When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.
I’ve been on a few of those in my time.
And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.
For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.
Did I say ‘Iron Horse’? Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.
It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast
But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay. I’m sure it’s happened more than once.
Then…
Are you inclined to go?
A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.
An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?
There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation. Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.
But, you never know. Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.
Hang about. Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?
I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!
Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.
I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?
Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.
Right now.
I pick up the pen.
Character number one:
Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing. Still me, but with a twist. Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance. Yes, I like that.
We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.
He had a wife, which brings us to,
Character number two:
Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons. It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated. There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.
Character number three:
The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.
Oops, too much, that is my old boss. He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him. Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him. Last name Benton. He will play a small role in the story.
Character number four:
Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.
More on her later as the story unfolds.
So far so good.
What’s the plot?
Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers? No, that’s been done to death.
Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world. Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people. That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people! There will be guns, and there will be dead people.
There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around. That’s better.
Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.
All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.
Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work. He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks. The phone rings. Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down. He’s needed. A few terse words, but he relents.
An invitation that sounds so innocuous, doesn’t it?
As accomplished as we can be at putting words on paper, what is it that makes it so difficult to sit in a chair with a camera on you, and saying words rather than writing them?
Er and um seem to crop up a lot in verbal speech.
OK, it was a simple question; “What motivates you to write?”
Damn.
My brain just turned to mush, and the words come out sounding like a drunken sailor after a night out on the town.
The written answer to the question is simple; “The idea that someone will read what I have written, and quite possibly enjoy it; that is motivation enough.”
It highlights the difficulties of the novice author.
Not only are there the constant demands of creating a ‘brand’ and building a ‘following’, but there is also the need to market oneself, and the interview is one of the more effective ways of doing this.
If only I can settle the nerves.
I mean, really, it is only my granddaughter who is conducting the interview, and the questions are relatively simple.
The trouble is, I’ve never had to do it before, well, perhaps in an interview for a job, but that is less daunting. Those usually stick to a predefined format.
Here the narrative can go in any direction. There are set questions, but the interviewer, in her inimitable manner, can sometimes slide a question in out of left field.
For instance, “Your character Zoe the assassin, is she based on someone you know, or an amalgam of other characters you’ve read about or seen in movies?”
That was an interesting question, and one that has several answers, but the one most relevant was; “It was the secret alter ego of one of the women I used to work with. I asked her one day if she wasn’t doing what she was, what she would like to do. And, surprisingly, I thought she would have made an excellent assassin, the last person you would expect.”
Of course, the next question was about what I wanted to be in an alter ego.
From Quill to Cloud: Charting the Journey of Recording Our Stories
The spark ignites. Ideas, characters, narratives – they swirl and coalesce, demanding to be brought into the world. You feel it, don’t you? That undeniable urge to capture those fleeting thoughts, to anchor them before they drift away. But then comes the crucial question, the one that bridges the gap between conception and creation: How am I going to record the words?
It’s a question that has echoed through humanity for millennia. The words are in my head, a vibrant symphony waiting to be played. Now, the challenge lies in the translation, in finding the right instrument to faithfully transcribe that inner music.
Think about it. We live in an age of unparalleled recording technology. Our smartphones are pocket-sized supercomputers, capable of capturing high-definition video and crystal-clear audio with a tap. Laptops hum with powerful word processing software. Digital recorders offer dedicated tools for capturing spoken thoughts. The possibilities for recording our words are, quite frankly, astounding.
But before we delve into the digital marvels of today, let’s take a moment to appreciate the foundational methods, the very origins of how we’ve managed to preserve our stories. Let’s trace the path from the earliest whispers of recorded thought to the sophisticated tools we now wield.
The Dawn of Imprint: Paper and Quill
Imagine a time before keyboards, before even the hum of a printing press. Our ancestors, blessed with the gift of language, faced the daunting task of preserving their knowledge, their histories, their very souls. Their solution was as elegant as it was laborious: paper and quill.
Picture a scribe, hunched over a parchment, meticulously dipping a sharpened feather into a pot of ink. Each stroke was a deliberate act, each letter a testament to the enduring power of the written word. This was not just recording; it was an act of devotion. Stories of gods and heroes, laws and treaties, the everyday observations of life – all were etched into existence, painstakingly, one word at a time.
The transition to a pen offered a slight improvement – perhaps faster, more consistent lines – but the core principle remained. The direct, physical connection between thought, hand, and surface was the primary means of saving our stories. These weren’t just documents; they were tangible artifacts, imbued with the effort and intention of their creators.
The Mechanical Muse: The Typewriter’s Revolution
Then came a mechanical marvel that truly shook things up: the typewriter. Suddenly, the speed and legibility of writing were amplified. The satisfying clatter of keys, the sharp ding of the carriage return – these became the soundtrack to a new era of writing. Authors could produce more text, faster, and with a clarity that made their words more accessible. The typewriter democratized the written word to an extent, making it easier for more people to express themselves in a lasting form.
The Digital Leap: Computers and Beyond
And then, the world changed irrevocably with the advent of the computer. What began as clunky behemoths capable of complex calculations evolved into the sleek, powerful devices we know today. Suddenly, recording our words became a fluid, dynamic process.
Word processors offered infinite room for revision, deletion, and rearrangement – a far cry from the indelible nature of ink on paper. The ability to save, copy, and share documents became instantaneous. The internet opened up global platforms for dissemination, allowing our stories to reach audiences we could only have dreamed of previously.
Beyond text, the digital age introduced a whole new dimension: the ability to record the spoken word directly. Microphones, built into our devices or available as standalone tools, allow us to capture the nuance and emotion of our voices. This opened doors for podcasters, audiobook narrators, oral historians, and anyone who simply wants to preserve their thoughts without the intermediary of typing.
The Enduring Quest
So, as you stand with your ideas buzzing, your words forming, the question of “how” remains. Will you embrace the tactile satisfaction of pen on paper, a nod to tradition? Will you find efficiency in the clatter of a keyboard, a testament to mechanical progress? Or will you harness the power of digital tools, with their boundless potential for creation and dissemination?
The method you choose will shape not only how your words are recorded but also how they are perceived. Each tool carries its own history, its own character. What matters most, however, is the act of recording itself. It is the commitment to giving your thoughts permanence, to sharing your unique perspective, to adding your voice to the grand, unfolding tapestry of human stories.
The journey from quill to cloud is a testament to our innate drive to communicate, to connect, and to leave a mark. So, which instrument will you choose to play your next word-song?
The Fear You Feel When You Write, It’s Normal: Embracing the Wisdom of Marguerite Duras
Every writer knows the moment.
The cursor blinks relentlessly on a blank, stark-white screen. The room is quiet, perhaps too quiet. Your chest tightens, a familiar knot twists in your stomach, and a voice whispers: This is terrible. Who do you think you are? You have nothing to say.
If you have ever felt this paralysing wave of anxiety before putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), take a deep breath. You are not failing as a writer; you are simply doing the work.
As the legendary French novelist and filmmaker Marguerite Duras famously observed, the fear you feel when you write is not a sign to stop. It is normal.
Let’s unpack this profound truth and explore why fear is actually the secret companion of every great writer.
Who Was Marguerite Duras and Why Did She Understand Writing’s Terror?
Marguerite Duras was a literary force of nature. Best known for her autobiographical novel The Lover (which won the prestigious Prix Goncourt), Duras wrote with a raw, uncompromising intensity that cut straight to the human soul. She didn’t write polite stories; she wrote about obsession, desire, memory, and the dark corners of the human psyche.
Because she mined such deep, vulnerable territory, Duras understood the cost of creation. She knew that to write authentically, one must court vulnerability. And vulnerability is terrifying.
Duras famously spoke about the solitude and the terror of the writing life. She suggested that writing is not a gentle hobby or a neat profession; it is an expedition into the unknown. When you sit down to write, you are venturing into a territory that does not yet exist, dragging ideas out of the ether and forcing them into reality. Of course it’s scary.
Why Does Writing Actually Scare Us?
If we want to overcome writing anxiety, we first have to understand its roots. Why does a harmless activity like arranging words on a page trigger a fight-or-flight response?
1. The Gap Between Taste and Talent
As Ira Glass famously noted, beginners (and even seasoned pros) suffer from a cruel paradox: our taste is refined enough to know when something isn’t working, but our execution often falls short of our vision. That gap—between the masterpiece in your head and the messy draft on your screen—is where fear lives.
2. The Fear of Exposure
Writing is an act of self-revelation. Even in fiction or copywriting, your worldview, your obsessions, and your fears bleed onto the page. To share your writing with the world is to stand naked in public. What if they judge you? What if they misunderstand you? What if they simply don’t care?
3. Confronting the Unknown
Unlike math or accounting, writing doesn’t have a definitive formula. When you start a piece, you rarely know exactly where it will end. You are stepping into a fog, trusting that the path will appear as you walk it. The human brain hates uncertainty, and it interprets that blank page as a survival threat.
How to Make Friends with Your Writing Fear
If fear is a normal, permanent resident of the writer’s house, how do we coexist with it? How do we write through the terror instead of running away from it?
1. Stop Waiting to Feel Confident
Many aspiring writers make the fatal mistake of waiting for the fear to go away before they start writing. They wait for inspiration, for the “right mood,” or for unshakeable confidence.
It never comes.
Professional writers don’t feel less fear than amateurs; they simply’ve learned to act in spite of it. As Duras understood, the fear is part of the process. Expect it. Greet it when you sit down at your desk: Ah, hello anxiety, I see you’re here. Let’s write anyway.
2. Lower the Stakes (Lower the Bar)
Perfectionism is fear in a fancy tuxedo. We get terrified because we put immense pressure on every single sentence to be brilliant.
Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary humorist James Thurber put it: “Don’t get it right, get it written.” Your first draft is merely you telling the story to yourself. No one else has to see the mess.
3. Lean Into the Discomfort
If you feel a little sick to your stomach or nervous about a passage you are writing, pay attention. That discomfort is often a compass pointing directly toward truth. If a sentence makes you squirm, it usually means you’re touching on something real, raw, and powerful. Lean into it.
The Ultimate Takeaway
Writing is an act of courage. Every time you face the blank page and refuse to look away, you are engaging in a brave act of creation.
The next time that familiar knot forms in your stomach, remember the words and the spirit of Marguerite Duras. Remind yourself that the fear doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong; it means you’re doing it right. It means you care. It means you are treading on sacred, uncharted ground.
So, feel the fear. Acknowledge it. And then, open your document and type that first sentence anyway.
Are you struggling with writer’s block or creative fear? How do you push past the blank page anxiety? Let’s discuss in the comments below!
Rabat’s Secret Side: 5 Distinctive Attractions to Escape the Crowds
When you think of Rabat, Morocco’s elegant capital, images of the iconic blue-and-white walls of the Kasbah of the Udayas or the grand silhouette of the Hassan Tower likely come to mind. And for good reason—they’re breathtaking.
But the true magic of a city often lies just beyond the postcard-perfect sights. It’s found in the quiet corners, the local haunts, and the places where the city’s pulse beats a little softer. If you’re yearning to experience the distinctive soul of Rabat without the jostle of tour groups, you’re in for a treat.
Here are five remarkable, uncrowded attractions that will show you a completely different side of this imperial city.
1. The Ancient Whispers of Chellah Necropolis
What it is: A serene, sprawling archaeological site on the outskirts of the city that feels like a world away. Chellah is a captivating fusion of history, built upon the ruins of an ancient Roman town and later transformed into a fortified medieval necropolis.
Why it’s distinctive: This isn’t just one ruin; it’s a layered tapestry of time. You can walk along ancient Roman roads, touch the weathered stones of a forum, and then explore the hauntingly beautiful ruins of a 14th-century Islamic mosque with its elegant minaret. The real stars of the show, however, are the storks. Large stork nests perch precariously atop the ruins, and their constant clacking fills the air with a wild, primitive soundtrack you won’t find anywhere else.
Why it’s not crowded: Its location, a short walk or taxi ride from the main medina, naturally filters out the casual tourist. The sheer size of the site means that even on a busy day, you can easily find a quiet corner to yourself.
Pro Tip: Visit in the late afternoon. The golden hour light casts a magical glow on the stone, and the sighing of the wind through the cypress trees makes the whole place feel truly bewitching.
2. The Botanical Wonderland: Exotic Gardens of Bouknadel
What it is: A breathtaking 17-acre botanical garden nestled between Rabat and Salé, designed in the 1950s by French landscape architect Jean-Claude Nicolas Forestier.
Why it’s distinctive: This is more than just a garden; it’s a masterclass in design. A labyrinth of paths winds through distinct zones, from an Islamic-style garden with a reflective pool to a cactus-studded desert landscape and a lush, palm-filled jungle. The garden is famous for its “Grotto Café,” a cool, subterranean restaurant built into a cave—a perfect spot for a mint tea break. It’s a tranquil, beautifully curated escape.
Why it’s not crowded: It requires a dedicated trip, so it’s often missed by those on a tight schedule. It’s a beloved spot for locals but rarely, if ever, overrun with tourists.
Pro Tip: Take your time. Don’t just look for the plants; listen for the birds. The garden is an important bird sanctuary, so bring a little patience, and you might be rewarded with some wonderful sightings.
3. An Architectural Marvel: The National Library of the Kingdom of Morocco
What it is: A stunningly modern structure that stands in stark, beautiful contrast to Rabat’s ancient history. The new building, opened in 2022, is a cultural landmark and a haven of tranquillity.
Why it’s distinctive: The architecture itself is the main event. A series of hexagonal modules create a visually striking facade inspired by traditional Moroccan geometric patterns (zellij). Inside, you’ll find a vast, light-filled reading room that feels like a cathedral of books. It’s a place where Morocco’s rich literary heritage meets cutting-edge design. You don’t need to be a researcher to appreciate the sense of peace and intellectual energy.
Why it’s not crowded: For a tourist, a library is an unconventional choice. You’ll share the space mostly with students and locals, making for an authentically peaceful and modern Moroccan experience.
Pro Tip: You can enter the public areas to admire the architecture. Check their website for visitor access policies, and be sure to walk up to the upper levels for the best view of the main reading hall.
4. A Timeless View from the Moorish Café (Café Maure)
What it is: A simple, historic café perched on a cliffside overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and the mouth of the Bou Regreg river. It has been serving tea and coffee since the early 20th century.
Why it’s distinctive: This is an experience, not just a beverage. The café offers what is arguably the single best panoramic view in Rabat. From its terrace, you can see the kasbah, the ocean, the Hassan Tower, and the city of Salé. The interior is a time capsule, with worn wooden benches and tables, and the air is thick with the scent of mint and history. The sound of crashing waves and the call to prayer drifting across the river is unforgettable.
Why it’s not crowded: While it’s well-known to residents, its simplicity deters the large tour bus crowds. It’s a place for lingering with a book or a friend, not for a quick photo stop.
Pro Tip: Go in the late afternoon and order a thé à la menthe (mint tea). There’s nothing quite like sipping the sweet, steaming tea while watching the sun dip towards the horizon.
5. The Treasure Trove: The Archaeological Museum
What it is: A compact, beautifully curated museum that houses some of Morocco’s most important archaeological finds.
Why it’s distinctive: While many museums attempt to do everything, this one has a focused, world-class collection. Its crown jewels are the incredible bronze artifacts from the Roman site of Volubilis, including a stunning portrait of Cato the Younger. The displays are excellent, providing a deep dive into the pre-Islamic cultures—from prehistoric to Roman—that shaped this land. It’s a quiet, scholarly space that tells a fascinating story often overlooked in the bustling medinas.
Why it’s not crowded: Let’s be honest: most tourists come for the souks and the sights, not the museums. This means you can often have entire rooms to yourself, allowing you to appreciate the incredible artifacts without distraction.
Pro Tip: The museum is right next to the Andalusian Gardens. Visit the gardens early when they’re quietest, and then escape into the cool, calm halls of the museum to escape the midday sun.
Ready to Discover Rabat’s Soul?
Rabat rewards the curious traveller. By stepping just a little off the main path, you’ll find a city of serene gardens, ancient echoes, and modern marvels. These five spots are just a starting point—a key to a quieter, more personal Moroccan experience.
Have you been to Rabat and discovered a hidden gem of your own? Share it in the comments below! We’d love to hear your secret spots.
It would be very interesting if duelling was still allowed. There are a few people I’d like to stand toe to toe with, take ten paces, and then test my ability to shoot with an old-style flint duelling pistol.
What’s this got to do with anything?
It’s where our word of the day comes in. If I lose my nerve, or I know my opposite number is a better shot, my second would have to stand in my place.
It’s, if anything, an older use of the word.
Of course, it mainly means, on one hand, coming second in a race or a competition, not exactly the place you really want to be, simply because no one really remembers who came second.
It plays host to a plethora of statements using second as part of the saying, such as,
Second rate, second hand, even if it had more than one owner, second best.
But then there’s a few more that mean something else like a second look, mainly because you didn’t trust your eyes, second nature, it’s been drilled into you (a rather painful idiom if it truly was) and second sight, though this might not necessarily be a verifiable attribute.
And, of lesser note, I’m not necessarily sure I’m second to none.
On the other hand, and pardon the pun using this definition, it also describes a length of time, very short in fact, and it takes 60 of them to make a minute.
Hang on, it’ll only take a second. Yes, we often use the word in vain. I doubt there is any one of us who could do anything useful in a second.
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 that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that 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. Other 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 that if he were, 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 it. “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 that 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.”
Nairobi’s Hidden Gems: 5 Incredible Attractions Without the Crowds
When you think of Nairobi, the mind often leaps to the iconic sights: the silhouettes of giraffes at the Giraffe Centre, the heart-warming sight of orphaned elephants at the Sheldrick Trust, or the breathtaking skyline viewed from a safari in Nairobi National Park.
And for good reason—these are world-class attractions. But they are also, well, popular. If you’re looking to swap the bustling queues for a more intimate, unique, and equally memorable experience, you’re in luck. Nairobi is a city of layers, and just beneath the surface of the main tourist trail lies a treasure trove of hidden gems.
Here are the top five visitor attractions in Nairobi that are rarely crowded but burst with distinctive character and unforgettable stories.
1. The Kenya National Archives: A Treasure Trove of Culture and History
Tucked away in a grand building right in the heart of the city’s central business district, the Kenya National Archives is one of Nairobi’s most-underestimated attractions. While the ground floor is a bustling hive of document services, head upstairs and step into another world.
What Makes It Distinctive: The second floor houses the incredible Murumbi African Heritage Collection. This is a jaw-dropping assortment of artifacts, ethnographic material, books, and art collected by Kenya’s second Vice President, Joseph Murumbi, and his wife, Sheila. From ancient tribal jewelry and textiles to intricate masks and powerful contemporary art, it’s a comprehensive and beautifully curated journey through the art and culture of Kenya and beyond.
Why It’s Not Crowded: Most tourists walk right past it, assuming it’s just a place for official records. It’s a serene, air-conditioned escape from the city heat where you can spend hours lost in the exhibits, often sharing the space with just a handful of local students.
Pro-Tip: Give yourself at least two hours. Don’t miss the stunning collection of African postage stamps or the powerful portraits in the art gallery. The entrance fee is a bargain for the sheer volume of world-class history on display.
2. The Nairobi Railway Museum: A Journey to the City’s Birth
Ever wondered why Nairobi exists in the first place? The answer lies on the tracks. The Nairobi Railway Museum, located right next to the main railway station, is a charming and nostalgic ode to the “Lunatic Express,” the railway line that gave birth to the city.
What Makes It Distinctive: This museum is an open-air gallery of majestic, rusting giants. You can climb aboard historic steam and diesel locomotives, explore royal carriages (including one used for Queen Elizabeth’s visit!), and delve into the fascinating, and often dramatic, history of the railway’s construction. It’s a tangible link to a bygone era of colonial ambition, engineering marvels, and the man-eating lions of Tsavo.
Why It’s Not Crowded: In a city obsessed with wildlife, the history of a railway is often overlooked. It feels like a well-kept secret, offering a peaceful and fascinating stroll through the very machines that shaped the nation.
Pro-Tip: Hire one of the on-site guides. Their personal stories and detailed knowledge bring the old engines and carriages to life in a way that plaques never could. On weekdays, you might even see modern trains rolling past, creating a surreal contrast between past and present.
3. Kazuri Beads Factory: Where Art and Empowerment Meet
For a truly special souvenir and a feel-good experience, leave the city centre and head to the leafy suburb of Karen for a visit to the Kazuri Beads Factory. “Kazuri” means “small and beautiful” in Swahili, and that perfectly describes the handcrafted ceramic beads and pottery made here.
What Makes It Distinctive: This isn’t just a shop; it’s a working factory with a powerful social mission. Kazuri employs over 300 single mothers, providing them with a sustainable livelihood and healthcare. You can take a free tour to see the entire process—from the kiln firing to the meticulous hand-painting—and chat with the talented artisans. It’s a vibrant, colourful, and inspiring place that supports local Kenyan women directly.
Why It’s Not Crowded: It’s slightly off the beaten path compared to the Karen Blixen Museum down the road. Tour groups tend to rush in and out, leaving plenty of space for independent travellers to browse at their own pace without feeling pressured.
Pro-Tip: Go in the morning to see the factory buzzing with activity. The “seconds” section, where you can buy slightly imperfect pieces at a huge discount, is fantastic for finding unique treasures.
4. The Ngong Hills: Nairobi’s Iconic Escape
While the Nairobi National Park offers a safari on the city’s doorstep, the Ngong Hills offer a spectacular escape above it. These iconic, four-ridged peaks are the rolling, green giants immortalised in Karen Blixen’s “Out of Africa.”
What Makes It Distinctive: The views are, simply put, epic. On a clear day, you can see the entire Nairobi skyline to the north and the vast expanse of the Great Rift Valley to the west. A hike along the ridges is a fantastic way to get some exercise, feel the wind on your face, and appreciate the natural beauty that frames the city. It’s a spiritual and rejuvenating experience.
Why It’s Not Crowded: While it gets busy with local hikers and picnickers on weekends, you’ll rarely find international tour buses here. Go on a weekday, and you might have large sections of the trail entirely to yourself, with only the sound of the wind for company.
Pro-Tip: Start early in the morning to avoid the midday sun. It’s an exposed hike, so bring plenty of water, a hat, and sunscreen. You don’t need a guide for the main trail, but hiring one from the local community at the entrance gate can provide fascinating insights and support the local economy.
5. Olorgesailie Prehistoric Site: A Glimpse into Human Origins
For the ultimate off-the-beaten-path adventure, take a day trip south of the city to Olorgesailie. This is not your average tourist attraction; it’s a world-class, paleoanthropological site and a UNESCO World Heritage contender.
What Makes It Distinctive: This dry, dusty basin was once a lakeside prehistoric camp. The ground is literally littered with fossilised bones and, most astoundingly, hundreds of hand-axe tools created by early human ancestors (Homo erectus) over a million years ago. The small, excellent museum and guided walk take you through the incredible discoveries made here, offering a mind-bending perspective on the deep history of humanity in the very place it unfolded.
Why It’s Not Crowded: It’s a drive (about 90 minutes from Nairobi) and requires a dedicated trip. This geological and historical marvel is simply too remote and niche for the standard tourist itinerary, making it one of the most peaceful and profound places you can visit in the region.
Pro-Tip: A 4×4 vehicle is recommended, especially after rain. Combine the trip with a visit to Lake Magadi, a spectacular soda lake often tinged pink with flamingos. Pack a picnic and make a full day of it—the journey is as spectacular as the destination.
So next time you find yourself in Nairobi, I urge you to venture beyond the well-trodden path. Ditch the crowds for a morning at the Railway Museum, find your cultural bearings at the National Archives, and discover that the city’s most distinctive features are often its quietest. Happy travels
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’.
The Fear You Feel When You Write, It’s Normal: Embracing the Wisdom of Marguerite Duras
Every writer knows the moment.
The cursor blinks relentlessly on a blank, stark-white screen. The room is quiet, perhaps too quiet. Your chest tightens, a familiar knot twists in your stomach, and a voice whispers: This is terrible. Who do you think you are? You have nothing to say.
If you have ever felt this paralysing wave of anxiety before putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), take a deep breath. You are not failing as a writer; you are simply doing the work.
As the legendary French novelist and filmmaker Marguerite Duras famously observed, the fear you feel when you write is not a sign to stop. It is normal.
Let’s unpack this profound truth and explore why fear is actually the secret companion of every great writer.
Who Was Marguerite Duras and Why Did She Understand Writing’s Terror?
Marguerite Duras was a literary force of nature. Best known for her autobiographical novel The Lover (which won the prestigious Prix Goncourt), Duras wrote with a raw, uncompromising intensity that cut straight to the human soul. She didn’t write polite stories; she wrote about obsession, desire, memory, and the dark corners of the human psyche.
Because she mined such deep, vulnerable territory, Duras understood the cost of creation. She knew that to write authentically, one must court vulnerability. And vulnerability is terrifying.
Duras famously spoke about the solitude and the terror of the writing life. She suggested that writing is not a gentle hobby or a neat profession; it is an expedition into the unknown. When you sit down to write, you are venturing into a territory that does not yet exist, dragging ideas out of the ether and forcing them into reality. Of course it’s scary.
Why Does Writing Actually Scare Us?
If we want to overcome writing anxiety, we first have to understand its roots. Why does a harmless activity like arranging words on a page trigger a fight-or-flight response?
1. The Gap Between Taste and Talent
As Ira Glass famously noted, beginners (and even seasoned pros) suffer from a cruel paradox: our taste is refined enough to know when something isn’t working, but our execution often falls short of our vision. That gap—between the masterpiece in your head and the messy draft on your screen—is where fear lives.
2. The Fear of Exposure
Writing is an act of self-revelation. Even in fiction or copywriting, your worldview, your obsessions, and your fears bleed onto the page. To share your writing with the world is to stand naked in public. What if they judge you? What if they misunderstand you? What if they simply don’t care?
3. Confronting the Unknown
Unlike math or accounting, writing doesn’t have a definitive formula. When you start a piece, you rarely know exactly where it will end. You are stepping into a fog, trusting that the path will appear as you walk it. The human brain hates uncertainty, and it interprets that blank page as a survival threat.
How to Make Friends with Your Writing Fear
If fear is a normal, permanent resident of the writer’s house, how do we coexist with it? How do we write through the terror instead of running away from it?
1. Stop Waiting to Feel Confident
Many aspiring writers make the fatal mistake of waiting for the fear to go away before they start writing. They wait for inspiration, for the “right mood,” or for unshakeable confidence.
It never comes.
Professional writers don’t feel less fear than amateurs; they simply’ve learned to act in spite of it. As Duras understood, the fear is part of the process. Expect it. Greet it when you sit down at your desk: Ah, hello anxiety, I see you’re here. Let’s write anyway.
2. Lower the Stakes (Lower the Bar)
Perfectionism is fear in a fancy tuxedo. We get terrified because we put immense pressure on every single sentence to be brilliant.
Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary humorist James Thurber put it: “Don’t get it right, get it written.” Your first draft is merely you telling the story to yourself. No one else has to see the mess.
3. Lean Into the Discomfort
If you feel a little sick to your stomach or nervous about a passage you are writing, pay attention. That discomfort is often a compass pointing directly toward truth. If a sentence makes you squirm, it usually means you’re touching on something real, raw, and powerful. Lean into it.
The Ultimate Takeaway
Writing is an act of courage. Every time you face the blank page and refuse to look away, you are engaging in a brave act of creation.
The next time that familiar knot forms in your stomach, remember the words and the spirit of Marguerite Duras. Remind yourself that the fear doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong; it means you’re doing it right. It means you care. It means you are treading on sacred, uncharted ground.
So, feel the fear. Acknowledge it. And then, open your document and type that first sentence anyway.
Are you struggling with writer’s block or creative fear? How do you push past the blank page anxiety? Let’s discuss in the comments below!
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 