Month: September 2025

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 57

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

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

Things are about to get complicated…

I hadn’t realised until I said it out loud to someone who would not understand the significance of it, just how far-fetched the reason was.

But in my newly adopted world, it made perfect sense.

 Spies dealt with many things, mostly the notion of a threat, and the removal of it, whether it is an object like a USB or a person, or persons, who could make the threat become a reality.

This threat started with a laboratory working for the military to produce biological weapons.  Then the funding stopped, for whatever reason, and the laboratory had to cover its losses.

What better way than to hawk the formula on the dark web?

Someone perceived that the laboratory would become a threat and dispatched operatives to monitor the situation.

The worst-case scenario occurs, but from a different standpoint, the outrage of a community-conscious scientist who didn’t like the idea of people creating monstrous weapons and steals the formula to leak to the media.

The laboratory is shut down by the government before the formula could be sold, but there is a copy in play via the scientist.

The scientist, and therefore the threat, neutralised.

The threat then moves to his wife, who contacts someone in the Department, likely but not necessarily Dobbin, who then assigns O’Connell to find the wife and offer a lot of cash for the formula.

She agrees.

Somehow, the planted operatives, Severin and Maury discover the wife and O’Connell’s arrangement.

They create a surveillance group with the intention of monitoring the handover and then try to remove both O’Connell and the wife.

For what reason.  The threat would have been removed unless O’Connell and Dobbin had another agenda.  Why then when Dobbin rescued O’Connell, did O’Connell then turn on him?

A relationship with the wife?

Or was it simply the thought of making a huge sum of money, one both O’Connell and the wife could retire on.  He would not be the first spy to sell his soul for twenty pieces of silver.

But the good news, was we had Severin’s assassin.

The plan from there was to hand her over to the Detective Inspector, who didn’t have an agenda other than getting to the truth and keeping Jan away from Dobbin, or anyone who could set her free.

That plan was quashed the moment I saw Dobbin turn up at the scene.  He knew where Severin would be, he must know Severin was meeting with me, and he had sent Jan.

The fact I was still alive meant he wanted something from me.

The question was whether he knew if Jan had been taken off the playing field.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

It was the exact question in my head, though I was closer to answer than she was.

“Run interference, or worse, take over this case too.”

“I thought that was left in the hands of MI5.”

“He turned up after you left.”

She shrugged.  “Above my pay grade, to be honest.  He can have it.  I prefer to deal with the mundane, common thieves or murderers.  None of this cloak-and-dagger stuff.   I’ll tell my Super about the biological stuff, but you have to admit it is a bit farfetched.  There’s a more rational explanation for these deaths, you just have to look harder.  Now, if there’s nothing else?”

Too late to escape, Dobbin had circled around and reached us before I could disappear.

“You seem to turn up to department crime scenes with alarming regularity, Sam.  Any particular reason you’re here?”

The Detective Inspector had expected him to talk to her, not me.

“He’s just another possible witness on the periphery of a crime.  You’re here because?

“It’s one of our people.  I’m afraid…”

“…you’re going to have to take over?  Be my guest.  Your friend here is altogether far too uncooperative, like the rest of you.  I am going to file a formal complaint.”

.“And I’m sure it will be seen by the relevant people.”

She just shrugged and walked away, waving her hand at no one in particular

I waited until she was out of hearing range and asked, “So, why didn’t Jan shoot me too?”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

Writing a book in 365 days – 254

Day 254

Storytelling

…

More Than Just Words: Why We’re All Hungry for Stories

Ever found yourself completely engrossed in a book, a captivating film, or even a friend’s animated anecdote? There’s a reason for that. It’s not just our idle entertainment; it’s a primal, fundamental part of who we are. We are, quite literally, hardwired for stories.

Think about it. From the earliest cave paintings depicting hunts and rituals to the grand epics passed down through generations, humanity has always relied on narrative. It’s how we make sense of the world, how we connect with each other, and how we leave our mark.

The Ancient Art of Immortality

At its core, storytelling is a form of history. It’s how we preserve the experiences, the triumphs, and the struggles of those who came before us. Before written records, oral traditions were the lifeblood of cultures, passing down knowledge, wisdom, and identity. The stories of elders became the lessons for the young, the myths explained the inexplicable, and the legends inspired courage.

But it’s more than just a historical record. Storytelling is also a profound act of immortality. When we share a story, we breathe life back into memories. We keep alive the spirit of individuals, the essence of moments, and the impact of events. A well-told story can transcend time, allowing us to feel present with people who are no longer with us, to understand perspectives different from our own, and to learn from their journeys. It’s through stories that our ancestors, our heroes, and even our ordinary lives can continue to resonate in the present and echo into the future.

Feeding the Soul

Beyond its historical and immortalizing qualities, storytelling simply feeds our souls. In a world often characterized by fleeting information and digital overload, a good story offers depth, connection, and emotional resonance.

  • Connection: Stories allow us to step into someone else’s shoes, fostering empathy and understanding. They remind us that despite our differences, we share universal human experiences – love, loss, fear, hope.
  • Meaning-Making: We use stories to process our own lives and the complexities of the world around us. They help us identify patterns, understand causes and effects, and find meaning in the chaos.
  • Inspiration: Stories of resilience, innovation, and courage can ignite our own imaginations and empower us to pursue our dreams. They show us what’s possible.
  • Escape and Joy: Sometimes, we just need to get lost in a different world. Stories offer a welcome escape, a chance to experience adventure, romance, or mystery, and to simply find joy in a well-crafted narrative.

The Power is in Your Hands (and Voice!)

So, the next time you’re drawn to a narrative, remember you’re tapping into something ancient and essential. And even more importantly, remember that you, too, are a storyteller. Your experiences, your memories, your unique perspective – they all have the power to inspire, to connect, and to offer a piece of yourself to the world.

Don’t underestimate the stories you hold. Share them. Write them down. Tell them to your children, your friends, your colleagues. Because in a world hungry for connection and meaning, every story is a gift, a tiny act of immortality, and a vital thread in the rich tapestry of human experience.

Searching for locations – Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia – 4

Today’s theme for the arduous early morning walk is – spot the house that doesn’t have people out on the veranda having coffee and taking in the breathtaking scenery.

The cloud formations in the early morning are simply amazing and are literally worth getting out of bed just to see the early morning riding sun come up behind them.

As usual, at 7 am, the walkways and the beach had a large number of people, half of whom have dogs, and yes, even today, it’s hard to tell who’s walking whom. But it is the start of the working week, and there are fewer people around than the weekend.

It’s cool but refreshing, and I’m doing my best impression of Walter Brennan in Rio Bravo, my limp more accentuated after yesterday’s foray along the sandy beach.

He has an excuse. He got injured being a stuntman in the early years of Hollywood. I have no excuse and should be doing more of this exercise. Especially the trudging through loose sand. It’s like walking in a vat of treacle.

Mores the pity I don’t live by the ocean and have a dog that needs exercise.

Not that I’d I wanted to I could afford it. Just the tiny piece of land is worth a small fortune, but to put a three – or four-story house with a viewing veranda would be very expensive. This is one being built and there would be no change out of two or three million to buy it:

But it would make a statement and I would have no end of friends and acquaintances who would want to come around and join me.

Candles and French Champagne on the veranda, it has such a ring to it.

Sorry, I’m dreaming again.

It is back to the affordable suburbs with the one-floor house with no patio, overlooking the side fence, a weed-infested lawn, and a few succulents in pots.

And no exercise. There are too many hills to climb.

Perhaps I should try to get away more often.

But before we go home, the last stop is lunch at one of the surf life-saving clubs where patronising their establishment helps to fund the rescue of people in trouble in the ocean.

We opt for lunch in the dining room where there is an extensive selection of items. We have buffalo chicken wings, duck spring rolls, and pork belly as appetisers. Mains are more chicken wings, a vegetarian burger, and a Wagu beef burger.

There’s a lot to eat.

As far as I’m concerned, the service is great, the food is great, and I’d go back again. It was the perfect end to a very good lunch and the end of our sojourn.

What I learned about writing: The murky art of plotting! (1)

Truth is stranger than fiction

…

Google Maps: More Than Just Directions – A Portal to Phantom Mysteries?

We all use Google Maps. It’s our trusty co-pilot, guiding us through unfamiliar streets, helping us find the nearest coffee shop, and even letting us snoop on our old childhood homes (admit it, you’ve done it!). But what if I told you that sometimes, beneath the familiar satellite imagery, Google Maps offers a glimpse into something far stranger than your aunt’s meticulously manicured lawn?

Lately, chatter has been building around peculiar anomalies popping up on the platform – digital specters appearing where they absolutely shouldn’t. Imagine panning over a dense, untouched forest, far from any airport, only to find a colossal Airbus A320 or Boeing 737 perfectly intact, sitting in a clearing. No missing plane reports, no emergency landings, just a commercial jetliner chilling amongst the trees. How did it get there? And more importantly, why?

This isn’t an isolated incident. There are numerous reports of cars, sometimes multiple vehicles, resting eerily at the bottom of lakes, visible from above. While many of these are indeed phantom images, some chillingly prove to be real. You might recall the story of the car discovered in a lake in Florida, which, upon investigation, contained the remains of a man who had been missing for over two decades. The digital anomaly led to a very real, very tragic discovery.

So, before we reach for our tinfoil hats, there’s a rational explanation for most of these ghostly appearances. The phenomenon is often an instance of image overlay or “ghosting.” Google Maps stitches together countless satellite and aerial photographs taken at different times. When an object, like a low-flying aircraft, is captured in one image over a particular spot, and a later, object-free image of the same spot is layered on top, a faint “ghost” of the original object can remain visible. The plane in the forest? It’s highly probable it was just flying incredibly low when the initial photograph was taken, leaving its digital imprint on the landscape.

Mystery solved, right? Well, mostly.

But what if, just what if, these digital echoes aren’t always mere glitches? What if, sometimes, they are whispers of something more, waiting to be heard?

Mick knew all about those lonely leisure hours when there was nothing else to do. He wasn’t one for idly scrolling social media; Mick was a tramper, a genuine trailblazer. His idea of relaxation was poring over topographical maps, looking for untouched corners of the world, sketching out potential new paths through forests, and dreaming of odd discoveries. Years ago, one such expedition had led him to uncover a lost village of significant archaeological value. He had a knack for finding things.

One drizzly afternoon, with the rain drumming against his window, Mick found himself drifting through Google Maps, exploring remote stretches of a national forest known for its dense, ancient foliage. He zoomed in, panned around, his cursor tracing imaginary trails. He wasn’t looking for glitches, but for inspiration, for the subtle hints of untamed beauty.

Then he saw it.

Not a ghost, not a blur, but what seemed to be distinct wreckage dispersed in a clearing. Glimpses of what looked like metal fragments, incongruous against the deep green canopy. It wasn’t the clean, whole plane of famous internet anomalies, but a scattering, undeniably man-made and out of place. He noted the date of the photograph – nearly a year prior.

A chill ran down his spine. He immediately checked local news archives, aviation reports, anything about missing small planes or crashes in the area. Nothing. Not a single mention. It was too remote for a simple crash to go unnoticed, yet too significant to be naturally occurring.

He kept the location saved, revisiting it over the next few days. It gnawed at him. Was it a trick of the light? A bizarre anomaly of the photo processing? He called a friend, an equally seasoned bushwalker, and explained his digital discovery, asking him to verify it on his own map.

“Right, mate, I’m looking,” came his friend’s voice over the phone a few minutes later. “Where exactly did you say?”

Mick guided him, pixel by pixel. “See it? Right there, by that cluster of three oaks…”

There was a pause. “Uh, Mick? There’s just… trees.”

Mick’s stomach dropped. He clicked back to his own map. The wreckage was gone. The clearing was pristine, just an unbroken expanse of forest. He felt a wave of self-doubt. Had his mind been playing tricks, wanting to find something remarkable, perhaps fabricating the whole thing?

But then he noticed it. The date of the photograph displayed on his screen had updated. It was no longer the nearly-a-year-old image. It was a new one, taken just a few weeks ago.

The digital ghost had vanished, but the seed of a real-world mystery had been planted. With the rain still falling and nothing better to do, Mick knew exactly what his next walking holiday would entail. He wasn’t just going to look at maps anymore. He was going to see what was really there.

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

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

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

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

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

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

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

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

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

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

Searching for locations – Gold Coast, Queensland, Australia – 3

Quite often on holidays, we train ourselves to get up early because when you’re away in a different place, you don’t want to waste the day.

I’d like to think that since we can’t do a lot of the usual touristy activities we can sleep in and take a more leisurely approach to the day.

Not this morning.

Not yesterday, either, but for different reasons.

Today, it was the shooting pains down my leg from the bad back. Perhaps that walk to the coffee shop aggravated it, but since when did exercise harm you?

Anyway, finally giving up the notion of sleeping, I bounded out of bed, sorry slowly climbed out of bed with care, at 6:40 a.m. Unless you’re going on a tour that is the greatest thing since sliced bread, who, on holidays, gets out of bed at that hour.

Me, apparently.

Just four minutes after sunrise, which I missed.

I managed to get yesterday’s and was hoping to go one better and catch the sun coming over the horizon. Maybe tomorrow.

So, what do you do in such a hideous hour of the morning?

With the beach just 50 meters away, it was beckoning me to take a walk. When I looked, there were probably a half dozen people with their dogs taking a walk. And another three or four out for a power walk.

For me, it was going to be a leisurely stroll after picking my way across the loose sand to where it was a lot more solid.

The tide was on the way in, so every now and then, the water came up the beach near where most people walked.

By the time I started the foot traffic on the path had increased exponentially as had that on the shoreline along with the number of dogs exercising their owners, and a number of fishermen perhaps trying to land a fish for breakfast.

I had time to keep an eye on the cloud formations, and the waves came in, some a lot higher than others. That meant there were also a small number of die-hard surfers hoping to catch a big one.

You could see the rain out to sea, and with the forecast for rain later I entered of it was sitting out there waiting to arrive at the appointed time. I was just hoping it didn’t rain while I was out.

All in all, it was a pleasant hour or so up the beach and back. The hardest part, trudging over the loose sand, particularly after walking for the hour.

The fishermen had caught nothing.

The number of dogs had increased, but the power walkers had been replaced by families, visitors, and older people. I think if I lived here, I would be one more of the old people, out getting my daily exercise, and then stopping off at the coffee shop for a flat white and a cake.

And the best thing about it. It was still only half past eight in the morning and just in time for breakfast.

Pity I was the designated chef.

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

Writing a book in 365 days – 254

Day 254

Storytelling

…

More Than Just Words: Why We’re All Hungry for Stories

Ever found yourself completely engrossed in a book, a captivating film, or even a friend’s animated anecdote? There’s a reason for that. It’s not just our idle entertainment; it’s a primal, fundamental part of who we are. We are, quite literally, hardwired for stories.

Think about it. From the earliest cave paintings depicting hunts and rituals to the grand epics passed down through generations, humanity has always relied on narrative. It’s how we make sense of the world, how we connect with each other, and how we leave our mark.

The Ancient Art of Immortality

At its core, storytelling is a form of history. It’s how we preserve the experiences, the triumphs, and the struggles of those who came before us. Before written records, oral traditions were the lifeblood of cultures, passing down knowledge, wisdom, and identity. The stories of elders became the lessons for the young, the myths explained the inexplicable, and the legends inspired courage.

But it’s more than just a historical record. Storytelling is also a profound act of immortality. When we share a story, we breathe life back into memories. We keep alive the spirit of individuals, the essence of moments, and the impact of events. A well-told story can transcend time, allowing us to feel present with people who are no longer with us, to understand perspectives different from our own, and to learn from their journeys. It’s through stories that our ancestors, our heroes, and even our ordinary lives can continue to resonate in the present and echo into the future.

Feeding the Soul

Beyond its historical and immortalizing qualities, storytelling simply feeds our souls. In a world often characterized by fleeting information and digital overload, a good story offers depth, connection, and emotional resonance.

  • Connection: Stories allow us to step into someone else’s shoes, fostering empathy and understanding. They remind us that despite our differences, we share universal human experiences – love, loss, fear, hope.
  • Meaning-Making: We use stories to process our own lives and the complexities of the world around us. They help us identify patterns, understand causes and effects, and find meaning in the chaos.
  • Inspiration: Stories of resilience, innovation, and courage can ignite our own imaginations and empower us to pursue our dreams. They show us what’s possible.
  • Escape and Joy: Sometimes, we just need to get lost in a different world. Stories offer a welcome escape, a chance to experience adventure, romance, or mystery, and to simply find joy in a well-crafted narrative.

The Power is in Your Hands (and Voice!)

So, the next time you’re drawn to a narrative, remember you’re tapping into something ancient and essential. And even more importantly, remember that you, too, are a storyteller. Your experiences, your memories, your unique perspective – they all have the power to inspire, to connect, and to offer a piece of yourself to the world.

Don’t underestimate the stories you hold. Share them. Write them down. Tell them to your children, your friends, your colleagues. Because in a world hungry for connection and meaning, every story is a gift, a tiny act of immortality, and a vital thread in the rich tapestry of human experience.

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 71 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

In a word: Fire

I have not yet had the privilege, or otherwise of being fired, but the meaning of the word fire is to get removed unceremoniously from your job.

Donald Trump used to use it a lot on The Apprentice, e.g., “You’re fired”.  And unbelievably, I used to like that show.

But…

Fire can be quite hot, something you can sit in front of on those chilly winter nights, whether it be a gas fire, or a wood fire, my preference.

Then there’s a phrase, set fire to, which can be good or bad depending on what eventually gets burned.

I have on the odd occasion had someone fire my imagination, a good thing being a writer.

To feel the fire in the back of your throat when drinking neat whiskey is so much better when it is an expensive brand

Then there’s the fire in your heart driving patriotism, but make sure it is for the right reasons.

If you have a gun, then when you pull the trigger, you fire it.  Just be sure not to be pointing it the wrong way or anyone.

A good indication is when you hear the words, ready, aim, fire.  Especially if you are in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Napoleon can attest to that, it is alleged!

You can,

fire off a message, hopefully, a nice one

fire questions rapidly at someone (but not a politician, they must have time to answer anything, but the question asked)

or accidentally fire someone up by saying the wrong thing

or fire a piece of pottery, and in saying that, the best I could do was an awkward mug.