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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.

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.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 25

This is an old chateau at the foot of a skiing area on the north island of New Zealand. It was once predominately advertised as a guest house for hikers in the summer months.

chateautongoriro

However, with fertile imaginations, we can come up with a whole different scenario.

Like, for instance, a haunted house, owned by an old and some might say creepy family, a place where few are invited, and those that are, approach the front door with trepidation.

It could be the family estate, the sort of place grandparents live, and their children consider themselves lucky to have escaped and their children, in turn, hate going there.

Of course, the opposite to that is that everyone loves going there for the holidays when the whole family gets together.

Then, a murder occurs…

It might also be a hotel in an unusual backdrop, where fugitives come to hide, or just one person from the city, trying to get away from a bad partner, or someone working there seeking a fresh start.

The truth is, there are any number of possibilities.

What I Learned about writing – That our education does not define us

It’s the early hours of the morning here, and I’m feeling philosophical, instead of being sleepy and going to bed.

It’s probably the problem most writers face when working on a novel, short story, blog post, or other writing project.

The other day, a thought ran through my mind: whether my first school was still standing and, if so, would it remember me?

Probably not.  I went there in 1958, I think, when I was five.  I stayed there till I finished Grade six and then moved on to secondary school.

In those days, we could stay at secondary school till Form four and then, if we were 15 or over, we could leave.  I went to a technical school, i.e. one that taught a trade, rather than going to a High School, which was for the more academically minded and who would go on to University.

But in my day, you had to have rich parents to get into a University, and we were decidedly poor.  It was a technical trade for me, and becoming a builder was to be my lot in life.

I wasn’t very good and sheet metal, the precursor to plumbing, or machine shop practice, the forerunner to being a mechanic, or technical drawing, the forerunner to being a draughtsman

I could have just as easily been a farmer or gardener; it too was on the curriculum.

Where is this going?

Oh, yes.  My old primary school.  Yes, it’s still there, and it still looks like the gothic nightmare it used to be.  Gothic or not, I guess those years in that school were good, and I don’t seem to have any bad memories, except. of course, of the teachers, but that’s only natural.

secondary school, that was a nightmare, so different, and much like going to university, with different classes, different teachers, different rooms, and a lot of other kids who were older, larger, meaner, and made the navigation of early teens an annabilus horribilis four times over.

So the question did my education define me?

No.  I was a builder for a while, but my aspirations led me towards office work, the sort where you start at the bottom and languish there till you’re noticed.

Failing that, you work for a relative, then get headhunted, watch that opportunity slip away, and become an IT teacher who leads to computer programming.

But, as they say, always have a backup plan.

Yep!  Writing.  Been doing it since I was fifteen.

Now, those years I was at school have provided me with a diverse collection of people who have become characters in my stories, and I’m still waiting for the knock on the door from the process server to tell me one of them finally recognised him or herself and didn’t like my impression of them.

Hasn’t happened yet.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 289

Day 289 – Don’t clean up your writing space

…

Stop Cleaning Your Desk: Why Creative Chaos is the Secret to Better Writing

You sit down at your desk, coffee in hand, ready to tackle that chapter, blog post, or screenplay. You open the document, stare at the blank white screen, and take a deep breath.

Then, you notice it.

The empty mug from yesterday. The tower of reference books stacked precariously. The stray sticky notes, the receipt from the dry cleaner, and the tangled charging cables.

“I just can’t work in this mess,” you tell yourself. “I need a clean slate to get a clean mind.”

So, you stand up. You wipe down the surface. You file the papers, wash the mug, and organise your pens by colour. Forty-five minutes later, your desk looks like a minimalist furniture showroom. It’s pristine. It’s organized.

And your energy is completely gone. You’ve used up your daily quota of willpower on housekeeping, leaving you with nothing left for the actual writing.

Sound familiar? If so, it’s time for a hard truth: Cleaning your writing space isn’t productivity. It’s procrastination in disguise.

And even worse? By sanitising your environment, you might actually be scrubbing away your creativity.

The Comfort Trap of the “Clean Slate”

Let’s be honest about why we clean. Writing is terrifying. Staring down the barrel of a blank page requires vulnerability, brainpower, and emotional endurance. Our brains are hardwired to seek comfort and avoid discomfort.

Tidying up offers an irresistible dopamine hit. It’s a low-stakes task with an immediate reward. You move a stack of papers three inches to the left, and boom—instant gratification. You feel productive without having faced the agonizing friction of generating original thought.

Cleaning before writing is the ultimate safety blanket. It allows us to feel like we are “working on our project” without actually having to put a single difficult word on the page.

Why Chaos Breeds Creativity

We have been conditioned by modern minimalism, productivity influencers, and stock photos of white-desk setups to believe that an immaculate workspace equals an immaculate mind.

Psychological research, however, tells a different story.

In a famous study conducted by psychological scientist Kathleen Vohs at the University of Minnesota, participants placed in a messy room generated significantly more creative ideas and came up with more innovative uses for everyday objects than those in a clean room.

Vohs concluded that while a clean environment encourages rule-following and safe choices (great for accounting or compliance), disorder breaks free of tradition and inspires fresh insights.

When your desk is a bit messy, it reflects the messy nature of the creative process itself. Writing isn’t linear. It’s a chaotic journey of dead ends, sudden breakthroughs, half-baked ideas, and wild tangents. Trying to force that chaotic internal landscape into a hyper-sterile, hyper-organised external environment creates cognitive dissonance.

Out of the physical chaos on your desk often comes the very words you hoped you could write. Those scattered notes, dog-eared pages, and random reminders are visual cues of your intellectual momentum.

The Danger of the Pristine Workspace

Have you ever noticed how intimidating a brand-new, completely blank notebook is? The first stroke of a pen feels like a sacrilege. You don’t want to ruin the perfection of the empty page.

A spotless, minimalist desk does the exact same thing to your psyche. It demands perfection. It says, “You are sitting in a temple of productivity; your work had better be immaculate.” That kind of pressure is paralyzing.

A messy desk, on the other hand, is forgiving. It lowers the stakes. It whispers, “It’s okay to be messy here. Just start.”

When your environment is relaxed and slightly disordered, you give yourself permission to write badly—which is the absolute prerequisite for writing well. You can’t edit a blank page, and you certainly can’t write freely if you’re worried about keeping your workspace looking like an Architectural Digest.

How to Embrace the Creative Mess (Without Living in a Landfill)

Of course, there is a fine line between a productive, creative workspace and a biohazard. If you can’t find your keyboard under last week’s takeout boxes, it might be time for a reset.

The key is knowing when and why you are cleaning.

  • Clean after the session, not before: Make it a rule that you cannot tidy up until you have hit your daily word count. Use the mess as fuel while you write, and use the cleanup as a celebratory wind-down ritual after the work is safely saved on your hard drive.
  • Recognize the urge for what it is: The next time you find yourself aggressively reorganising your desktop folders or wiping down your monitor while the cursor blinks mockingly at you, stop. Acknowledge that you are running away from the writing. Take a deep breath, sit down in the chaos, and write just one sentence.
  • Give yourself permission to be messy: Let go of the societal pressure to have an aesthetically pleasing writing setup. Your readers don’t care if your desk looks like a hurricane hit a stationery store; they only care about the story, the insight, or the emotion you leave on the page.

Give Yourself Permission to Create

Writing is an act of courage. It requires diving headfirst into the unknown and wrestling your thoughts into existence. That process is inherently untidy.

So, stop apologising for the clutter. Stop weaponising organisation against your own productivity. Leave the dishes in the sink, let the papers stack up, and sit down in the glorious, messy reality of your creative life.

Out of that chaos, your best words are waiting to be written.

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Riga

Beyond the Crowds: Riga’s Top 5 Distinctive & Unforgettable Hidden Gems

Riga. The name itself conjures images of cobblestone streets, vibrant Art Nouveau facades, and the bustling energy of its UNESCO-listed Old Town. And while these iconic sights are undoubtedly charming, sometimes the most profound travel experiences are found just a little off the well-trodden path.

For the discerning traveller who yearns for authenticity without the elbow-to-elbow crowds, who seeks distinctive features and stories that resonate long after the trip is over, Riga holds a treasure trove of quieter wonders. So, put down that mainstream guide and join me on a journey to uncover five visitor attractions in Riga that promise unique character and peaceful exploration.

1. The Zanis Lipke Memorial: A Testament to Humanity

More than just a museum, the Zanis Lipke Memorial is a profound architectural and emotional experience. Hidden away on Ķīpsala island, this striking black tarred wooden structure resembles an inverted Noah’s Ark, built directly over the secret bunker where Zanis Lipke, a dockworker, hid and saved over 50 Jews from the Holocaust during WWII.

Distinctive Features: The building itself is an architectural marvel – stark, symbolic, and deeply moving. Inside, a narrow, dark passage leads down into the actual bunker, immersing you in the chilling reality of those hidden. The design perfectly complements the powerful story of courage and sacrifice, creating a space for quiet introspection and remembrance. It’s rarely crowded, allowing you to absorb its sombre beauty and the incredible human spirit it honours at your own pace.

2. The Latvian Ethnographic Open-Air Museum: A Walk Through Time

Escape the city entirely and step into rural Latvia from centuries past at the Latvian Ethnographic Open-Air Museum. Sprawling across a vast, picturesque forest on the shores of Lake Jugla, this is one of Europe’s largest open-air museums. It features nearly 120 traditional Latvian buildings – farmsteads, churches, windmills, and fishing villages – painstakingly moved from various regions of Latvia and reconstructed here.

Distinctive Features: Each building tells a story, showcasing the lifestyle, crafts, and traditions of Latvian peasants, fishermen, and artisans from the 17th to the 20th centuries. You can wander through authentic homes, see traditional tools, and often witness artisans demonstrating ancient crafts. Due to its sheer size and slightly out-of-the-way location (easily reachable by bus), it rarely feels crowded, offering ample space to stroll, reflect, and enjoy the tranquil natural surroundings. It’s a living history book under the open sky.

3. Kalnciema Quarter: Wooden Architecture & Bohemian Vibes

While parts of Riga are famous for Art Nouveau, the Kalnciema Quarter offers a different, equally captivating architectural experience: beautifully restored wooden buildings. This charming neighbourhood, a bit west of the Old Town, is a vibrant cultural hub, especially on weekends.

Distinctive Features: The cluster of meticulously renovated 19th-century wooden houses, each with intricate carvings and pastel hues, creates an almost fairytale-like atmosphere. Beyond the architecture, the quarter hosts organic food and craft markets, open-air concerts, art exhibitions, and pop-up cafes – all within a relaxed, community-focused setting. While market days bring a lively buzz, it’s a far cry from the tourist throngs, offering a genuine glimpse into Riga’s modern bohemian culture against a stunning historical backdrop.

4. The Corner House (KGB Museum): A Chilling Echo of the Past

For a powerful and sobering experience, visit “The Corner House” (Stūra Māja), the former headquarters of the Soviet KGB in Latvia. This imposing building, now a museum, is a stark reminder of Latvia’s turbulent 20th century.

Distinctive Features: A visit here is not just about exhibits; it’s about walking through history. You can explore the original cells, interrogation rooms, the former waiting rooms, and the chilling exercise yard. The atmosphere is sombre and reflective, offering a raw and unfiltered look at the methods and impact of the Soviet regime. While popular, the nature of the visit (often guided tours through specific areas) means it rarely feels overwhelmingly crowded, allowing for a deeply personal engagement with this poignant piece of history.

5. Miera Iela & The Great Cemetery: Artisanal Charm Meets Serene History

Combine two distinctive, less-trafficked experiences by exploring Miera Iela (Peace Street) and its adjacent Great Cemetery. Miera Iela has earned the nickname “hipster street” for its collection of independent cafes, artisan boutiques, small art galleries, and vintage shops.

Distinctive Features: Miera Iela offers a refreshing contrast to the Old Town, showcasing Riga’s contemporary, creative pulse. Stroll, grab a coffee, browse unique items. Just a stone’s throw away, you’ll find the Great Cemetery (Lielie Kapi). Far from morbid, this historic cemetery is a sprawling, peaceful park adorned with magnificent sculptures, grand mausoleums, and ancient trees. It’s a place of quiet beauty and historical significance, where many notable Latvians are laid to rest, and where you can enjoy a serene walk amidst stunning funerary art and natural tranquillity, almost always in solitude.

Riga is a city that keeps on giving, especially when you’re willing to venture slightly off the beaten path. These five distinctive attractions offer not just sights, but stories, emotions, and a deeper connection to the heart of Latvia, all within the tranquil embrace of fewer crowds.

Have you visited any of these hidden gems in Riga, or found other distinctive, uncrowded spots? Share your experiences in the comments below!

In a word: Port

So, I wonder if it’s true, any port in a storm, except perhaps Marseilles.

Or, if you are a lothario-type sailor, you would have a girl in every port.

Yes, the most common definition of a port is a place where ships dock.

And, while talking of ships we don’t call the sides left and right, we call them port and starboard.  Just in case you didn’t know, port is on the left side of the ship when facing forward.

And of course, ships have portholes, i.e. windows, traditionally round and rather small.

It could be an alcoholic drink, imbibed mostly after dinner with coffee and cigars, though no one seems to smoke cigars anymore.

There is still coffee, for now.  No doubt sometime in the future someone will link it to death and dying, and it will fall out of favour, like sugar, weedkillers and asbestos.

The best port seems to come from Portugal, strange about that.

You can port a program (app in phone speak) from one platform to another, which basically means from Android to Apple IOS, but not without a reasonable amount of work.

It can also be an outlet plug on a computer that accepts cables from other devices (USB) and many years ago, a printer port, and a serial port.

In certain places in the world a port is a child’s schoolbag, a definition I was not aware of until we moved to a different state.

I’m still having a problem with it 30 years on.

PI Walthenson’s second case – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’.

Known only to a few, there is a legend that a ship named the ‘Flying Dutchman’ left Nazi Germany in the last weeks of the war and set sail for America, escorted by U-boats, under a different name. Aboard was a trove of treasure and gold worth a ‘king’s ransom’.

It was said that it had been sent to a group of American Nazis to create the Fourth Reich at an appropriate time. Over the years, many expeditions off the coast had searched, but found no trace of the vessel or the treasure.

In other words, it was just a legend created to boost tourism.

…

Fast forward to 2024. Our intrepid private detective, Harry Walthenson, overhears a conversation at Grand Central Station. It was the oddness of the message that caught his attention. An investigation turned up nothing out of the ordinary, and he thinks no more about it.

Then Harry is kidnapped, interrogated, and asked questions over and over about a date and a place, why he went there, and when he could not give satisfactory answers, he was beaten half to death and left for dead on a rubbish heap. He was lucky that it was a living space for homeless men; otherwise, he would have died.

In the aftermath, he once again gives it no more thought.

…

After resolving his first case successfully, there’s no rest. Harry’s angry mother comes to his office and demands that he find out where his father has gone. She believes he has run off with a mistress, not for the first time.

Perhaps it was not the wisest decision she has made, because Harry promises to investigate, and adds that she might not like what he finds.

He soon discovered he does not like what he finds, that his father’s friends, a cabal formed at University, have two who are his mother’s current lovers, and another, a criminal blackmailing his father.

Felicity, now his partner, working on a different case, and trying to get answers, uncovers a crime family involved in guarding a disused warehouse on the docks, where she believes Harry had been taken for interrogation, and subsequently dumped nearby to die.

Why are they up to? What is so important that the empty warehouse needs guarding? Who is employing them?

Harry, following up on the death of the blackmailer, traces his death back to an enforcer employed by his grandfather. His mother’s grandfather was a pre-war industrialist who made his fortune in war munitions and shipbuilding.

He was also a member of the American Nazi party.

When Harry also discovers a logbook belonging to a so-called wartime Liberty ship the “Paul Revere” in brackets ‘Freiheitskämpfer’, hidden by his father, and written in a code that is not readily identifiable.

It is no longer a matter of a father who has run off with his mistress; it is a very frightened man in fear of his life, running from a group who will stop at nothing to get the logbook back. And when Harry discovers a family connection to the group, it becomes a race against time to decode the log and find his father before his grandfather does.

…

Coming soon: Harry Walthenson’s new adventure – A case of finding the ‘Flying Dutchman’

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Oslo

Oslo’s Quiet Gems: 5 Distinctive Attractions That Skip the Tourist Crowds

Oslo is a city defined by breathtaking fjords, modern architectural marvels, and world-class museums. While favourites like the Opera House and the bustling Vigeland Sculpture Park deserve their accolades, sometimes the best travel memories are forged in the quiet corners—those distinctive spots overlooked by the masses.

If you are seeking authenticity, tranquillity, and attractions that offer a truly unique Norwegian flavour without the elbow-to-elbow experience, put down the guidebook and follow our list.

Here are five distinctive Oslo attractions where you can slow down and savour the discovery.

1. Ekebergparken (Ekeberg Sculpture Park)

While Oslo has many incredible viewpoints, few combine panoramic vistas with world-class contemporary art quite like Ekebergparken. Located on the hillside southeast of the city centre, this park is less of a museum and more of an experience.

What Makes it Distinctive? The park features works by international greats like James Turrell, Marina Abramović, and Louise Bourgeois, cleverly integrated into the natural forest landscape. Beyond the art, the site itself is historically significant, featuring ancient rock carvings and WWII bunkers. Critically, these park trails offer one of the best and least crowded settings for capturing the iconic view immortalised in Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.”

Why It’s Uncrowded: It requires a short tram ride up the hill (Line 18 or 19 to Ekebergparken stop), which deters many tourists from sticking solely to the central harbour area.

2. The Emanuel Vigeland Mausoleum

Prepare yourself for a truly unique, slightly macabre, and deeply rewarding experience. While Gustav Vigeland’s towering statues draw millions, his highly eccentric brother Emanuel created a private, haunting masterpiece—his own mausoleum and final resting place.

What Makes it Distinctive? The entire interior of the small, unmarked structure is a dark, barrel-vaulted room adorned with frescoes collectively titled Vita (Life). The ceiling-to-floor artwork depicts dramatic, often heavy themes of human life, death, and sexuality. The atmosphere is deliberately intense: the lights are kept very low, and the acoustics are so sensitive that a caretaker politely requests silence to enhance the feeling of solemn isolation.

Why It’s Uncrowded: It has extremely limited opening hours (usually Sunday afternoons only), making it challenging to visit—which is exactly why it remains a hidden gem for dedicated travellers.

3. Hovedøya Island (The Main Island)

For an immediate escape from city life, hop on a short ferry ride (Boat B1, B2, B3, or B4) from Aker Brygge and head to Hovedøya, the largest and most historically rich island in the Oslo Fjord.

What Makes it Distinctive? Hovedøya offers a perfect blend of lush nature, bathing spots, and fascinating ruins. Within minutes of arriving, you can explore the preserved Cistercian monastery ruins dating back to 1147. Later, the island served as a military base, and you can still find remnants of old defensive structures. Wander the trails, enjoy a picnic by the water, or simply study the medieval stone walls, all while enjoying the crisp fjord air.

Why It’s Uncrowded: While popular with Oslo locals in the height of summer, international tourists often overlook the entire island system in favour of mainland attractions. The short boat journey feels like a genuine adventure but keeps the large tour groups away.

4. Damstredet and Telthusbakken

While Oslo is a modern capital, pockets of its wooden house past remain beautifully preserved. A short walk uphill from the central areas of the city brings you to the charming, picturesque streets of Damstredet and Telthusbakken.

What Makes it Distinctive? These two winding cobblestone streets feel like stepping into a storybook. Lined with perfectly maintained, brightly colored wooden houses from the 18th and 19th centuries, the whole atmosphere speaks of quiet history. Damstredet in particular offers splendid photo opportunities and a glimpse into how many Oslo residents lived before the major urban modernisation programs.

Why It’s Uncrowded: This attraction is purely residential and free. It requires no ticket and isn’t featured on organised group tours. It’s a perfect addition to a self-guided walking tour between the city centre and the tranquil Vår Frelser Cemetery (another quiet spot worth stopping at).

5. The Tøyen Botanical Garden (Botanisk Hage)

Located just outside the buzzing central districts in the Tøyen neighbourhood, Oslo’s Botanical Garden is a serene and scientifically significant outdoor museum that most tourists walk right past on their way to the newer attractions.

What Makes it Distinctive? Managed by the Natural History Museum, the garden is Norway’s oldest and most diverse living collection. Visitors can explore various climate zones within the beautiful Palm House and the Victoria House (home to massive water lilies). The highlight is often the peaceful Scent Garden, designed specifically for the visually impaired, and the historic Old Garden, showcasing plants used for food and medicine throughout Norwegian history.

Why It’s Uncrowded: Despite its beauty and central location near the Munch Museum, the garden offers ample space and shaded trails, meaning the large foot traffic in the area quickly dissipates once you enter the gates. It’s a perfect green lung for contemplation.

Seeking the Authentic Oslo

By prioritizing these five distinctive, yet uncrowded, locations, you gain a deeper understanding of Oslo’s rich history, its commitment to art integration, and the beautiful relationship Norwegians have with their surrounding nature.

Skip the queue, find your quiet corner, and enjoy the authentic pulse of this incredible Nordic capital.

Have you discovered a quiet spot in Oslo that you love? Share your hidden gem in the comments below!

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet them or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except, of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact that, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street who look like someone we knew and make the mistake of approaching them like a long-lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away from what they perceive as a stalker, or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then, according to the circumstances and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me, one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognise was murder. The photo of the man on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated by what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer, the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room. I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realise what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low-profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, had no children, and, according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company; I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably, more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with several other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with several other delegates at the pre-conference get-together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bulletproof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me? I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain-killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes and took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I would still be considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try to explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. A nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told me what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have another visitor. He is from the British Embassy, I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realised then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit, the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old, which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome, and he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently, for them, it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact that you were shot had made it an all-around embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologising?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted on speaking with you first.  I have come, basically, to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document, which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter that could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush-hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that?  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible, so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man, Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri or Sorrento, if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, who had announced herself as the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it: “The patient has recovered excellently, and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed, so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long, wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful, though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him. She checked the door and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then that I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have several witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed-circuit TV, we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her notebook back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti, and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologise for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you, it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest, one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger-happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realised if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry, but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest, he escaped. Once we realised we had made a mistake and reviewed the closed-circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough, no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officers’ weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you, Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrongdoing?”

“I have apologised. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 289

Day 289 – Don’t clean up your writing space

…

Stop Cleaning Your Desk: Why Creative Chaos is the Secret to Better Writing

You sit down at your desk, coffee in hand, ready to tackle that chapter, blog post, or screenplay. You open the document, stare at the blank white screen, and take a deep breath.

Then, you notice it.

The empty mug from yesterday. The tower of reference books stacked precariously. The stray sticky notes, the receipt from the dry cleaner, and the tangled charging cables.

“I just can’t work in this mess,” you tell yourself. “I need a clean slate to get a clean mind.”

So, you stand up. You wipe down the surface. You file the papers, wash the mug, and organise your pens by colour. Forty-five minutes later, your desk looks like a minimalist furniture showroom. It’s pristine. It’s organized.

And your energy is completely gone. You’ve used up your daily quota of willpower on housekeeping, leaving you with nothing left for the actual writing.

Sound familiar? If so, it’s time for a hard truth: Cleaning your writing space isn’t productivity. It’s procrastination in disguise.

And even worse? By sanitising your environment, you might actually be scrubbing away your creativity.

The Comfort Trap of the “Clean Slate”

Let’s be honest about why we clean. Writing is terrifying. Staring down the barrel of a blank page requires vulnerability, brainpower, and emotional endurance. Our brains are hardwired to seek comfort and avoid discomfort.

Tidying up offers an irresistible dopamine hit. It’s a low-stakes task with an immediate reward. You move a stack of papers three inches to the left, and boom—instant gratification. You feel productive without having faced the agonizing friction of generating original thought.

Cleaning before writing is the ultimate safety blanket. It allows us to feel like we are “working on our project” without actually having to put a single difficult word on the page.

Why Chaos Breeds Creativity

We have been conditioned by modern minimalism, productivity influencers, and stock photos of white-desk setups to believe that an immaculate workspace equals an immaculate mind.

Psychological research, however, tells a different story.

In a famous study conducted by psychological scientist Kathleen Vohs at the University of Minnesota, participants placed in a messy room generated significantly more creative ideas and came up with more innovative uses for everyday objects than those in a clean room.

Vohs concluded that while a clean environment encourages rule-following and safe choices (great for accounting or compliance), disorder breaks free of tradition and inspires fresh insights.

When your desk is a bit messy, it reflects the messy nature of the creative process itself. Writing isn’t linear. It’s a chaotic journey of dead ends, sudden breakthroughs, half-baked ideas, and wild tangents. Trying to force that chaotic internal landscape into a hyper-sterile, hyper-organised external environment creates cognitive dissonance.

Out of the physical chaos on your desk often comes the very words you hoped you could write. Those scattered notes, dog-eared pages, and random reminders are visual cues of your intellectual momentum.

The Danger of the Pristine Workspace

Have you ever noticed how intimidating a brand-new, completely blank notebook is? The first stroke of a pen feels like a sacrilege. You don’t want to ruin the perfection of the empty page.

A spotless, minimalist desk does the exact same thing to your psyche. It demands perfection. It says, “You are sitting in a temple of productivity; your work had better be immaculate.” That kind of pressure is paralyzing.

A messy desk, on the other hand, is forgiving. It lowers the stakes. It whispers, “It’s okay to be messy here. Just start.”

When your environment is relaxed and slightly disordered, you give yourself permission to write badly—which is the absolute prerequisite for writing well. You can’t edit a blank page, and you certainly can’t write freely if you’re worried about keeping your workspace looking like an Architectural Digest.

How to Embrace the Creative Mess (Without Living in a Landfill)

Of course, there is a fine line between a productive, creative workspace and a biohazard. If you can’t find your keyboard under last week’s takeout boxes, it might be time for a reset.

The key is knowing when and why you are cleaning.

  • Clean after the session, not before: Make it a rule that you cannot tidy up until you have hit your daily word count. Use the mess as fuel while you write, and use the cleanup as a celebratory wind-down ritual after the work is safely saved on your hard drive.
  • Recognize the urge for what it is: The next time you find yourself aggressively reorganising your desktop folders or wiping down your monitor while the cursor blinks mockingly at you, stop. Acknowledge that you are running away from the writing. Take a deep breath, sit down in the chaos, and write just one sentence.
  • Give yourself permission to be messy: Let go of the societal pressure to have an aesthetically pleasing writing setup. Your readers don’t care if your desk looks like a hurricane hit a stationery store; they only care about the story, the insight, or the emotion you leave on the page.

Give Yourself Permission to Create

Writing is an act of courage. It requires diving headfirst into the unknown and wrestling your thoughts into existence. That process is inherently untidy.

So, stop apologising for the clutter. Stop weaponising organisation against your own productivity. Leave the dishes in the sink, let the papers stack up, and sit down in the glorious, messy reality of your creative life.

Out of that chaos, your best words are waiting to be written.

…

Coming soon: “Strangers We’ve Become”, the sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Strangers We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she? That is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust to normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remained.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers that those whom he thought he could trust each have their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

…

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon