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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.

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 14

I’m always rummaging through the endless photographs that, if you were to ask me, I would vehemently deny I took.

It’s like the camera on my phone takes them itself, you know, the latest upgrade they didn’t tell you about, the artificial intelligence.

OK, so it’s simply a ferry crossing a wide stretch of water. You ask, why didn’t they build a bridge? A good question, and not one I can answer.

But, what does the thought of a ferry conjure up?

It brought to mind the film Jaws, and the summer visitors to the island, or should I say, shark hunting ground.

Here?

Perhaps a little less sinister…or not.

To me, at this point, it suggests the possibility of a get away, depending on what side you’re on, mainland, or island. I’m going to say, you’re on the island and going back to the mainland.

Running.

The island is like one of those remote places, with one way in and one way out. a place where people go to try and breathe life back into a marriage that’s falling apart under the stresses of city life, but it failed.

The problem wasn’t the fact you didn’t see each other enough, it’s just that you had grown to dislike each other, and going into a small isolated situation only made the problem worse.

It was just easier to blame everything else.

But going home, well that’s a whole different kettle of fish, because bridges were burned before you left, and going back, well, there was going to be grovelling involved.

Or not.

There’s a story here, but not right now. Perhaps in a day or two.

It’s late, very late, and I need some sleep … well, thinking time.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 33

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

Monica, from the last interrogation, had brought a file. It looked the same as the last one she brought with her, the one with my name on it.

This time it was thicker.

Intelligence gathering at its finest. There’d be stuff in there that even I didn’t know about me.

She didn’t open it, just looked at me.

“What have you been doing?”

“Working?”

“For whom?”

“Nobbin, of course. I am now assigned to his section. Did you do that?”

“He did. He tells me you’re working on the O’Connell investigation.”

“Is that what it’s called. He never told me that. And I had to find out where I’d been assigned by logging onto a computer. An email or letter would have made my life a little easier.”

“You’re just lucky you’re still working here. Now, tell me more about this Severin character.”

“I told you everything I knew the last time you spoke to me. Apparently, you seemed to know who it was. Perhaps you might tell me, too.”

“It’s…”

“And,” I interrupted, “don’t tell me it’s above my pay grade. I was potentially working for traitors and could have finished up in jail for treason.”

“You might still get there.”

Then why hadn’t she had me arrested and thrown in a dungeon the last time we met? There was an easy answer to that question. She needed me out in the field. Nobbin needed me in the field. They presumably needed me to remain available to Severin for whatever reason.

“What do you want?”

She opened the file, turned a few pages, and stopped at a yellow sheet of paper. I wasn’t able to read it upside down, but it had very small spidery writing on it.

Then she looked at me again.

“Some secret documents appear to have gone missing. We believe that is to say Director Dobbin thinks these may have been on a USB drive that was in the possession of O’Connell at the time of his death. You were there at the time of his death. You can see where this is going…”

No matter which answers I gave it was the wrong one, which led to do not pass go and do not collect two hundred dollars, or pounds as the case may be.

“I haven’t got it, and he didn’t tell me where it was, and I saw him die.”

“If you say so.” She went back to the file and turned some more pagers.

“What do you mean?”

She looked up. “So far, there’s no body been recovered, or any evidence there was a shooting where you said it was.”

“Are you trying to tell me he’s alive, because if you are, then I must be a very poor judge of people who have no pulse. He was not about to get up and walk away.”

“Did you see the body removed?”

Now there’s an interesting point. I had done as I was told and left when told to. I assumed Severin would sort the problem out, in fact, hadn’t he called in the cleaners? I saw a white van.

Actually, when I thought about it, I had no idea what happened after I left. And, now that I remember, I didn’t see anyone get out of the white van.

Could bodies get up and walk?

I was beginning to think they could.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 27

Day 27 – Writing exercise

I was never the same

…

Making a plan, having certain expectations, taking that leap of faith that all of us are destined to do at least once, I found myself standing at the top of the Empire State Building, on the last day of the twelfth month, exactly five years after making a promise in exactly the same place, I would be there.

There was a 10 am in there, but that was flexible, because I always liked to be early.

It had been after high school graduation, after the prom, every bit the magical moment it was meant to be, with the girl of my dreams, Margaret Cates. We had spent those last years of high school together, studying hard, each helping the other achieve the grades needed to enter the best University.

There was no talk of romance, of a life together, or anything other than of being brought together, almost inseparable. We were voted the most likely to be married, and living contentedly in a house with a picket fence and three children.

Expectations were what parents had, and both of our parents were best friends, who simply chose to believe the inevitable would happen. Graduation, a combined family trip to New York to see the sights, culminating in New Year’s Eve at the top of the Empire State Building.

That was where we made the promise, no matter what, we would reconvene, that was Margaret’s word, at the same time. It was also the first time we kissed, and I think it took a week before my heart rate went back to normal.

Soon after that, Margaret left. She had been accepted into her university of choice. Her parents were surprised, mt parents were in shock.

I was not. It was the plan. Margaret had a plan for everything. There was no plan with me in it. Not in those first five years. I was sad, but not devastated.

I said to my parents, if we were meant to be, she would come back. I had to set her free.

…

My plan was there was no plan. I got the grades, and I got accepted into my University of choice.

At the end of the second year, I was in a what could only be described as a car crash, and was badly injured, to the extent that I had to put my life on hold.

I would recover, not one hundred per cent but enough to continue whatever path I’d chosen, but with some limitations. The doctor was upbeat, and my parents were upbeat.

I went home, not quite in the manner I’d intended. I was assured that life was like that, and I had to accept, accident or no accident, life was full of unexpected challenges.

…

Summer Atkins was probably the most irritating, aggravating, and ingratiating person on the planet.

She lived next door, one of five girls, the eldest, and coincidentally in my grade at high school. In fact, she was in all the grades from Elementary.

She was gawky, awkward, loud and clumsy. It was not her fault. She had a kind heart, always the first to volunteer for the worst jobs, and suffered a lot at the hands of the boys and the girls, too.

I was not pleased to say when I looked back at my time that I was one of them, and probably the only one who apologised after the prom for what had been, at times, unforgivable. The prank for the prom was probably her lowest point.

It took a week before she would come out of her room, and I came over every day to join the few who actually cared about her. After Margaret left and before I followed, we spent time together, where she asked me what she needed to do to just get to talk to a guy like me.

I thought it strange. She was talking to me, I was talking to her, we had coffee and cake at the diner, and hung out. She had no aspirations to go to college, just to help her parents look after her siblings and work on the diner. I had suggested she might want to do something for herself, and she looked at me strangely. I did not, she said, understand her.

We parted awkwardly, with this thing I had done, but what it was, I had no idea. It ended when she told me that if I was waiting for Margaret, I would be waiting a long time. How did she know anything about what my expectations were?

…

I came back home under the radar. I didn’t want anyone to know because I had set myself a high bar, and I was never going to reach it.

I felt that I had become a disappointment to my parents, and while they put on a brave face, and my siblings were polite, it was clear that they were happy for me to hide away, and my siblings were happy to see the high flyer crash and burn. Kid would be kids, I expected no less.

So when Summer unexpectedly knocked on the door, a certain element of panic went through the house. Upstairs, I heard that voice drift up the stairs with mixed emotions. I wanted to see her, but I didn’t want to see her.

Not like this. It was an odd feeling, and I couldn’t understand what fuelled it. It was Summer, she wouldn’t care, more likely revel in the fact. How the mighty had fallen.

My mother answered the door.

“Mrs Abercrombie, you look tired?” The grating tone had gone, her voice had softened, and there was genuine concern in it.

“It’s…”

She caught herself before mentioning my name. It had been a secret for about a month. I was surprised Summer had not called earlier.

My mother shifted the topic. She was good at that. “How is your father? That latest bout of chemotherapy cannot be helping the diner.”

“He’s responding to the treatment, and we’re managing. How are you faring without Allen? I’m sorry I should have come over more often.”

“It’s fine. We’re all coping with life as best we can.”

“How is Allen, if I may ask?”

That was Summer. Gets the bit between her teeth and doesn’t let go.

My mother was not one to lie. Obfuscate but not lie. Not outright. But confronted…”

“Something’s wrong,” she said in a hushed voice, so low I couldn’t barely hear her. I could virtually see my mother’s face. It had always been expressive. It’s why she could never play poker.

It went quiet for a minute or two, and I knew it was time to brace myself. Summer was the last person I wanted to see, perhaps the only one other than Margaret, not that I expected her to drop everything.

Again, I couldn’t explain why, other than showing vulnerability.

A few minutes passed while I was hoping my mother would explain that I didn’t want to see anyone, that I wanted to be better before facing the outside world. Whether Summer would accede to a request if leaving me alone was moot.

If she knew I was there, she would not hesitate to come up and remind me of the Allen of old, with the shoe now firmly on the other foot.

I tried hiding under the covers, but she had X-ray eyes. I knew she was in the room, I could feel her presence. And the scent she used was a hint of primrose. Once it was far stronger, but I suspect she had mastered the art of cosmetic use.

“You will suffocate long before I leave, Allen. I’m not the same girl you left behind. I don’t hate you. I did for a while, but then I realised you cared when all the rest didn’t. I’m sorry we parted angry.”

She sounded reasonable, far more reasonable than I expected. She should have still been angry, if not with me, but with the others.

“OK. If you don’t come out, I’ll get in there with you. You know me well enough to know I will.”

Did I know her well enough? I never took the opportunity. No one wanted to because she didn’t fit the other girls’ profile. It wasn’t like that at University, there it was simply a competition. There was dating, but it was more convenient than romance. There were not many hours left in a day for extracurricular activities.

When I peeled back the covers, it was like seeing an angel, the sun shining in the window, throwing a glow over her. Summer had changed, from the awkward, ugly diluting into a graceful Swan.

A look of concern crossed her face. Just lifting the covers was a difficult task, like most normal movements we all took for granted. It was getting easier and less painful, but it would take time.

“What happened to you?”

“A car and I had a disagreement. It won.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me. How long have you been here? What do you need? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

…

Summer basically glued me back together. It was, she said, one of her projects, others minding the children of silly sisters, nursing her farther past cancer, keeping up her waitress job at the diner, and just being Summer, the girl who always pitched in.

Such was the value of her help that my mother said I should marry her before someone else snapped her up. Just before I was to go back to University, I did just that, but she rejected me.

There was someone else, and he was going to propose any day.

I could respect that. Whatever I thought she might think of me, I would forever be one of those boys who made her life hell. I didn’t deserve someone like her. I just got on the train and left.

But the truth was, I was never the same again.

How could I?

I had tried to tell Margaret, but the terms of the pact were clear. 5 years, do your thing, meet and discuss. If feelings were the same, who knew what might happen?

I was disappointed I hadn’t been able to find her, but I had a story to tell.

A year after returning, I gave it up. I didn’t have the same enthusiasm, and feeling like a failure, I didn’t go home. I simply pretended everything was fine, and moved to New York and found work in a rather offbeat bookshop in Queens.

It fuelled my love of literature, and after reading anything and everything, I started writing my version of the Great American Novel. Small-town boy makes it big in the big city. A bit like my life, really.

Which brings us back to the Empire State Building.

10am.

And Margaret.

I saw her, and thought she was coming to the spot. She looked different, older, smarter, and with a touch of elegance and sophistication.

Halfway, I saw her smile and then wrap her arms around this bear of a man whom I instantly recognised. I mean, you would have to live under a rock not to know him.

Her parents were there, and a bunch of media people. The oohs and ahhs told me it was the moment he went down on one knee; it was going to be a News At 6 moment.

I was but a distant memory, forgotten in her moment of agreeing to be Mrs Albert Johnstone Gerythorn III.

I guess the employee of an eclectic bookshop was hardly a match for a multi-billionaire, or one who was soon to be.

“Sucks to be you.”

It did. That voice, the one that had grated on my nerves nearly all of my school years, came from behind me.

I knew who it was. I didn’t turn around.

“I knew it was a mistake to tell you my innermost secrets.”

“Oh, I would not have missed this for the world.”

I felt her hand slip into mine and her body move closer.

“Five years is a long time. People change.”

“People like us change, Allen. People like her do not.”

“I thought you were getting married?”

“So did I. I guess we were both wrong. Found that cute little bookshop of yours. If I didn’t know you better, I’d be guessing you’ve started that great American novel. Am I right or am I right?”

“You know me too well. You want to stay, or shall we find another circus, something a little more our style?”

“Do we have one?”

“Of course. Everyone has style.”

Then I noticed Margaret was coming towards us, a rather serious expression on her face. Had she finally recognised me?

“Excuse me, but the photographers would like to get some photos of my fiancée and me by this corner. It would be most appreciated.”

No. No sign of recognition.

Summer instead smiled sweetly, ” Of course, Margery Mugmouth, the pleasure would be all ours.”

It was Margaret’s nickname among those girls she trashed, and she instantly recognised Summer, and then me.

“Five years, to the day. You came. Have a happy life, Margaret.”

With that, we left.

A reporter, or just someone with a notepad, was scribbling frantically and then tried to head us off at the elevator. Just too late. The doors closed.

“The nerve,” Summer said. “That was our corner. Or I hope it will be.”

“So do I. Would you like to marry me?” I asked.

The elevator went silent, except for the whishing sound of it going down.

“She made a face, quite amusing, and then said, “Yes.”

People outside the elevator when it arrived thought something bad had happened, given the roar and applause, which pulled out into the foyer after it arrived.

Five years, on the last day of the last month at 10am, something did happen. I proposed to the girl of my dreams. I just hadn’t realised it until then.

…

If I only had one day to stop over in – Amsterdam – what would I do?

One Day in Amsterdam? Make It Unforgettable with a Single Stop: The Canal Belt (Grachtengordel)

Why the Canal Belt is the Perfect “One‑Place” Destination

Amsterdam’s 17th‑century canal network is more than a series of waterways—it’s the city’s living arteries, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and the backdrop for every postcard you’ve ever seen. When you have just 24 hours, the Canal Belt gives you:

Iconic scenery in minutes: Picture‑perfect bridges, narrow merchant houses with gabled facades, and the gentle sway of historic barges.
A compact, walk‑and‑ride playground: All of the city’s most photographed sights sit within a 2‑km radius.
Flexible pacing: Whether you have a tight schedule or a couple of spare hours, you can tailor the experience to your rhythm.

In short, the Canal Belt lets you soak up the soul of Amsterdam without hopping from one museum to another or battling long ticket queues.

The Quick‑Start Guide: From Schiphol to the Canals in 20 Minutes

Step	How to Do It	Approx. Time
1. Exit Schiphol	Follow signs to “Trains & Buses.”	–
2. Catch a Sprinter train to Amsterdam Centraal	Trains depart every 10 min; tickets €5.20 (single).	15 min
3. Walk or bike to the Canal Belt	The station opens directly onto the western edge of the Grachtengordel. A 5‑minute stroll or a 2‑minute bike ride gets you to the heart of the action.	5 min
4. Start your canal adventure	Choose a walking route or hop on a 20‑minute hop‑on/hop‑off boat.	–

Pro tip: Buy an OV‑chipkaart (public‑transport card) at the airport for smooth tram/bus rides later in the day. It costs €7.50 including a €2.50 credit, and you’ll need it if you decide to explore beyond the canals.

The Experience: A Two‑Hour Itinerary That Feels Like a Whole Day

10 Minutes – First Glimpse from the Bridge

Begin at Blauwburgwal, the narrowest bridge in the city (just 1.13 m wide). From here, you’ll see the quintessential Dutch row of twee-onder- één houses (two‑storey front, one‑storey back). Snap a quick photo – it’s the perfect “Welcome to Amsterdam” shot.

30 Minutes – Guided Canal Boat (or DIY Paddle)

Option A – Guided 20‑minute hop‑on/hop‑off boat
Board at the near‑by Pier on Prinsengracht ( tickets €18, includes a narration). The guide will point out the Anne Frank House, Westerkerk, and the Nine Streets (De Negen Straatjes) while you glide beneath the iconic Magere Brug (Skinny Bridge).
Option B – Self‑Guided Paddle
Rent a small electric boat from a dock near Kattenburg (≈ €25 for 45 min). You’ll have the freedom to stop at a quiet spot and dip your toes in the water – a photographer’s dream.

45 Minutes – Walk the “Golden Triangle”

After disembarking, wander clockwise through the three main canals:

Canal	Highlights	Photo‑Spot
Herengracht (the “Gentlemen’s Canal”)	Elegant merchant mansions, the Museum Van Loon interior (if you have time).	The twin‑arch Herenstraat Bridge.
Keizersgracht (the “Emperor’s Canal”)	Grand city hall, the Royal Palace glimpsed across the water.	The Kattenburg Bridge with its pastel houses.
Prinsengracht (the “Prince’s Canal”)	Bustling Albert Cuyp Market on the side, lively cafés.	The Leidsepoort arch framing the canal.

Take 10–15 seconds at each bridge; the changing light on the water creates a natural Instagram carousel.

35 Minutes – Café Pause + Local Treat

Find a seat at Café de Dokter (the smallest bar in Amsterdam, tucked in a historic house on Prinsengracht 2). Order a classic stroopwafel with fresh coffee. The tiny interior, with its antique wooden bar, feels like stepping back into a 17th‑century tavern.

10 Minutes – Souvenir Sprint

If you have a few minutes left before your next train, pop into the Bloemenmarkt (Flower Market) on Singel. Pick up a bundle of fresh tulips for a vibrant reminder of your day.

Practical Tips to Maximise Your Canal Belt Adventure

Tip	Why It Matters
Buy boat tickets online	Saves ~15 minutes waiting in line, especially during peak tourist season.
Carry a lightweight rain jacket	Amsterdam weather flips fast; a dry coat means you won’t miss that perfect photo.
Use a bike lock	If you rent a bike at the station, lock it at a designated rack before hopping onto a boat.
Set a “time alarm” on your phone	With limited hours, a gentle reminder will keep you on schedule for your onward flight.
Download “Amsterdam City Card” (optional)	Includes unlimited tram/bus rides and discounts on museums—handy if you decide to squeeze in a quick museum visit after the canals.

The Bottom Line: One Place, Endless Memories

If you have only a single day in Amsterdam, the Canal Belt offers the most condensed, authentic, and photogenic slice of the city. In just a couple of hours, you’ll:

Walk beneath historic bridges that have stood for centuries.
Glide along water that once powered the Dutch Golden Age.
Taste a traditional treat in a centuries‑old café.
Capture a visual story you’ll be able to share for years to come.

All you need is a willingness to wander, a camera (or smartphone), and a few euros for a boat ticket. The rest? Amsterdam will hand you its charm on a silver‑lined canal.

Ready to turn a layover into a love‑at‑first‑sight? Slip into the Canal Belt, and let the city’s watery veins carry you straight into the heart of Dutch culture—no extra days required.

Happy travels, and don’t forget to tag your canal photos with #OneDayAmsterdam so we can see your favourite moments!

What I learned about writing – Time is always your enemy

Time management, or not so much time management, is about setting a daily routine so a project can be completed.

…

It’s not so hard, really. After all, to build underground railways or any multi-billion-dollar project, they trot out a project management tool and plan it from start to finish.

For me, I use the simplistic method of planning a novel based on the fact that I’m trying to write 50,000 words a day for 30 days in November.

Yes, you guessed it – NANOWRIMO.

That’s 1,633 words a day, and that’s easy, isn’t it?.

Well, over time, I have managed to get the hang of writing a novel every November. I will admit that I
Start thinking about the process much earlier than just sitting down in November and starting to write.

The reason for that is that I tried the first time and, like any novel written from the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants method, you can only go so far before the ideas dry up and suddenly, with pressure mounting, writer’s block sets in.

I still don’t necessarily plan every detail, but I do have the start, which is usually a short story written in April as part of the A to Z month.

And in the period between April and November, a few more stories might appear, basically giving me a head start. So, despite the fact that I say I’m what they call a pantser, I really do some sort of planning before I tackle a novel.

Of course, that is not the only novel I write for the year; there is my series of books, long and short, The Cinema of my Dreams, and series like those involving Zoe the Assassin. They take longer, and a few years to write, in between everything else.

However, what works for me may not work for you. It’s just a starting point, and over time, you will find your groove.

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where, are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence. And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way, down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised, I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Others, people I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed, and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe, if he were, that he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.

…

If I only had one day to stop over in – Brussels – what would I do?

One‑Day Stopover in Brussels? Make It Unforgettable with a Visit to the Grand‑Place

If you’ve only got 24 hours between flights, there’s no better way to capture the heart of Belgium than to spend it in the city’s most iconic square – the Grand‑Place (Grote Markt). Here’s why this UNESCO‑listed masterpiece should be the sole stop on your whirlwind itinerary, and how to squeeze the most magic out of every minute.

Why the Grand‑Place is the Ultimate “One‑Place” Experience

What you’ll see	Why it matters
Stunning Baroque & Gothic façades – Town Hall, Maison du Roi, the guild houses	A visual history of Brussels from the 15th‑17th centuries, all in a compact, walkable space
UNESCO World Heritage status	Guarantees the square’s preservation and its global cultural significance
A living stage – street musicians, flower carpets (every two years), and seasonal markets	The square isn’t a museum; it’s a vibrant urban theatre that changes with the calendar
Gastronomic micro‑cosm – waffles, frites, Belgian chocolate, and world‑class cafés	You taste the nation without leaving the square’s perimeter
Perfect photo backdrop – golden hour light, night illumination	Instagram‑ready views that make every traveler’s feed pop

In short: the Grand‑Place condenses Brussels’ architecture, history, food, and atmosphere into a single, unforgettable patch of cobblestones.

How to Turn a Quick Layover into a Grand‑Place Day

Below is a step‑by‑step itinerary that assumes you arrive at Brussels Airport (BRU) in the morning and depart the following evening. Adjust the times to fit your flight schedule, but keep the core sequence: arrival → transit → Grand‑Place immersion → departure.

1. Get There Efficiently (30 min)

Mode	Details
Train (Eurostar/Thalys/IC)	Follow signs to the Airport‑Brussels train station (right outside the arrivals hall). A direct IC (InterCity) train whisks you to Brussels Central in 18 minutes (≈ 5 €).
Bus (STIB/MIVB line 12 or 21)	Slightly cheaper (≈ 3 €) but slower (≈ 30 min). Take the bus to Gare Centrale and you’re already at the doorstep of the Grand‑Place.
Taxi/Uber	20‑25 min, about 35‑45 €, useful if you have heavy luggage or a group.

Tip: Buy a STIB/MIVB “15‑hour ticket” (€7.50) for unlimited metro, tram, and bus rides. It’s a bargain even if you only use it for the airport hop.

2. First Glimpse – The Square at Dawn (15 min)

Arrive just before 9 am to avoid the midday crowds.
Grab a coffee and a fresh croissant from Le Pain Quotidien on the north side; the aroma of roasted beans mingles perfectly with the morning light on the Town Hall’s spire.

3. Guided Exploration (45 min)

Free self‑guided audio tour – download the “Brussels Grand‑Place” app (available in 12 languages).
Key highlights:
1. Town Hall – climb the 87‑step tower for a panoramic view (optional, 10 min).
2. Maison du Roi – the “King’s House” façade and its intricate stone carvings.
3. Guildhalls – each tells a story (the Brewers’, the Clothiers’, the Bakers’).
Quick fact: The square’s golden “pigeon‑hole” statues were added after the 1695 bombardment, symbolising Brussels’ resilience.

4. Savour the Flavours (60 min)

Food	Where to get it	Why it’s a must
Belgian Waffle (Liège style)	Maison Dandoy (corner of the square)	Caramelized sugar crystals, warm, perfect with a shot of espresso.
Frites with mayo	Friterie René (just a block away)	The legendary double‑fried potatoes—crispy outside, fluffy inside.
Chocolate tasting	Pierre Marcolini or Leonidas kiosks	Sample a praline while you stroll; chocolate is practically a national sport.
Beer in a historic tavern	Chez Léon (nearby) – try a Trappist dubbel	Brussels is the capital of beer; you can’t leave without a glass.

Pro tip: Order a “combo” (waffle + coffee + chocolate) for a budget‑friendly, all‑in‑one treat.

5. The “Extra” Touch – Nearby Gems (30 min)

If you still have a bit of time, dip just a few steps outside the square:

Galeries Royales Saint‑Hubert – a covered arcade with designer boutiques and a quick photo op beneath its glass dome.
Manneken Pis – the mischievous bronze boy (5‑minute walk). The statue’s daily costume changes are a quirky cultural footnote.
Mont des Arts – a short tram ride up a hill for a sweeping view of the city’s skyline, perfect for sunset shots.

6. Wrap‑Up and Return to the Airport (45 min)

Grab a final Belgian chocolate bar for the flight (the “Bombe” from Pierre Marcolini makes a luxurious gift).
Board the same train back to BRU—remember to validate your ticket before hopping on the platform.

Insider Hacks for a Seamless Grand‑Place Day

Hack	How it Helps
Pre‑download the “Brussels Card” app	Gives you a 10 % discount at most cafés and priority entry to the Town Hall tower.
Carry a small foldable umbrella	Even in summer, sudden showers are common; the square’s cafés offer shelter and a great people‑watching spot.
Speak a few French/Dutch words – “Bonjour / Goedemorgen” – locals appreciate the effort and may share hidden tips.
Leave your valuables in a hotel locker if you’re doing a multi‑day trip; the square can be a pick‑pocket hotspot during rush hour.
Check the event calendar – Flower Carpet (every two years in August) or Brussels Summer Festival (July) can turn your visit into a once‑in‑a‑lifetime spectacle.

Bottom Line: One Square, Endless Memories

A one‑day stopover can feel like a blur, but the Grand‑Place offers a concentrated dose of everything that makes Brussels legendary: architectural grandeur, culinary indulgence, historic ambience, and a buzzing, friendly atmosphere—all within a 10‑minute walk radius.

So, when the clock ticks down on your layover, skip the museum hops and head straight for the heart of Brussels. Let the cobblestones, the golden façades, and the scent of fresh waffles write the story of your Belgian intermission.

Pack your camera, bring an appetite, and let the Grand‑Place turn a fleeting stop into a lifelong memory.

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

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…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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