotions: How does a situation make you feel? Don’t just name the emotion; describe its physical manifestation. (“My heart thrums like a trapped bird.”)
Carry a notebook (or use your phone): Jot down interesting words, phrases, snippets of conversation, or sensory observations as they strike you. These are your raw materials.

3. Read Poetry (But Don’t Feel Intimidated)

Reading poetry isn’t about understanding every single line or deciphering hidden meanings. It’s about hearing the music of language, seeing how others play with words, and discovering what resonates with you.

Start with contemporary poets: Many modern poems are more accessible and relatable than historical works.
Explore different styles: Read free verse, haikus, spoken word, lyrical pieces.
Read aloud: This helps you hear the rhythm and flow, even without rhyme.
Don’t force it: If a poem doesn’t click, move on. There’s so much out there!

4. Play with Words Like Building Blocks

Think of words as your paint, your clay, your musical notes.

Metaphor & Simile: How is one thing like another? (The moon is a fingernail clipping.) How is one thing another? (The moon is a pearl in the sky.)
Imagery: Use words that create vivid pictures in the reader’s mind.
Sound: Notice alliteration (slippery silver snakes), assonance (the mellow wedding bells), and how different sounds feel in your mouth.
Concision: Poetry often says a lot with a little. Can you trim unnecessary words?

5. Start Small and Simple

Don’t aim for an epic poem on your first try.

Try a Haiku: (5-7-5 syllables, usually about nature) – forces you to be concise.
Write about a single object: A forgotten coffee cup, a wilting flower, a dusty book.
Describe a single moment: The exact second the rain started, the taste of your morning coffee, the sound of a distant train.
Start with a strong image or feeling: Let that lead you.

6. Embrace the First Draft (It’s Supposed to Be Messy!)

Your first attempt won’t be perfect, and that’s okay. Think of it as a brain dump. Get all your ideas and feelings down on paper.

Don’t edit as you go: Just write.
Let it sit: Come back to it later with fresh eyes.
Revise: This is where the magic happens. Trim, expand, rearrange, swap words, sharpen images. Read it aloud to catch awkward phrasing.

7. Share (When You’re Ready)

Sharing your work, even with one trusted friend, can be incredibly empowering. It provides a new perspective and helps you grow. Join a local writing group, an online forum, or just read it to your cat!

Poetry isn’t about being “profound” or “intellectual” from the get-go. It’s about connecting with your own voice, observing the world with fresh eyes, and finding beauty in the ordinary. The simplest way to learn and write poetry is simply to begin. Pick up a pen, open a document, and let your words flow. The world is waiting for your unique song.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 145

Day 145 – Writing isn’t work at all…

…

The Joy of the Page: Why Writing Shouldn’t Feel Like Labour

There is a famous, arguably infamous, sentiment from the poet and novelist Charles Bukowski that often sparks heated debate in writing workshops and literary circles alike:

“Writing isn’t work at all… and when people tell me how painful it is to write, I don’t understand it, because it’s just like rolling down the mountain, you know. It’s freeing. It’s enjoyable. It’s a gift and you get paid for what you want to do.”

If you’ve ever stared at a blinking cursor for three hours, wrestling with a single sentence until your temples throb, Bukowski’s words might sound like a personal insult. How can he call it “rolling down a mountain” when, for the rest of us, it feels more like pushing a boulder up it?

But perhaps it’s time to look past the provocation and see the truth hidden in his perspective.

The Difference Between “Writing” and “Editing”

The friction most writers feel isn’t usually with the act of writing itself—the creative flow, the discovery of a character’s voice, or the thrill of an idea taking shape. The pain comes from the internal critic.

When writers complain about the “pain” of writing, they are often conflating the act of creation with the act of judgment. We stop to edit, we second-guess our word choice, and we worry about the audience before the ink is even dry. Bukowski’s “rolling down the mountain” refers to the act of letting go—the pure, kinetic energy of getting the thought from the brain onto the page without stopping to check if it’s “good enough” yet.

The Gift of Expression

Bukowski’s reminder that writing is a “gift” is a powerful antidote to the burnout that comes with treating writing as a purely transactional industry.

In a world where we spend forty-plus hours a week doing things we have to do—answering emails, attending meetings, navigating logistics—writing is one of the few places where we have total agency. You are the architect, the god, and the witness of your own world. When you view writing as an escape rather than a chore, the “pain” begins to dissipate. You stop trying to force the narrative and start allowing it to move on its own.

How to Find Your Own “Mountain”

If you find yourself stuck in the “painful” phase of writing, it’s worth asking: Are you trying to roll, or are you trying to climb?

To recapture the joy Bukowski describes, try these three shifts:

The “Vomit” Draft: Give yourself permission to write absolute garbage. If you don’t care about the quality of the first draft, you remove the pressure to be perfect. Suddenly, the words start flowing again.
Separate the Hat: Keep the “Writer” and the “Editor” in different rooms. When you write, do not let your inner editor touch the keyboard. Save the critique for a later date.
Find the “Want”: Bukowski mentions being “paid for what you want to do.” Even if you aren’t making a living yet, reconnect with the why. Write about the things that genuinely interest you. If you are writing what you think you should write, it will always feel like work. If you write what you need to write, it becomes a release.

Final Thoughts

Writing will always require discipline, and there are days when the muse is silent. But there is a distinct difference between the healthy exhaustion of a creative sprint and the agonising frustration of a writer at war with themselves.

The next time you sit down to write, don’t try to climb the mountain. Stop trying to control the terrain, stop checking your footing, and just let yourself go. You might be surprised at how much ground you cover when you finally stop fighting the descent.

…

Searching for locations: At large in Paris, France

We have been to Paris a number of times over the years.

The last time we visited Paris we brought the two eldest grandchildren. We took the Eurostar train from St Pancras station direct to Disneyland, then took the free bus from the station to the hotel. The train station was directly outside Disneyland.

We stayed at the Dream Castle Hotel, rather than Disneyland itself as it was a cheaper option and we had a family room that was quite large and breakfast was included every morning. Then it was a matter of getting the free bus to Disneyland.

We spent three days, time which seem to pass far too quickly, and we didn’t get to see everything. They did, however, find the time to buy two princess dresses, and then spent the rest of the time playing dress-ups whenever they could.

In Paris, we stayed at the Crown Plaza at Republique Square.

We took the children to the Eiffel Tower where the fries, and the carousel at the bottom of the tower, seemed to be more memorable than the tower itself. The day we visited, the third level was closed. The day was cold and windy so that probably accounted for the less than memorable visit. To give you some idea of conditions, it was the shortest queue to get in I’ve ever seen.

We traveled on the Metro where it was pointed out to me that the trains actually ran on rubber tires, something I had not noticed before. It was a first for both children to travel on a double-decker train.

The same day, we went to the Louvre.

Here, it was cold, wet and windy while we waited, Once inside we took the girls to the Mona Lisa, and after a walk up and down a considerable numkber of stairs, one said, “and we walked all this way to see this small painting”.

It quickly became obvious their idea of paintings were the much larger ones hanging in other galleries.

We also took them to the Arc de Triomphe.

We passed, and for some reason had to go into, the Disney shop, which I’m still wondering why after spending a small fortune at Disneyland itself.

Next on the tour list was the Opera House.

where one of the children thought she saw the ghost and refused to travel in one of the elevators. At least it was quite amazing inside with the marble, staircases, and paintings on the roof.

Sadly, I don’t think they were all that interested in architecture, but at the Opera House, they did actually get to see some ballet stars from the Russian Bolshoi ballet company practicing. As we were leaving the next day we could not go and see a performance.

Last but not least was Notre Dame with its gargoyles and imp[osing architecture.

All in all, traveling with children and experiencing Paris through their eyes made it a more memorable experience.

The first we visited Paris was at the end of a whirlwind bus tour, seven countries in seven days or something like that. It was a relief to get to Paris and stay two nights if only to catch our breath.

I remember three events from that tour, the visit to the Eiffel Tower, the tour of the night lights, not that we were able to take much in from the inside of the bus, and the farewell dinner in one of the tour guides specially selected restaurants. The food and atmosphere were incredible. It was also notable for introducing us to a crepe restaurant in Montmartre, another of the tour guide’s favorite places.

On that trip to Paris, we also spent an afternoon exploring the Palace of Versailles.

The next time we visited Paris we flew in from London. OK, it was a short flight, but it took all day. From the hotel to the airport, the wait at the airport, departure, flying through time zones, arrival at Charles De Gaulle airport, now there’s an experience, and waiting for a transfer that never arrived, but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where we stayed the first time, it was somewhere out in the suburbs, but the second time we stayed at the Hilton near both the Eiffel Tower and the Australian Embassy, notable only because the concierge was dating an Australian girl working in the Embassy. That was our ticket for special treatment, which at times you need to get around in Paris.

It was the year before 2000 and the Eiffel Tower was covered in lights, and every hour or so it looked like a bubbling bottle of champagne. It was the first time we went to Level 3 of the Tower, and it was well worth it. The previous tour only included Level 2. This time we were acquainted with the fries available on the second level, and down below under the tower.

This time we acquainted ourselves with the Metro, the underground railway system, to navigate our way around to the various tourist spots, such as Notre Dame de Paris, The Louvre, Sacre-Coeur Basilica, and Les Invalides, and, of course, the trip to the crepe restaurant.

We also went to the Louvre for the express purpose of seeing the Mona Lisa, and I came away slightly disappointed. I had thought it to be a much larger painting. We then went to see the statue of Venus de Milo and spent some time trying to get a photo of it without stray visitors walking in front of us. Aside from that, we spent the rest of the day looking at the vast number of paintings, and Egyptian artifacts in the Museum.

We also visited the Opera House which was architecturally magnificent.

The third time we visited Paris we took our daughter, who was on her first international holiday. This time we stayed in a quaint Parisian hotel called Hotel Claude Bernard Saint Germain, (43 Rue Des Ecoles, Paris, 75005, France), recommended to us by a relation who’d stayed there the year before. It was small, and the elevator could only fit two people or one person and a suitcase. Our rooms were on the 4^th floor, so climbing the stairs with luggage was out of the question.

It included breakfast and wifi, and it was quite reasonable for the four days we stayed there.

It was close to everything you could want, down the hill to the railway station, and a square where on some days there was a market, and for those days when we were hungry after a day’s exploring, a baguette shop where rolls and salad were very inexpensive and very delicious.

To our daughter we appeared to be experienced travelers, going on the Metro, visiting the Louvre, going, yes once again, to the crepe restaurant and the Basilica at Montmartre, Notre Dame, and this time by boat to the Eiffel Tower. We were going to do a boat rode on the Seine the last time but ran out of time.

We have some magnificent photos of the Tower from the boat.

Lunch on one of the days was at a restaurant not far from the Arc de Triomphe, where our daughter had a bucket of mussels. I was not as daring and had a hamburger and fries. Then we went to the center of the Arch and watched the traffic.

Our first time in Paris the bus driver got into the roundabout just to show us the dangers of driving in an unpredictable situation where drivers seem to take huge risks to get out at their exit. Needless to say, we survived that experience, though we did make a number of circuits.

In a word: Choice

We are often told that it’s the choices we make that shape our lives.

It’s true.

What distinguishes the basis of those choices is the circumstances of the individual.

What a lot of people don’t realise is the diversity of backgrounds of everyone, and that in a minority of cases, the few that really have no choices at all.

Yes, some have no control over their circumstances, and therefore no choice whatsoever.

Inevitably, the people who are first to criticise those who apparently made the wrong choice are those who have never found themselves in similar circumstances.

And probably never will.

This, perhaps, is the biggest problem with governments that are staffed with advisors who do not understand the plight of the common man.

I never had the same opportunities as those who could afford a university education. My family were working class and was relatively poor. Had I not had a scholarship, who knows what sort of education I would have got, if any.

Certainly, my father never got an opportunity to get a good education, but, at the time, during the great depression, his choices were limited, whereas those with any sort of wealth had a different story.

And his lack of choices reflected on us, and that lack of opportunity haunted all of us as time passed.

It was always a case of the haves and the have-nots.

Yes, we all have choices, but sometimes it really is the lesser of two evils, and not whether we will have the fillet or the rib-eye steak.

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words