Month: January 2025

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta readers view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

In a word: Joe

Aside from being the short form of the name Joseph, ie a man’s name, there is also a derivative for women, Jo.

The name Joe is said to be used from the mid-1800s.

My favourite Joe name is Joe Bloggs, and he features in some of my stories.

It’s anonymous enough for someone to use as a cover when booking into a sleazy motel and is a little more refined than Smith or Jones, names that more than likely already feature in the register.

Jo could be a short form for Josephine, a name I’m sure some women would prefer not to be called.

But…

Did you know it’s also a name given to a cup of coffee?

Well, that didn’t make much of a splash.  I don’t think anyone these days refers to coffee as Joe because there are so many different variations with names I couldn’t pronounce let alone spell, I think it’s been lost in the mists of time because there was only one type of coffee.

It was called coffee.  Funny about that.

However…

There is another definition, and that is for the ‘average Joe’, an ordinary fellow who works for a living.

Odd, because I thought that was what most of us did, but perhaps it refers to tradespeople, or blue collar workers, not the white collar brigade.

Hang on, isn’t there a GI Joe, a universal description of the average soldier?

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 14

Larry has a plan

…

I watched Juliet head back towards the hotel, joining the throng of tourists out walking in the refreshing night air before going back to their hotels.

The walk along the grand canal was particularly good and I’d taken it more than once over the years.  Perhaps I would again, tonight, before retiring to contemplate the next move in what was becoming a chess game.

Why had Larry decided after all this time to come after me?  And why the softly softly approach?  In bringing up Kerry’s mother in the conversation, it gave me the idea that perhaps I could ask her.

Of course given the fractious nature of the relationship between her and her son she might not know, but it was worth calling her if only to touch base after so long.  I was sure she would know about what happened to Violetta and understand.

Just before she disappeared from sight I could see her answering a call on her cell phone.  No doubt Larry was looking for more information after the revelations she had relayed to him.

Doing what I had was the equivalent of a double-edged sword, as the saying goes.  On the one hand, he might consider her had the advantage of knowing when and where I was going, but on the other, I knew he would be waiting, and therefore be prepared, though often preparation counted for nothing with unpredictable people like him.

Still, it was done now.  It also threw up another interesting sidebar, that Juliet didn’t like Cecilia if only for the reason she was with me.  Was it jealousy?  Surely she could not still have any feelings for me after all this time, and what she had gone through?

But, in normal circumstances, had she not been involved in this charade, and I had accidentally run into her in the street, what might my feelings be?  They had been all over the place that last time, following a near-death experience, and when my service was in its infancy.  It was a time when a lot of young agents got caught up in the euphoria of action, and some made fatal mistakes.

I had used one of my nine lives then, and several more since, before retiring.  I had never intended to return, but circumstances change, and whatever I may have wanted might have to take a back seat until this matter was sorted.  Then Rodby would make his play, as he always had, citing the losing battle we faced without people like me steering the ship in the right direction.

He was great with analogies, and praise, and putting you in a position where saying no was almost a crime against the state.  A bridge I would have to cross eventually.

The restaurant was closing for the night and a waiter came to gently tell us to leave.  It wasn’t late, but it was time to go.

I didn’t get far before a message appeared on my phone, a rendezvous outside the Doges Palace.  Alfie no doubt had the gist of the incoming call Juliet received not a half-hour before.

He was loitering inconspicuously when I found him, pretending to have an animated conversation with someone on the other end of his cell phone, speaking and gesturing as all Italians seemed to do.

He waved when he saw me, then wound up the fictitious call.

“Perhaps you should also be in the movies.  That was a very eloquent performance.”

He smiled.  “It wouldn’t fool too many people.”

“Is this about Juliet’s call?”

He looked surprised.

“I saw her get a call after she left me to go back to the hotel.”

“Of course.  And, yes.  He seems very upset you called him a moron.”

“If the shoe fits…  Don’t tell me he rang her just to vent over me calling him names.”

“No.  Just to tell her where and when she had to take you to your impending doom.  Seems the wait is over, and since you announced you’re going to visit his mother, he thought it was a perfect opportunity.”

I thought later, after I mentioned it, that it might present him with the means, and to use Juliet of who I would not suspect of luring me into a trap.  It was, in a way, on his part, very clever.

“What was her response?”

“A few choices words, and the fact she was not that close she could make such a request.”

“And let me guess, if she wants to see her brother again, come up with a plan?”

“More or less.  Do you really want to do this, this way?”

“Forewarned is forearmed.  It’s better than going in blind.  Is Cecilia a trained sniper?”

Many years ago Rodby insisted all his agents be trained to the highest proficiency in using a wide variety of guns.  I was in the first intake to benefit, and I had to say, sniper work was the best.

“She is.”

“Then I’ll talk to her. And get her there ahead of time, you too if possible, unless your operating Rodby’s chessboard in Italy.”

“No, I can take time out.  But I insist we have a solid plan before doing this.  No ad hoc, spur-of-the-moment stuff that Rodby tells me you’re famous for.”

Sometimes it was the only way, because the more people who knew, the less chance of success, particularly if there was a foreign mole in your midst.

“You’ll know everything as soon as I do.  Trust me.”

His look told me she did everything but trust me.  “You think you might get a visit in the night?”

“Should I sleep with Cecilia just to make it more interesting?”

“She’s not your personal toy to play with.”

“Wasn’t going to.  It’s just to make Juliet edgier, which, if she saw Cecilia in her pajamas, might push a button and catches her off guard.”

“It’s your call.  Let me know when the plan is set.”

Another thought came to mind, something I’d been thinking about.  “We don’t know where Larry has the bother holed up?  As I understand it, his on a video link so it’s not out in the wide-open spaces.”

“Not at the moment, but we’re working on it.  If it’s relevant I’ll let you know.  It would give us an advantage if we had him, but at the moment, it’s not on the table.  If and when you meet up with  Larry, he will be asking you a lot of questions.

And, as if he hadn’t been there at all, he was gone.  What was worrying was the reappearance of the Frenchman, nearby, and it was clear he had been following either me or Juliet.  There was no doubt he’d seen me with Alfie, but since the whole conversation had been conducted in Italian, it was hard to tell what he would have made of it.

Time would tell.  I would take a walk, consider the options and then go back to the hotel.

© Charles Heath 2022

Writing a book in 365 days – 15

Day 15

Set yourself a reading list, and don’t limit yourself to the sort of genre of books that you wish to write. But, I have to admit I’m guilty of not necessarily reading everything because there are genres that I do not like.

But, for the purposes of this exercise, what you are looking for are:

  • Descriptions of locations, the methods by which the author conveys the setting, whether, dark, light, eerie, scary, dripping with menace, or inspiring fear. A dark room can be just a dark room, but it can be so much more.
  • Descriptions of people. If anyone who witnessed a crime was asked to describe the guilty, ten different people would give ten different descriptions and unless there was a distinguishing factor like he only had one arm, it might describe a quarter to half the population. Your job is to see how others do it and refine it for your characterisations.
  • Conversation. We all have conversations but when it comes to writing them down and making them sound plausible, that’s another story. Conversation is the hardest part of this writing thing, or at least I think so.
  • Writing style. You will eventually get your own, but to begin with, it might be a little strange. Reading many similar-themed or genre books will give you some idea of what the publisher’s editors are looking for.

You will have to read quite a few, I have a library with about 3,000 books, having accumulated them over 50 years. And I think I have learned a thing or two from reading nearly all of them.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 16

As we all know, writing by the seat of your pants is almost the same as flying by the seat of your pants, a hazardous occupation.

As it happens, I like writing this way because like the reader, I don’t know what to expect next.

And equally, at times, you can write your self into a corner, much like painting, and then have to go back, make a few changes and//or repairs and then move forward.

It’s part of the writing process, only in this case, the changes occur before you’ve finished the novel if you finish.  Quite often a lot of writers get only so far, then the manuscript hits the bottom drawer, to be brought out on a distant rainy day.

Or your cat has mocked your writing ability one too many times.

Therefore, we’re winding back to Episode 16, and moving forward once again, from there.

O’Connor seemed to be more affluent than I because he was living in a flat located in an upmarket building.  Getting into the ground floor required a passkey, one I suspect might also be needed to get in the front door of his flat, but I’d worry about that later.

My first problem was that front door, and it was not until a tradesman exited that I took the opportunity to appear to arrive at the same time, pretending to find my card, and brushing past him as he was exiting.  He ignored me, his hands full, being in a hurry.

It took a day and a half of watching the building, waiting for an opportunity.  His flat was on the third floor and although there was an elevator, I took the stairs, hoping that I wouldn’t run into anyone.

Quickly and quietly, and thankfully without seeing another resident, I came out into the passageway, and it was about ten steps to his front door.  Number 37.  Not far away, in one direction, the end of the passage, and numbers 38, 39, and 40.  In the other, four more flats and the end of the corridor.  Windows at either end, perhaps an escape route.  I would not use the elevator if I had to leave in a hurry.

There were two elevators and one staircase.  Both elevators were stationary on the ground floor.

I knocked lightly on the door to number 37.

No answer.

I knocked a little harder on the door.  It was quite solid, and I had to wonder if the knocking sound penetrated the solid wood.

I checked the lock.  Simple to open.  We’d been given instruction by a master locksmith, and I’d brought my tools.

I waited a minute, checked to see if the elevators were still on the ground floor, then picked the lock and was inside within a minute.

Silence.

I felt along the wall for a light switch, usually by the door, and found it, and flicked it on.  The sudden light was almost blinding, but then my eyes adjusted.

Trashed, much the same as my flat.

But, with a difference.

A woman was stretched out on the floor, unmoving.  I could see, from where I was standing, she had been hit on the back of the head and could see the wound, and a trickle of blood through her hair.

Five steps to reach her, I reached down to check for a pulse.

Yes, she was alive.

I shook her gently.  She didn’t react.  I shook her a little more roughly and she stirred, then, as expected, lashed out.

I caught her hands, saying, “I just found you.  I’m not your enemy.”

Of course, considering I was a stranger in what could be her flat without permission, I was not surprised she continued to struggle until I tried being reassuring.  Then she stopped and asked, “Who are you?”

“A friend of O’Connor.  I worked with him.  Something happened to him at work and he said if that happened, I was to come here.  He didn’t say anything about you, though.”

“I live here, in the flat next door.  I heard a noise and came to investigate.  That’s all I remember.”

I helped her up into a sitting position, and, holding her head in her hands, looked around.  “Did you do this?”

“No.  Just got here.  But it’s the same at my place.  The people who did this are looking for something.  By the look of it, they didn’t find it here either.”

“I’ll get a damp cloth for your head.  It doesn’t look serious but there might be a slight concussion that might need attention.”

She felt the back of her head, and, when she touched the wound, gasped, “It hurts though.”

I stood and went over to the kitchenette.  O’Connor was not much of a cook, the benches looked new, and there was nothing out.  I looked in a draw near the sink and found a cloth, still with the price tag on it.  So were several utensils in the drawer.  I ran it under the water, then went back to her, now off the floor and sitting on one of the two chairs.  I handed her the wet cloth and she put it against the injured part of her head.

I made a mental note, it didn’t look like O’Connor had been here long, if at all.  Something was not right here, and if that was the case, I should take care when saying anything to this woman.

“Who are you again?” she asked.

“I worked with him.  My name is irrelevant.  It’s unlikely that he mentioned me to you, or anyone.  It’s the nature of our work.”

“Why should I believe you?  You could be my attacker.”

“If that were the case, why would I still be here trying to be helpful.”

A good question that elicited a curious expression.

“What do you do, what did Oliver do?”

Alarm bells were going off.  Oliver was not O’Connor’s first name.

“Nothing very interesting, I can assure you, and definitely nothing that would warrant this happening.  If it had only been me, I would have not thought any more of it, but since we worked together, and this has also happened to him, it seems we are mixed up in something bad.”

“Where is he, by the way?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.  If you live next door and know him well enough to be here, he might have told you.”

“No.  He never spoke about work.”

She was trying to stand so I helped her up and held on when it looked like she was about to collapse.  Last time I had a knock to the head, I had dizziness for a minute of two.  Her knock had been a lot harder.”

“Are you alright?”  She didn’t look it.

“I will be, I’m sure.”

I let her go, and she took several steps, then gave me a rather hard look.  “Why are you here again?”

“Trying to find my friend.”

“How did you get in here?”

Rather than make her disorientated, the knock must have sharpened her senses.  Time to test a theory. 

“I think we should call the police now, and report the break-in.”

I pulled out my phone.

“Look, I don’t want to get mixed up in this.  You go, and I report this when I get back home.  And, if you find him, tell him Josephine is looking for him.”

As I thought.  She was not able to explain to the authorities why she was in this flat, as I’m sure she believed I couldn’t either.

She started walking towards the door.  My staying any longer would raise her suspicions about me, and any search I was going to do would have to wait.  I opened the door, she walked out, and I followed shutting the door after me.

I left her standing outside the door and headed for the stairs.  A last glance back showed her still where I left her.  I went down to the first landing, then stopped.  It was part of the training, to treat everyone as suspicious.

Then I heard her voice, as she passed the top of the staircase, on her way back to her flat.  “He was here, looking for the files.  No, he’s gone.”  A minute’s silence, then “On my way.”

Another minute, I heard the elevator car arrive on the third floor.

I quickly ran down the stairs to the ground floor and waited at the door until she came out of the elevator, heading for the door.

Then as she passed through the front door, I came out into the foyer just in time to see a car stop out the front, and a familiar face out through the rear window.

Nobbin.

© Charles Heath 2019-2022

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 11

I remember hearing one day, a line from a poem, ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’.

Little did I know at the time it was the first line of a poem by William Wordsworth, and mentioned something else, daffodils, and I had a moment where a memory came back from when I was about five, gathering daffodils in a field behind the house we lived in.

But, how often is it we look at clouds and try to make them into something else we’ve seen before?

Clouds are the subject of many conversations, like he’s got his head in the clouds, not literally of course in this instance, just that he, or it could be a she, if far removed from reality.

Dark clouds are associated with ill will and infamy, e.g. he was born under a dark cloud. I heard my grandmother use that expression once, and wondered what she meant by it, because, being a child, it was a literal interpretation, that dark clouds brought heavy rain, and he go ‘very wet’.

I’ve been caught out by dark clouds too, misjudging how long before they arrive, and it always seems like next to no time before you, and the washing on the line get a thorough soaking.

These days, the cloud now means something else entirely, though based on an old analogy, that we store our computer files in the cloud, which simply means at a remote location on someone else’s computer. With file sizes the way they are, it’s not practical to store them on our own smallish computers.

And, isn’t it fun when you are flying through the clouds?

Not!

In those cases, going up or going down in a plane, it’s a very bumpy ride, and isn’t it quite strange when you are flying above the clouds, or can just see mountain tops appearing through the blanket of white.

Of course, you can have your head in the clouds and not be off with the fairies, if you are on a mountain when the clouds have come down so low you can touch them. Sometimes it’s called mist or fog, but there are such things as low clouds. I’ve seen them.

And, as for a single cloud as inspiration…

…

The story starts,

I was sitting down in a quiet corner of the park, the sound of children playing just audible in the background, along with a lawn mower, and the distant sounds of civilization.

I wanted to get as far away as possible, but in the concrete jungle that was not possible.

IT had bene a difficult morning, juggling customer complaints with the the call from the girl I thought was the one, but who had decided we were going in different directions and it was time.

Yes, we were literally going in different directions, she was heading off to Boston to start a new job, one that she only just decided to tell me about.

Was I disappointed? Just a little. Was it inevitable? My best friend thought so, and had said he had noticed a change in her. I had too, but was hoping it was a passing phaze.

I looked up, and there was a single cloud moving slowly across the sky, perhaps chasing after others that had passed before it.

Was it an omen. Would I become like that cloud, alone, always chasing after the impossible dream?

My phone vibrated, and I took it out. A message.

It was from the girl once of my dreams. I had not expected to hear from her again.

It was a short message, just one word.

“Help”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

Writing a book about a book – Day 35

Time now to bring in the police and this is in the form of Chief Inspector Gator, an odd sort of man who fits the mold of those ubiquitous policemen who don’t look like policemen but have a very sharp mind.

I guess watching too many Columbo episodes has had an effect on me.

…

The police officer who came to interview Aitchison arrived as I was leaving.   He nodded at me and announced himself as Chief Inspector Gator as I closed the door behind him.  My only thought of him was that he didn’t look like a policeman, and didn’t give him another thought.

Merrilyn’s expression had transformed into one of dismay, like the moment the sun went behind a cloud, and no doubt the result of learning Richardson’s fate.

“Shocking news isn’t it?” she said.

“Not good for the company.  Who found him?”

“One of the building security guards doing his rounds.  He literally fell over him, or so I heard.  There was a blackout or power failure and the lights failed to go back on.  We have been advised it was something to do with a circuit breaker.”

“So there was power everywhere, except that floor?”

“I don’t know.  But news has also just come through advising there was a burglary attempt in the basement computer storeroom.  No one can tell if any equipment has been stolen yet.  I’m sure you will be informed about it soon.”

“Another excuse for Benton to pester me,” I sighed.  “Security must have had a rough night last night.”

“That, and pleading that they are understaffed.  Mr. Aitchison thinks they are trying to use that as an excuse to draw attention away from their lack of responsibility.”  She looked at me with a serious expression, and lowered her voice, “I have to organize an emergency board meeting, and to be honest, I don’t know where to start.  On top of everything, Mr. Halligan is also dead, in tragic circumstances.  I could not imagine dying at home, alone.”

“It’s a terrible business.  By the way, I didn’t get that promotion.  You were right.  There’s a very long list ahead of me.  Until I am summoned again, try not to let it upset you.”

She tried to smile, but her heart was not in it.

When I stepped into the elevator and reached for the 18th-floor button, I realized I had acquired a case of the shakes.  Aitchison’s fear was infections, and perhaps I should have had a drink before I left his office.

As the doors closed, I felt a shiver go down my spine as a thought came into my head, the ramifications of which had many possibilities.  In the greater scheme of things, it would not have registered, not until now.

There was an instance when this new, or other, network could have been installed.

Some months ago we had the telephone system re-engineered to move away from the conventional land-based systems offered by the major Telcos and moved to VOIP, a less expensive option.  These new desktop phones, though looking exactly like those they replaced, used the network connection to run.

I had not been asked to supervise their installation, which had been done by a team of experts from the United States, flown out especially to do the work, and at the time, the whole building had been closed off for the entire weekend in order to carry it out.  I came in, just to make sure nothing on our network system had been compromised, but it would have been a perfect opportunity to lay down the foundations of another system.

Whether it was the case or not, the installation crew had given me full access to look over their work, and I’d not seen any indications of anything other than the installation of the telephones.  Of course, I was not looking for anything else, and it was possible they could install almost anything, and I would be none the wiser, simply because I was not a wiring expert.  Even if I looked now, I was not sure what I’d be looking for.

And then there was the ongoing office refurbishment, where whole floors were being evacuated, gutted, and rebuilt.  It had recently been our turn, but our renovation had one minor difference.  The refurbishment had worked around the server room.  It could not be moved or taken offline.

But during the renovation our movements to that floor and the server room had been restricted, and, at times, we had not been allowed near it.

Planned, coincidental, or something else.

Now away from Aitchison, I was able to think more rationally and consider the points he made.

It was common knowledge Halligan had a bad heart and scheduled to have surgery soon.  His death would not surprise some considering his workload and stress factor, and it was understandable he could have died of a heart attack.  The fact it had occurred now was probably the only reason why it appeared suspicious.

The question was, did Aitchison know more about Halligan than he was letting on?

The elevator arrived on my floor, and I sent those thoughts to the back of my mind.  I’d worry about them later.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2025

Searching for locations: The Erqi Memorial Tower, Zhengzhou, China

A convoluted explanation on the reasons for this memorial came down to it being about the deaths of those involved in the 1923 Erqi strike, though we’re not really sure what the strike was about.

So, after a little research, this is what I found:

The current Erqi Tower was built in 1971 and was, historically, the tallest building in the city. It is a memorial to the Erqi strike and in memory of Lin Xiangqian and other railway workers who went on strike for their rights, which happened on February 7, 1923.

It has 14 floors and is 63 meters high. One of the features of this building is the view from the top, accessed by a spiral staircase, or an elevator, when it’s working (it was not at the time of our visit).

There seems to be an affinity with the number 27 with this building, in that

  • It’s the 27th memorial to be built
  • to commemorate the 27th workers’ strike
  • located in the 27th plaza of Zhengzhou City.

We drive to the middle of the city where we once again find traveling in kamikaze traffic more entertaining than the tourist points

When we get to the drop-off spot, it’s a 10-minute walk to the center square where the tower is located on one side. Getting there we had to pass a choke point of blaring music and people hawking goods, each echoing off the opposite wall to the point where it was deafening. Too much of it would be torture.

But, back to the tower…

It has 14 levels, but no one seemed interested in climbing the 14 or 16 levels to get to the top. The elevator was broken, and after the great wall episode, most of us are heartily sick of stairs.

The center square was quite large but paved in places with white tiles that oddly reflected the heat rather than absorb it. In the sun it was very warm.

Around the outside of two-thirds of the square, and crossing the roads, was an elevated walkway, which if you go from the first shops and around to the other end, you finish up, on the ground level, at Starbucks.

This is the Chinese version and once you get past the language barrier, the mixology range of cold fruity drinks are to die for, especially after all that walking. Mine was a predominantly peach flavor, with some jelly and apricot at the bottom. I was expecting sliced peaches but I prefer and liked the apricot half.

A drink and fruit together was a surprise.

Then it was the walk back to the meeting point and then into the hotel to use the happy house before rejoining the kamikaze traffic.

We are taken then to the train station for the 2:29 to our next destination, Suzhou, the Venice of the East.

On renovations and editing

There are a lot of words in the English language that can strike fear into the hearts of even the bravest of men and women.

Two are renovations and editing.

We are currently deep in the first and it’s running something like this:

Firstly, we are updating the ensuite, and this has been relatively painless.

Secondly, we are fixing up the outside of the house.  The intention was to put in a retaining wall and build a stone garden with succulents.

Ah, the best-laid plans!

This led to, let’s render the walls, get rid of the unsightly bricks.

Fine.

But before that, we need to repaint the roof an appropriate colour to match the walls.

Fine.

Got the roof done, got the walls rendered.

Now we need a carport.  Fine.

Back to the garden, and so on, and so forth.  Much is still to be done.

It’s like editing, a chore that I’m beginning to like less and less because it’s taking on the dimensions of a renovation.

It isn’t a matter of correcting spelling mistakes, sentence structure errors, or badly place punctuation.

It’sd a matter of weeding out the superfluous text, cutting and more cutting, taking out anything that does not propel the story to a logical and unexpected end, let alone having to rewrite at the beginning because of an afterthought later on.

Starting to sound like the garden, rendering, roof scenario?

It’s harder editing than writing.

So many words, so much brilliance, ending up on the cutting room floor.

Perhaps it’s time to go back to the renovations.  They seem more fun than editing.

No?