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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.

The 2 am Rant: Holiday? What holiday?

There’s a reason why I can’t have a holiday.

You might think it’s because of the war, the economic situation, and unsafe countries, and, probably, the war is a good reason because it hasn’t gone away just yet, but I could just move into the motel down the road for a few days.

You know, a change is as good as a holiday!

But the real reason is right in front of me.

I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by any number of scraps of paper with more storylines, written excerpts, parts of stories, and several chapters of a work in progress.

Does this happen to anyone else?

The business of writing requires a talent to keep focused on one project and silence all the other screaming voices in your head, pouring out their side of the story.

But it’s not working.

I try to be determined in my efforts to edit my current completed novel, after letting it ‘rest’ in my head for a few months.

I planned to have some time off, but all of those prisoners in my head started clamouring for attention.

On top of all of that, a story I started some time ago needs revising, another story I wrote this year of NANOWRIMO has come back to haunt me, and characters, well, they’re out in the waiting room, pacing up and down, ready to tell me their life stories.

And the real reason is that cursed A to Z story thing. 26 stories in 30 days, OMG! Why did I choose to write stories and not another simple 26-word definition?

Just as well I don’t have a day job, or nothing would get done.

What I learned about writing – Why does someone pick up a book?

It’s an interesting question, and I’m guessing that when you start writing, it’s not the first question that pops into your mind.

Why does a person go into a bookshop to buy a book?

Do they like the idea of the tactile feel of the book in their hands? Do they like the idea of buying the hard-bound version with the hard covers, and the colourful jacket, or a full-size paperback or just the cheap small version for a lesser price, and then read and then toss away?

Do they buy books, read them, put them on the bookshelf, and admire what they have read as an accomplishment?

Are they looking for entertainment, something to take their mind off the humdrum days of going to work, going home, going to work, going home, over and over?

Do they want to read about the life they would like to have rather than the life they actually have? Like seeing them single-handedly save the world from utter destruction, after or course, car chases, jumping out of helicopters, surviving a plane crash, and rescuing damsels by the half dozen?

Do they want to read about the romance that’s missing in their lives, to have that particular man or woman that just magically appears, and you can live happily ever after, after a few ups and downs of course.

Or are they simply looking for a reference book on cooking, space, do-it-yourself, or computers?

It’s how I worked out what readers want to read, because while I’m looking for books, I observe my fellow readers, sometimes even speak to them, and what they say is very illuminating. It’s fascinating to discover every reader is different.

My visits to the bookshop were, firstly, to seek out the bargains. Then I look for my favourite authors, and by association, my favourite genres. Then I look for books in my favourite genres, but I’m always open to anything else that might take my fancy. Hardbound books are a first preference, and full-size paperbacks are second.

Then, when I have read them, they go on the shelves, one of seven bookcases, in the library, which also doubles as my writing room.

Yes, it’s time to take a few moments away from your self-imposed exile in that dusty, draughty attic, and go meet some of those readers.

And prepare to be greatly surprised.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 111

Day 111 – Writing Exercise

…

The space port, one of three on Mars, loomed on the horizon as the shuttle sped towards it.

Milo had just finished a two-year rotation at the mine, a lucrative opportunity given to him by his brother.

He had not done it out of the kindness of his heart; he had used the opportunity to send his brother away, to keep him out of trouble.

Milo had grudgingly accepted it because of the money. And to get away from his wife, who had cheated on him during his previous rotation on Moonbase 5.

He had come home early and found Leila with another man, the friend he’d asked to look after her while he was gone. He had taken his remit too far.

He was unlucky in that sense, his love of offworld work keeping him away from home, and a wife who wanted her feet firmly planted on Earth. They had no children, another of his grievances because she didn’t want them.

Perhaps it was fated to end this way.

20 minutes later, the shuttle had gone through the docking procedures and was ready to offload its human cargo.

The pilot, of course, was the latest robot technology, more human than human, the promotion material had said, less likely to make mistakes.

It didn’t say a lot for the confidence the company had in its real human employees. Still, they hadn’t sacked any humans yet and replaced them with robots.

Yet.

The airlocks hissed, and the first door opened, and 10 passengers went in. The door closed, and the cabin filled with steam. Cleansing any bugs that may have hitched a ride. The steam was sucked out, and the outer door opened.

He was among the first along the gangway and into the main hall. At one end was the domestic spaceport. At the other end, the interstellar spaceport, where tomorrow he would get the ship back home.

Not that he could call it home, after everything that had happened. It was the last place he wanted to be, but he didn’t have a choice.

He would happily stay right here if he were given the opportunity. They were always looking for workers out in the new cities and the space docks.

Life here wasn’t so bad. In between the two were everything else, the hotels, bars, restaurants, accommodation towers and shopping mall. There was also a cinema, sports arena, playing fields, and parkland. All were built under a series of connected domes. More like the old earth than the new.

He was heading for a hotel. Check in, dinner and a few drinks at the Bar, a few hours in the casino, then rest. There would be time to sleep on the ship.

He walked slowly, savouring those last moments. Through the windows, he could see the stark landscape, how much of Earth was becoming. Soon, they would have to find a new planet or planets to move to.

But not in his lifetime.

…

Most people wanted to get back to Earth. Milo was one of the few who didn’t..

He’d checked into the hotel, and the hotel had taken care of his travel arrangements. The mining company owned the hotel, which made it easy to coordinate everything.

Dinner was provided, along with a reasonable number of drinks afterwards, and given his seniority, a sizable tab at the casino.

He’d learned long ago that he and casinos didn’t mix; he was just going for the free watered-down drinks and watching the high rollers. And like the last time, go see a show and stay out of trouble.

He had dinner, sat at the bar, had a few bottles of beer and talked to random people: mine workers on weekend leave, mining executives lamenting being stuck on Mars, and people who had more money than sense, wanting to stay on Mars for a holiday, people who didn’t care about spending a month or so in stasis either way.

Then, a wander around the gaming floor, the bright lights, the endless noise, the people who all looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

Maybe they didn’t.

He was watching a woman, eye-catching mostly because of her dress, or lack of, which in a way was a diversion. She had attracted a large group of onlookers. The roulette wheel was spinning, the ball was dropping, and landing on her number.

Eight.

Once, eight times a second.

The croupier, a middle-aged man with white hair and a mottled beard, had a peculiar flick when sending the ball on its way.

The first one was, clockwise, number eight.

Ten thousand at thirty-seven to one, three hundred and seventy thousand.

It was sitting on the table.

A waitress arrived with a single drink, champagne in a crystal flute with a hollow stem, the good stuff, not the rubbish they served the punters like Milo.

We waited. If there were no other sound, a pin drop would be like a bomb going off.

“Bets, please?” The man was slightly hoarse. The next spin could be make or break for him.

She removed twenty-seven thousand and left ten.

On number eight.

“No more bets.”

Yes, the croupier had beads of sweat on his brow.

The ball went counterclockwise, round and round, and when it hit the first number and jumped, everyone sucked their breath until it landed.

On number eight.

The croupier called for chips.

A grey coat had been nearby, and they were joined by a blue coat and then a black coat.

A huddle, a whispered conversation, and the croupier was replaced. A hard-faced woman, mid-thirties, with a ‘don’t make wisecracks to me’ expression took over.

“Just like the house. Kill the winning streak by replacing the croupier.”

I turned.

The owner of the voice was a girl, on the threshold of being something more, in an elegant ball gown, looking like she had escaped a torture chamber.

“It has been known to happen.” As many times as I’d seen it happen, she was right.

“You work for the house?”

“I’m a casual observer. No more, no less.” My glass was empty.

A waitress went past and exchanged empty glasses with full ones. She took one. It was not the good stuff.

“Six hundred grand. Not a bad night’s work.”

“She won’t quit.” I knew the type. It was a superstition, leave it all, don’t break the stack.

“Would you?” She took a sip and made a face. It hadn’t improved on the first glass.

“Oddly yes. But I’m neither that brave or reckless.” I would not have doubled down after the first bet.

She smiled, did a quick scan of the floor then her eyes came back to me.

“You’re not the adventurous sort?” It was said with scepticism. I was surprised.

Who was she and what did she want with me. The way she was acting i suspected she was part of the floor surveillance, perhaps looking to see how the lady was possibly cheating.

“Used to be, in another life.” Back in the day as they called it, when I tried my hand at being a policeman. I was young and idealistic then.

“Well, I’ll give you a chance, one chance, to seek adventure. I need a dancing partner, and you look to me you are a dancing man. Am I right?”

She was. Before I finally married, a girlfriend had been my partner in ballroom dancing contests, and we were very good. Very, very good. Until she decided another dancing partner would be more interesting. It might have been a career, but it ended that night she left.

How could she know that I was a dancer?

“I’ve taken the requisite Arthur Murray lessons.”

“Including the Waltz?”

“It’s there somewhere in the back of my mind. No doubt it will come back to me.”

…

Up a hallway, wide enough to be almost an avenue, and off to one side was a ballroom, with about five hundred people suitably dressed to the nines.

I looked out of place, even though my suit was being worn for the third time. I didn’t have the white shirt, stiff collar and white bow tie.

It didn’t matter.

I had a feeling this girl was a maverick.

People created space on the floor for us. I should have been worried, but it was not until we took the starting position i noticed we were the only pair in the circle.

The music started, and she was almost about to move when I took the lead, if it could be called that.

I loved the Waltz. It gave you a chance to be close and apart, the ebbs and flows of the music, and the Strauss music.

Others joined us until we had a full circle.

I concentrated on not stuffing up.

She had definitely done this before.

After switching partners, briefly, I got the redhead with the glowering eyes. She said, in a very low voice, “You know who you’re dancing with, don’t you?”

I didn’t, and wondered if I should say so. “No.” I was curious.

“Literally, the boss’s daughter.”

Boss of what or whom?

She was gone before I could ask.

The dance ended, and the orchestra leaned into a cha cha cha. I was not an exponent of the Latin dances, and she was equally willing to leave it alone.

In a quiet corner, we had drinks brought overnight almost unbidden, and I missed the secret sign she made to the staff.

“I’m told you’re the boss’s daughter. Should I be worried?”

“I am a daughter. By definition, you’re a son.”

“But not of a boss. My father was just a worker.”

“And you were too?”

I shrugged. “Briefly.”

“You shrug off seven years so flippantly.”

So, she did know who I was. That might be a problem when I remembered the spaceport mayor had a daughter, and was in trouble. I was in the territories; her domain was this city, and the likelihood of meeting was supposedly zero.

“You’ve read words on paper. Someone’s subjective words. It was a long time ago.”

“We need a detective.”

“You have a police force, a sheriff, I believe.”

“People who work for the company. People who have vested interests. People are not interested in digging.”

“Their own grave?”

It was an interesting conundrum. The company that ran the mines was also responsible for maintaining the city and services, except for the small council, who were in charge. The charter made sure that control of everything was not left in the hands of the companies, just the bills.

But they did get to recruit the staff, not the bosses. It was a peculiarity, one that sometimes caused friction. There had been a rash of assaults across all the cities, something the miners labelled as the result of privation and exuberance.

They had promised to fix the problem. Perhaps they had, perhaps they hadn’t.

“We can’t fill the City Investigator role.”

Or the last one poked his nose into the wrong place and had it chopped off, along with his head. Figuratively, that is, his death had been reported as from natural causes.

I think I now knew they was a different explanation.

“And I’m your choice?”

“You were overheard saying that you didn’t want to go home. Here’s your chance to stay.”

“My rotations are done. Rules are rules.”

“Rules are made to be broken. We can use a special clause if you want to stay.”

“And die?”

“You’re fast on your feet. A smart man knows when to change direction, retreat, regroup, and live to fight another day. You’ve spent time with the workers, you know who, and what they were and are. Not afraid to stick up for yourself either. Pays good, benefits…” she smiled.

Trouble.

“Can I think about it?”

“What’s there to think about?”

A lot. “I should go home.”

“You won’t make it home.”

It was an interesting statement, and normally it would be frightening. It simply confirmed what I suspected. The parting speech on earth before I came in this last rotation from my brother was ominous.

He said coming home might be detrimental to my health.

“Still want to think about it.”

She shrugged. “I’ll be at the interstellar lounge tomorrow morning. Don’t disappoint me. Again.”

…

There are times when you honestly believe you’ve reached a point in your life where everything makes sense. A point where you’ve made peace with your choices, and there’s nothing more to be done about it.

It was inevitable that Milo instinctively knew he was going to end up single again, once he realised he preferred running away from responsibility. His brother had always said his marriage wouldn’t last, that his obsession with being off-world was going to take precedence over everything else

It did. It just bugged him that his brother was right.

He also told him beating the guy who slept with his wife was a poor choice, and that was right too. That was why he got Milo the gig as far away from home as possible

His brother also told him the guy’s family had a great deal of reach, and one day the tentacles of their influence would catch up with him.

It seemed like it had.

The question was which side of the fence she was on. He cursed himself for not asking for a name, and then guessed that she would probably not give anything but an alias.

Or maybe he had too overactive an imagination.

He hadn’t slept. He’d kept thinking of that one Waltz, in the arms of a woman who was everything that Margery wasn’t, to the point where he had to wonder how he finished up with her.

And how impossible it was that this woman would bother to give him a second glance. He was, when looked at in the cold, hard light of day, a miner, as rough and ready as they come.

He was everything she was not.

But for three minutes plus a few seconds, he felt every bit her equal and that they were seamless in the dance. He may have looked out of place, but he didn’t feel out of place.

Except there was no room for him in her world.

It seemed there was no room for him in anyone’s world.

He knew what was coming. Better to face it, or he would always be looking over his shoulder.

…

He arrived at the interstellar spaceport a half hour early. There was a large number of earthbound travellers already there, in various stages of excitement.

It was always a thrill to get on the spaceship and experience the first few hours of the flight before the stasis phase, and then waking up about a day and a half out. Coming into moon orbit, then docking, was one of the amazing moments, especially when getting the first sight of Earth.

He tendered his ticket at the counter, had it stamped, and was given a boarding pass. It was like getting a plane back home.

He went to the cafe and ordered a coffee, then selected a table that gave him a view of the whole room. He kept his back to the wall. If anyone was coming for him, he would see them.

Halfway through the coffee, what appeared to be another passenger sat opposite. He didn’t ask if the seat was free.

Milo glared at him.

“I’m guessing you’re Milo.”

“I’m guessing you should be minding your own business. Would it matter if I said that the seat is taken?”

He seemed surprised. “I didn’t think you had any friends.”

I noticed behind him a scuffle at a table near the door where two men were dragged out of their chairs and hauled away by men bigger than they were. A similar event happened at a table by the other door.

Two exits covered.

If I tried to leave, I wouldn’t.

Then the mysterious young lady came in and sauntered across the floor. My new friend finally realised something was going on, maybe Milo staring past him, not at him, gave it away.

He turned, and the slight shoulder slump said it all.

She had a uniform of sorts on. Not quite the same impact as the previous evening.

The man made no attempt to move. He looked up at her. “Cassandra.”

“Joe. What can I do for you?”

“There are two gentlemen over by the exit waiting to have a chat. Don’t disappoint me by doing something silly.”

“You know me better than that.”

She gave him a face that said otherwise. He looked like he was assessing his options for escape. They were not good.

One of her associates came over and put a hand on his shoulder. “This way, sir.”

Not many of the others in the cafe were paying much attention.

He stood and looked down at me. “This isn’t over.”

Milo shrugged. “I wasn’t aware it had started, whatever it is.”

He looked at Cassandra. “What’s the charge?”

“Interfering in a covert operation.”

“He doesn’t work for you.”

She smiled. “Keep up, Joe. You are usually not this sloppy. Unless, of course, you no longer have a spy in my department.”

A minute change in expression.

She nodded to the other officer, and he escorted Joe away. Cassandra sat in the recently executive seat.

“Thank you, Milo.”

“For what?”

“We’ve been trying to pin something on him, but he’s very slippery. It’s what happens with rush jobs. I have to thank you for your help.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You verified we caught the mile on the department, and acted as a decoy so we could arrest him. You want that job, it’s yours.”

Did he. If that was the case, Milo wouldn’t have to go home, and he could see trouble coming. Well, she would.

“Who exactly are you?”

“Cassandra.”

Milo gave her one of his looks, the one that said don’t dance with him.

“Acting Chief Superintendent, Detectives. Your job. Five years. Staff of twenty. Nice apartment, with stellar views of the Red Planet.”

“Are you one of the twenty?”

“XO, 21C. I want to learn from the best.”

Milo stood and held out his hand.

She stood and took it in hers.

They shook hands.

“Welcome aboard. Now, let’s go and interrogate some suspects.”

…

Searching for locations: The Beijing Zoo, and Pandas, China

Beijing Zoo

Founded in 1906 during the late Qing dynasty, it is the oldest Zoo in China. It also has an aquarium and has 450 land-based species, some of which are rare and endemic to China like the Giant Panda, and 500 marine-based species. Other rare animals to be seen are the Red Panda, the Golden Snub-nosed Monkey, the South China Tiger, the White Lipped deer, the Chinese alligator, the Yak, and the Snow Leopard.

Most of the original animals were bought in 1908 from Germany by the viceroy of Liangjiang Duanfang. The Zoo first opened on June 16th, 1908.
Currently, the Zoo grounds resemble classical Chinese gardens, and among the attractions are a number of Qing dynasty buildings to view, as well as an Elephant hall, a Lion and tiger hall, a Monkey hall, and a Panda hall. In all, there are 30 halls.
The Zoo is located at 137 Xizhimen WaiDajie in Xicheng district, near the 2nd ring road.

We are primarily at the Zoo to see the Pandas, and there is a specific hall devoted to them, and by the way, it costs extra to see them. Everyone in our group is particularly interested in seeing them because it’s rare that any can be found anywhere else in the world.
Perhaps if there had been more time, another hour, maybe, it might have made all the difference, but I think that extra time might have clashed with the pearl factory, and that, for obvious reasons, was deemed to be more important.

Our first stop is in the Panda hall.

There are two pandas that we can see, one of whom is a little camera shy, and the other, above, who is demonstrating how pandas eat bamboo. They are behind a large glass wall, and you have to wait for the opportunity to get a good photo, and sometimes, only enough to include the top of the head of the person in front of you. Unfortunately, the Chinese visitors don’t understand the polite excuse me in English and can, at times, be rude enough to shove their way to the front.

What is also a problem is the uncooperativeness of the pandas to pose for photos. I guess there’s no surprise there, given the thousands of visitors every day with only one purpose in mind. We counted ourselves lucky to get the photos we did.

The hall itself is built onto the external enclosure, where there are several giant pandas, some of whom were on show, and were relatively lethargic, as though they had a big weekend, and we’re sleeping it off, like this panda below:

Then, remarkably, we came across one that decided to be a little more energetic and did a walk in front of hundreds of Chinese who had undoubtedly come to show their children the animals.

This Panda was also easier to photograph, whereas the other panda, one chewing on a morning feast of bamboo, saw a lot of pushing and shoving by the spectators to get the best spot to take his photograph. Having manners just doesn’t cut it here, so do what you have to get that photograph.

We also saw a couple of monkeys that were in the panda enclosure, but they were not much of a side benefit. They may have been there to use the Panda’s exercise equipment, though it was not quite like what we use. There was no time really to wander off to see much else, but apparently, there were also red pandas, and surprisingly, a category called Australian animals. But who goes to another country to view their own animals? The cutest animals were the stuffed pandas, and they were quite reasonably priced.

In a word: Bill

Yes, it is a name, short for William, though I’m not sure how Bill was derived from William.

But…

As you know, like many words this one has a number of other meanings, like,

A bird has a bill, particularly those birds with webbed feet

A bill is something you are sent to pay for goods or services, and often turn up when least expected, or when money is tight

And, sadly, they are neverending.

Then there’s fit the bill, which means it is suitable.

It could also be a list of people who appear in a programme.

It is used to describe banknotes, such as a twenty dollar bill.

It could be a waybill, used for the consignment of goods.

It could also be a piece of legislation introduced into parliament.

In some places in the world, it could be the peak of a cap

But the most obscure use of the word bill goes to: the point of an anchor fluke.

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, I came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level that she, the youngest of the group, would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing her down for the last three months, and if she noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one; no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact that she had to entertain more, and frankly, I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then that she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it was something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction. None.

I simply asked who, where, and when.

A world-class newspaper in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember just shrugging and asking if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost the intimacy we used to have, where she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker, but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use-by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me; you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy. At the beginning, it’s a slow, easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships; they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, followed by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends, new life.

We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming; that moment, the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning, there had been 6 different types of planes departing, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just to see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

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Coming soon. Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

Searching for locations: We’ve just arrived in Beijing International Airport, China

Instead of making a grand entrance, arriving in style and being greeted by important dignitaries, we are slinking in via an airplane, late at night. It’s hardly the entrance I’d envisaged. At 9:56 the plane touches down on the runway. Outside the plane, it is dark and gloomy and from what I could see, it had been raining. That could, of course, simply be condensation.

Once on the ground, everyone was frantically gathering together everything from seat pockets and sending pillows and blankets to the floor. A few were turning their mobile phones back on, and checking for a signal, and, perhaps, looking for messages sent to them during the last 12 hours. Or perhaps they were just suffering from mobile phone deprivation.

It took 10 minutes for the plane to arrive at the gate. That’s when everyone moves into overdrive, unbuckling belts, some before the seatbelt sign goes off, and are first out of their seats and into the overhead lockers. Most are not taking care that their luggage may have moved, but fortunately, no bags fall out onto someone’s head. The flight had been relatively turbulence-free.

When as many people and bags have squeezed into that impossibly small aisle space, we wait for the door to open, and then the privileged few business and first-class passengers to depart before we can begin to leave. As we are somewhere near the middle of the plane, our wait will not be as long as it usually is. This time we avoided being at the back of the plane. Perhaps that privilege awaits us on the return trip.

Once off the plane, it is a matter of following the signs, some of which are not as clear as they could be. It’s why it took another 30 odd minutes to get through immigration, but that was not necessarily without a few hiccups along the way. We got sidetracked at the fingerprint machines, which seemed to have a problem if your fingers were not straight, not in the center of the glass, and then if it was generally cranky, which ours were, continue to tell you to try again, and again, and again, and again…That took 10 to 15 minutes before we joined an incredibly long queue of other arrivals.

A glance at the time, and suddenly it’s nearly an hour from the moment we left the plane.

And…

That’s when we got to the immigration officer, and it became apparent we were going to have to do the fingerprints yet again. Fortunately, this time, it didn’t take as long. Once that was done, we collected our bags, cleared customs by putting our bags through a huge X-ray machine, and it was off to find our tour guide.

We found several tour guides with their trip-a-deal flags waiting for us to come out of the arrivals hall. It wasn’t a difficult process in the end. We were in the blue group. Other people we had met on the plane were in the red group or the yellow group. The tour guide found, or as it turned out, she found us; it was simply a matter of waiting for the rest of the group, of which there were eventually 28. Gathered, we were told we would be taking the bags to one place and then ourselves to the bus in another. A glance in the direction of the bus park, there were a lot of buses.

Here’s a thought: imagine being told your bus is the white one with blue writing on the side.

Yes, yours is, and 25 others, because all of the tourist coaches are the same. An early reminder, so that you do not get lost, or, God forbid, get on the wrong bus, for the three days in Beijing, is to get the last five numbers of the bus registration plate and commit them to memory. It’s important. Failing that, the guide’s name is in the front passenger window.

Also, don’t be alarmed if your baggage goes in one direction, and you go in another. In a rather peculiar setup, the bags are taken to the hotel by what the guide called the baggage porter. It is an opportunity to see how baggage handlers treat your luggage; much better than the airlines, it appears.

That said, if you’re staying at the Beijing Friendship Hotel, be prepared for a long drive from the airport. It took us nearly an hour, and bear in mind that it was very late on a Sunday night.

Climbing out of the bus after what seemed a convoluted drive through a park with buildings, we arrive at the building that will be our hotel for the next three days. From the outside, it looks quite good, and once inside the foyer, that first impression is good. Lots of space, marble, and glass. If you are not already exhausted by the time you arrive, the next task is to get your room key, find your bags, get to your room, and try to get ready the next morning at a reasonable hour.

Sorry, that boat has sailed.

We were lucky, we were told, that our plane arrived on time, and we still arrived at the hotel at 12:52. Imagine if the incoming plane is late.

This was taken the following morning. It didn’t look half as bland late at night.

This is the back entrance to Building No. 4, but is quite representative of the whole foyer, made completely of marble and glass. It all looked very impressive under the artificial lights, but not so much in the cold, hard light of early morning.

This is the foyer of the floor where our room was. Marble with interesting carpet designs. Those first impressions of it being a plush hotel were slowly dissipating as we got nearer and nearer to the room. From the elevator, it was a long, long walk.

So…Did I tell you about the bathroom in our room?

The shower and the toilet both share the same space with no divide, and the shower curtain doesn’t reach the floor. Water pressure is phenomenal. Having a shower floods the whole shower plus toilet area, so when you go to the toilet, you’re basically underwater.

Don’t leave your book or magazine on the floor, or it will end up a watery mess.

And the water pressure is so hard that it could cut you in half. Only a small turn of the tap is required to get that tingling sensation going.

It’s after 1:30 before we finally get to sleep.

As for the bed, well, that’s a whole other story.

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

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