Month: May 2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 119

Day 119 – The relevance of A Confederation of Dunces to downtrodden writers

…

The Patron Saint of the Misunderstood: Why A Confederation of Dunces Still Resonates with Downtrodden Writers

If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly wrestled with the feeling of belonging to a world that doesn’t quite fit your internal architecture. You have likely experienced the sting of rejection, the absurdity of the “literary establishment,” and the creeping suspicion that your work is being ignored by people who lack the intellectual rigour to appreciate it.

No character embodies this specific, agonising brand of isolation quite like Ignatius J. Reilly, the gargantuan protagonist of John Kennedy Toole’s posthumous masterpiece, A Confederation of Dunces.

For the downtrodden writer—the one working a soul-crushing day job while drafting a manuscript in a cramped apartment—Ignatius is both a cautionary tale and a dark, twisted mirror.

“I Mingle with My Peers or No One”

The defining line of Ignatius’s worldview is his famous declaration: “I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no-one.”

On the surface, this is the ultimate expression of solipsistic arrogance. It is the peak of the “tortured genius” trope, where the ego becomes a barricade. However, for the writer who feels alienated, this sentiment hits differently. It speaks to the exhausting search for a creative community.

When you spend your life refining your voice and obsessing over the nuance of a sentence, the standard chatter of the world can feel like a profound waste of time. You don’t want to talk about the weather or the weekend; you want to talk about the collapse of modern morality, the structure of a perfect paragraph, or the decaying state of culture. When you can’t find that depth in others, the instinct is to retreat.

But there is a trap here. Ignatius uses this philosophy to justify his own inertia. He uses his “lack of peers” as a shield to avoid the vulnerability of being judged by the real world. For the rest of us, the lesson is clear: If you wait for your perfect peer group to emerge, you will be waiting forever.

The Tragedy of the Unfinished Manuscript

The irony of A Confederation of Dunces is that Ignatius is a writer—or, at least, he claims to be. He carries around his Big Chief writing tablet, filling it with philosophical rants and incoherent grievances against the “geometrical, theological, and geographical” decline of the twentieth century.

He is a writer who refuses to publish. He is a writer who spends more time correcting the perceived failures of others than completing his own work.

This is the great peril of the downtrodden writer. It is easy to become bitter, to develop a “Reilly-esque” disdain for the marketplace, and to convince yourself that your work is too “advanced” or “pure” for a public that prefers mindless pulp. We often use our high standards as a way to hide from the terrifying possibility that our work might be published and—far worse—dismissed.

Finding Solidarity in the Absurd

So, why read (or re-read) A Confederation of Dunces if you are currently feeling like a failure in the literary arts?

  1. It’s a Reminder of the Danger of Ego: Toole’s novel is a comedy, not a biography, but it serves as a warning. Isolation is a creative desert. You need the grit of the real world—the very thing Ignatius scorns—to breathe life into your writing.
  2. It Validates the Struggle: Toole himself struggled immensely to get his work published. His own tragic story adds a layer of poignancy to the book. He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be a genius without a seat at the table.
  3. The Satire is Necessary: Sometimes, you have to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The world is full of “dunce” establishments, superficial trends, and people who will never understand the blood you pour into your pages. Acknowledging that and laughing at it, rather than letting it turn you into a recluse, is the only way to survive.

The Verdict

Ignatius J. Reilly’s tragedy is that he chose “no one” over the messiness of human connection. He chose the safety of his own mind over the risk of being misunderstood by the masses.

As a writer, your greatest work won’t come from sitting in a room alone, sneering at the world for not being up to your standards. It will come from acknowledging that while you may never find the “perfect” peer who understands every shade of your intent, there is a community of other writers just as broken, just as confused, and just as hopeful as you are.

Don’t be the person who mingles with “no one.” Find your fellow dunces. Share your stories. And for heaven’s sake, finish the manuscript.

“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 72 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.

…

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 10

It’s still a battle of wits, but our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because the enemy if it is the enemy, doesn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Nor does it help when his old mentor walks through the door.

 

I don’t like surprises.  This dislike had started with a surprise birthday party about 10 years ago and since then I’ve assiduously tried to avoid them.

Of course, there are also surprises you have no control over, and I liked them even less.

Bluff and bravado would only carry me so far.  These people whoever they were would not accept that I knew nothing about what had just happened.

Which I didn’t.

It was not the A interrogation team with a chest full of torture tools and dressed in hazmat suits, but when the harbinger of my fate walked into the room, it was something a lot scarier.

A man I knew well or thought I did until he walked in the door, I had the utmost respected for.

Colonel Bamfield.  My first Commanding Officer, the man who cut me some slack, and made me into a soldier.

Now, all I had was questions, but I was on the wrong side of the table.

The first, what the hell was going on here?

My first inclination was to stand and salute a superior officer, but he was not wearing the uniform, not the proper uniform I was used to seeing him in.  My second inclination was to ask him what he was doing in that room with me, but I didn’t.

Speak when spoken to, and don’t volunteer information.

He too tried the silent treatment, or maybe it was that he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

Then, still standing behind the table, looking down on me, he said, “That was some jump you made from a moving helicopter.”  Was there a touch of admiration in his tone?

“Life or death.  Anyone one else is that situation would do the same.”

“Less than you’d think.”

Establishing camaraderie.  Or trying to.  I waited for the next question.

It wasn’t a question but a statement, “We have a problem Alan, and it’s not just with you.”

 

© Charles Heath 2019

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaines at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaines frequently visited and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half-frown, half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It had been months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars get on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds of silence, and many more gasps.

I even had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more, I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others out there who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once, I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with a permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and a designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out, she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’, but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes, Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and me, are there, Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting that her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaines were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaines thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realised I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realised it would be churlish, even silly, if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decided there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or, I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some studying in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up and immediately got the ‘shut up, you fool’ look that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass, gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realised I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; she might have been telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last, the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me, I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay who recently moved into the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognised the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanted to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work, I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted, and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and me.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, but it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact that I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough that the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her and pretend nothing had happened, rather than tell her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent-up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, that Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was, but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which, to a large degree, it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do: to play them at their own game, watching the deception once I knew there was one, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaines back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health and asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2026

Sunday In New York

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 32

Alessandro is still reticent

…

He paused by the front counter to talk to the manager who was running the desk now. Perhaps realising trouble was about to erupt in her hotel, trouble a hotel of this sort didn’t need.

She got a key from the office she came out of earlier and accompanied us to the mezzanine floor, unlocked a door to what was a small conference room and ushered us in.  She didn’t follow us in but closed the door behind us.  I did notice that Alessandro had two security staff follow us at a discreet distance.

In the time it took to get from the restaurant to the conference room, he had time to compose himself, and no doubt working on a story that I might believe.

He sat and gestured for me to do the same.  I thought about standing, it would nominally give me an advantage over him, but decided against it.

He gave me a hard stare, then said, “You tell me you are only called when the situation is serious.  Who are you?  I don’t believe for a moment you are a Detective Inspector.  They do not confront foreign natials at their table in a restaurant.”

“Believe it or not I am.  From time to time.  Who I am is irrelevant.  What is, is the whereabouts of your sister-in-law.  You were at the hotel when she arrived back from the Opera.  A matter of hours later she disappears.  Why were you here to see your sister-in-law?”

“If I tell you that is none of your business?”

“Let me tell you what I know about your business.  Firstly, you are associating with a woman by the name of Vittoria, who is allegedly responsible for two attempts in the countess’s life.  Secondly, the terms of the Count’s will pass the who of his possessions to you if the countess does not arrive at the law offices to sign the official inheritance documents.  Thirdly, you are on record saying quite vehemently that the countess should not, and will not if you have anything to do with it, inherit the family business.  Fourthly, had Vittoria told you that she had a daughter to the Count, and was blackmailing him until he died, culminating in the last attempt on the countess’s life.  Allegedly.”

Always, it was interesting to watch the expressions and responses of people when telling there a story that has a mixture of truth, supposition, and outright lies.  Alessandro was no different.  He started the story expressionless and was most likely going to stay that way.

The first response was when I mentioned Vittoria, with a look that wasn’t complete contempt, but a very deep dislike, though that might be for me mentioning her name.  I purposely didn’t say he was dating her, just associating, and it might also be at the mention of her name.

“Vittoria is, by the way, in London at the moment, and she is a person of interest in my investigation.  We know you have seen her several times in the last few days, so I will be talking to her at some point.”

The second response came when I mentioned the will, and that look was of surprise, whether he thought anyone know of the provisions other than family would be interesting.

“Am I under surveillance?”

“When reviewing the CCTV tapes during the time we estimate the countess went missing, and only via the CCTV in the hotel, in case the disappearance of the countess is not part of a wider attack on the Bernhardt family.  I notice you have your own security outside.”

“I would prefer they not accompany me everywhere, but it is necessary.”

“The countess’s security detail?  Are they still in the hotel.”

“Gone, with the countess, which is why I don’t think there is anything to worry about.”

“And if she doesn’t make it to the signing in five days?”

“Do you have any reason to believe she will not.”

“You have motive, and you had opportunity.  In my book that’s enough for me to have you arrested until you tell us what we need to know.  It’s the old story, if you have nothing to hide, you’d answer the question.  Stalling, dodging, and obfuscation only indicate guilt.  So, I will ask one more time.  What were do doing here after she returned to the hotel on the night of the opera, and where is she now?”

Another withering look in my direction, and he stood.

“I do not have to answer your questions.  Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

He headed towards the door.

“Fine.  You will not be leaving the hotel, and I suggest you call your legal representative.”  /I pulled out my phone and pressed speed dial.  When one of the two men below answered, I said, “Pick him up.  You know where to take him.”

© Charles Heath 2023

A 2am Rant: Almost nonsensical descriptions we sometimes use without thinking

I found this explanation on the internet which seems to sum up what odd phrases like ‘you can’t judge a book by its cover’ mean: ‘a word or phrase used in a non-literal sense for rhetorical or vivid effect.’

We, as writers, are constantly reminded that we should not use these in our writing because most people might not understand their use.

But, being that unconventional, never-to-be-told type, I honestly think that it sometimes adds a degree of whimsy to the story.

I remember some years ago when I was working with a Russian chap who’d not been in the country very long, and though he had a reasonable use of English, he was not quite up with our figures of speech.

And made me realise when he kept asking me what they meant, just how many I used in everyday conversation.

Most of these figures of speech use descriptions that do not necessarily match the word being described, such as ‘I dance like I have two left feet’.

And that pretty much sums up how good I can dance.  But …

‘Like a bat out of hell’, not sure how this got into the vernacular, but it means to get the hell out of dodge quickly.  Hang on, that’s another saying, American, and the way Dodge city was in western American folklore, if you irritated a gunslinger, then best be on your way, fast.

Otherwise, yes, you guessed it, you were at the end of another saying, you would get a one-way ticket to Boot Hill.  In other words, the cemetery.

And while I’m digressing, again, Yul Brynner made a trip to Boot Hill very memorable in The Magnificent Seven.

Then,

‘Like a bull in a China shop’ describes a toddler let loose

‘More front than Myers’, as my mother used to say, but in context, Myers is the Australian version of the English Selfridges or Harrods or Paris Galleries Lafayette.  It refers to the width of the street frontage of the stores

‘As mad as a hatter’, though not necessarily of the millinery kind, but, well, you can guess

‘As nutty as a fruitcake’, provided your fruitcake has nuts in it

You can see, if you get the references, they are somewhat apt, and, yes, they sometimes creep into my stories.

What I learned about writing – Some days are just an explosion of ideas, and you find yourself working on many stories at once

I’m a case in point…

There is more going on in the story front, and just to keep my mind active, or tortured, as the case may be, there are several other stories I’m working on.

In the first instance, there is the story with the tag line –

“What happens after an action-packed start…”

Quite a lot.

In part one, the protagonist is shot out of the sky, captured, and interrogated – but for what reason

In part two, the protagonist and a select team of misfits are flown into northern Nigeria, before crossing into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in search of two men being held to ransom.

Previous attempts to rescue them had failed; this one had to succeed. It’s a matter of dealing with local militias who are tricky to deal with, and then getting out of the country after effecting the rescue.

At times, while writing it, looking at a map and using Google Earth to see what it is like, I felt like I was there looking down the barrel of a gun, and then, in the helter-skelter of getting to the evacuation point, I’m sure my heart rate had lifted considerably, particularly when the battered DC3 was about to be shot at with air to air missiles.

Just imagine this …

A DC3 versus a very maneuverable helicopter.

I was on the edge of my seat.

Next is the surveillance story where nothing is as it seems, which in the espionage business is nothing unusual. Nor is the fact that you cannot trust anyone.

It starts out as a routine surveillance operation until a shop front explodes a moment or two after the target passes it. In the ensuing mayhem, the target reappears, now in fear for his life, and our main character tracks him to an alley where he is murdered before his eyes.

Soon after, the two men whom the protagonist is working for appear and start asking questions that make our main character think that they had perpetrated a hit on the victim, and he decides that something is not right.

From there, the deeper he probes, the more interesting the characters and developments. Who was the target? What was he doing that got him killed? What does he have that everyone wants?

I’m about to start on the next phase of this story…

Then there is what I like to call comic light relief, the writing of stories inspired by photographs I’ve taken. Some, however, have exceeded the 1,000-word limit that I’ve set, only because I want to explore the story more, and some are spread over several stories.

They are titled: A picture is worth a thousand words … more or less

The first book of stories, 1 to 50, is to be published soon. Currently, I’m working on number 148 of the third volume of stories, but number 88 is my favourite so far, simply because it involves a starship.

But the overarching point to all of this is that ideas and stories can come in swarms, and unless you can focus on one, which I cannot, it is a juggling act, and one that I love being in the middle of.

And, you guessed it, I just saw an article on my news feed about how lifelike robots are getting, and an idea for a story just popped into my head.

What if you couldn’t tell the difference and … gotta run.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 118

Day 118 – Writing Exercise

…

With a job that took me all over the world, at times to some of the most scenic and visitor-friendly places to go, I never had the time to stop and smell the roses.

Ever.

There was never enough time.

Until…

I had to retire, forced because of injuries I had received in the line of duty.  It rendered me unfit to resume my chosen profession

Being told had been like the sky had fallen in on me.  The doctor, a relatively cheerful fellow, spoke the words in a matter-of-fact tone.

I doubt he realised the weight of those words on the recipient.  For him, it was another day in the office.  For me, it was the end of my world as I knew it.

Most of it was gobbledegook, until the end, the part that mattered.  The sentence…

“Movement will be difficult, and for a while, very tiring.  It will improve, but that will depend on your pain threshold.  No sudden movements, and plan your trips, short or long.  No stairs, avoid steep uphill and downhill paths, no running or jogging.  Maintain your exercise routine.  I think, at the very least, you are very lucky to be alive, and extremely lucky you have the mobility you have.”

My former boss, Roundtree, had a more profound way of looking at it.  “In other words, now you can get around to doing all those things you couldn’t before.”

“Skydiving, and downhill slalom?”

His bright expression turned into a frown, like the sun going behind a cloud.  “Don’t be obtuse, Sykes.  You know what I mean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not your revered leader any more, Sykes.  You are the master of your destiny.  Have you told Wanda where you want to go?”

Wanda was the agency travel arrangements officer.  I had one last trip available.  First-class ticket to anywhere, and a fortnight in the best hotel.

“Florence.”

“Nice place.  I trust your Italian is up to scratch?”

“Yes, sir.”

A frown, but then, I was never going to call him Walter.  It seemed so disrespectful.

“Well, good.  Well done.  Don’t forget to send postcards.”

“Top of the list, sir.”

“Excellent.”  He came over and shook my hand, then left with the doctor.  I would probably not see him again.

…

You meet interesting people in first class.  It was almost a first for me.  Usually, I was down the back with the rest of humanity.  The department’s attitude was all about anonymity.

I thought it was because the boss was cheap.

But, halfway into the flight from New York to Florence, I’d decided the only reason I’d travel first class was the comfort, and it paid off. 

It was not about the chef-inspired food delivered on monogrammed fine bone china, or the champagne and orange juice when I boarded.  It wasn’t even about that special pack each passenger received on first boarding.

It was just an expensive way to fly.

And see how the other half lived.  Which, by the way, was far more exciting than I usually did, though at times I got to pretend I had more wealth than an Arab Sheik.

There were not many, and they didn’t talk to each other.  There was a family, the mother and father were reasonable, and the two children were brats.  Two CEOs spent the time trying to prove one was better than the other, me, a pretender, a middle-aged woman who was a magazine editor, telling everyone she was on a freebie, a youngish woman who looked like an adventurer, with the whole Indiana Jones thing going on, and two men I suspected were Arab terrorists, or more likely drug cartel leaders.  Flashy but cheap.  I’d met their type before.

The Indiana Jones girl spoke to me before I said anything.  She was nearby and didn’t look the sort to indulge in sharing anything on a plane with strangers.  Neither was I.  It was surprisingly just how many did.

She was coming back from the restroom and simply stopped.  “First time?”

I looked up, surprised.  “Here, going to Italy, being a big boy and travelling alone…”

She smiled.  “Sharper than an Inca death dart.  Pick one.”  She leaned against the wall as the plane shuddered through some turbulence.

“Not the first time here.  Not Italy.  Always working, never got time to see the sights.  Retired, can now.  You?”

“Blogger.  Influencer.  To most, a wanker.  I try the experience for the more adventurous of us out there.”

“Ever crash and burn?”

“Frequently.  Just getting over another failed relationship.  I keep making the same mistake.”

She didn’t look to me to be the sort who made any mistakes. But thanks for sharing, but I don’t care.

“Married men?”

It was meant to be a light-hearted comment.  It went down with a lead balloon.  “You married?”

I think it came out more harshly than she intended.

“No.  No woman will have me.  Broken “

A glare, or a grim smile, she figured I was an obtuse old bastard, and it was time to move on.  A nod, and she went back to her seat.

It was a reminder that you can have everything and nothing.  Someone had told me that a while back, and it stuck

…

I got through the flight with painkillers and a great deal of tolerance.  I was going to kill the two children and hide them in the baggage compartment, but they were not worth the effort.  Leaving them alive was the best form of revenge on the parents.

Florence airports seemed very little different to than at JFK, other than the fact that the writing was in Italian and people tended to speak Italian.  They might have looked a little different, but I wasn’t paying attention.

I was heading to immigration to collect my one bag.  Travelling light was instilled into us.  Carry nothing you couldn’t afford to lose.  To me, all that mattered was a passport and a credit card.  Oh, and money.

I followed the adventuress, oddly in a hurry to get off the plane, turn her phone on and make a half dozen calls, each getting more frustration-laden till the last when I thought she was going to throw the cell phone at the wall.

Or the man who suddenly changed direction in front of her and caused her to stumble to avoid him.  The language was very unladylike.  The man just sailed on regardless.

She just happened to block my way, so I just stood there.  I thought about offering to help, but I got the impression she would not accept it. I would be one of ‘those’ men.

I still had no idea what ‘those’ meant.

She saw me.  “You again.”

Again what?  “You seem to be in a particularly bad mood.  I would have thought that impossible in this place.”

She frowned.  “You seem happy.”

“Just happy to be here.  See a few ancient statues, and go to the museum.  Steep myself in the aura of history.  Get some pizza and gelato.”

“You’re too old to be acting like a giddy tourist.”

She was right, but that was how I felt.  Or how I wanted to feel.

“Life’s too short to be perpetually in a hurry.”

I thought I’d stepped over that invisible line, as red spots appeared on her cheeks, but then she took a deep breath and slowly let it out

“You’re right.  The more haste, the less speed.  Tell me about the statues.”

I almost did a double-take.  Almost.

She fell in beside me, and we strolled to immigration.

…

Whilst I had no intention of spending more time with Deborah Travisore, adventuress and adventure travel influencer, beyond the walk to the immigration queue, she found me, standing back, waiting for the bags.

First class should be first off?  Right?  No.  Not today.  Or just not me.  She had collected four suitcases and several smaller bags, another person who didn’t understand the meaning of travelling light.

I made the mistake of asking if she had brought a menagerie with her. 

And had she not accepted it, had an eccentric sense of humour, my limousine ride from the airport to the hotel would have been less interesting.

If I were still in my former trade, firstly, I would have suspected her to be a foreign actor up to no good, and secondly, if it were and they wanted me dead, I would be.

Except it was patently clear she was who she said she was.  Exile alone and waiting for my bad, I looked up her website’s social media pages and the messy, broken relationships that she seemed to revel in.

Who else would you entrust their disastrous life to cultivate likes, followers, and social media traction?  What scared me was when, not if, I ended up on her website pages as Mr Eccentric, broken man. Astonishingly, she had over a quarter of a million followers.

It was my second foray into the world of social media as a man in the street.  I had no pages, nothing on Facebook or Instagram, or anything.  I just created an email address the day before I got on the plane

The ride to the hotel scored me the result of six phone calls from exiting the plane to where she stumbled.

The man who had asked her to come, and made arrangements for her to run adventure tours and lectures, and who had made arrangements for her hotel stay, had been declared insolvent and arrested.

She had nothing to do and nowhere to go.  I said I would take her as far as my hotel.  What she did after that was her business.

Until I learned that the plane ticket had been paid for, the return ticket had been rescinded, and she didn’t have any more money.

Lesson learned?  Lots of followers meant not a lot of money.

At the hotel, I was met by the Assistant Manager and shown to my room.  I was hoping it would be the last time I saw Deborah.

Until…

My room phone rang.

Intrigued, I answered it.  “Yes?”

“Miss Travencore is insisting that you will verify she is who she says she is.”  It was the Assistant Manager in a rather tricky bind.

“Does that mean I have to pay her account if she cannot?”

“It means you have a connecting set of rooms, and you can hide her in one.  Not that I’m suggesting you do such a thing.  If not, we will escort her to the sidewalk.”

If she were a spy, which I was beginning to think was the case, because her landing on my lap like this was page one of the student playbook.

It was a case of keep your friends close and keep your enemies closer.

“Tell her it will be until she sorts herself out.”

So here was the problem.  Firstly, she was being far too obvious.  Secondly, she had a lot of work put into her cover story.  Thirdly, this type of decoy was usually a stunning-looking woman.  Deborah was attractive in a different way.

Perhaps she had a more interesting side that would emerge later.

Fourthly, and perhaps the one that would be my downfall, I was intrigued that anyone would care about an ex-spy.  I had no codes, no access, and no information or access to it. I had the internet, the same as everyone else.

I was here to look at antiquities, not duel with adversaries that were no longer adversaries.

I took a bottle of Italian beer out of the bar fridge and took a few sips while looking down on a main thoroughfare that led to the Duomo.  I was hoping to visit the church before the day was out.

I heard the door close next door.  Deborah was in residence.  It would cost me nothing for her to stay there; it was part of the package.

Satisfied that the aromas wafting up and in through my windows were exactly as I remembered them, I sat down to contemplate the afternoon.

Fifteen minutes.  I had a mental bet with myself that it would take ten.

A light rapping on the door.

I wasn’t going to open it, then after a sigh, I did.

“Deborah.”

“Call me Debbie.”

“Miss Travencore.”

“That sounds very formal.”

“So there are no misunderstandings.”

“There are no misunderstandings.”

“It will be interesting to see how quickly the complications add up.”

“I am not here to cause trouble, just to thank you for your generosity.”

“Consider me thanked.”  I went to close the door.

“Before you make a decision you might regret…”

I didn’t think any of the decisions I was considering I would regret, other than the one that submits her to a crude and painful field interrogation.

“Who are you, really, Miss Travencore?”

“Who I say I am.  I travel the world finding adventures for my devoted fans.  And, every now and then dabble in a hobby of mine.  This is certainly not one of those tasks.  I swear my uncle Walter puts far too much faith in me.”

“Uncle … Walter?”  An awful thought occurred to me.  My old boss had sent a minder.

“This Uncle Walter…”

“Calls you insufferable, Sykes.  He calls me incorrigible Debbie.  I told him I didn’t do babysitting.  And you wouldn’t want it.  Do you?”

“He refused to get you a room?”

“He said he was already paying for half the hotel.  You know what he’s like.  Three-star, ‘can-not-swing-a-cat’ rooms and overboiled eggs for breakfast.  I heard the crispy bacon is fantastic here.”

I shook my head.  I could have a long conversation with Walter, but it wouldn’t change a thing.  He’d mentioned his Lara Croft nice more than once, and the fact that she always seemed to make a mess of everything she touched, but somehow worked out.

Now she was here.

What was he thinking?

“I assume this is for how long?”

“Three weeks or you kill me, which he said you might do when you figure it out.  I saved you the trouble.  Kill me now.”

I looked her up and down.  Over the years, he had told me a lot about her, and I think I came to know her almost as well as he did.

“I’ve got a better idea.  Let’s go look at some statues and try the gelato.  You’ll love it.  And dress like a tourist, not like you’re about to swing from the trees.”

She smiled.  “If you try not to look like something you’re not, old and broken.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Searching for locations: Hutongs, Beijing, China

What are Hutongs?

In Beijing Hutongs are formed by lines of traditional courtyard residences, called siheyuan.  Neighborhoods were formed by joining many hutongs together. These siheyuan are the traditional residences, usually occupied by a single or extended family, signifying wealth, and prosperity. 

Over 500 of these still exist.Many of these hutongs have been demolished, but recently they have become protected places as a means of preserving some Chinese cultural history.  They were first established in the Yuan Dynasty (1279-1368)Many of these Hutongs had their main buildings and gates built facing south, and lanes connecting them to other hutongs also ran north to south.

Many hutongs, some several hundred years old, in the vicinity of the Bell Tower and Drum Tower and Shichahai Lake are preserved and abound with tourists, many of which tour the quarter in pedicabs.

The optional tour also includes a visit to Shichahai, a historic scenic area consisting of three lakes (Qianhai, meaning Front Sea; Houhai, meaning Back Sea and Xihai, meaning West Sea), surrounding places of historic interest and scenic beauty and remnants of old-style local residences, Hutong and Courtyard.  

First, we had a short walk through the more modern part of the Hutong area and given some free time for shopping, but we prefer just to meander by the canal.  

There is a lake, and if we had the time, there were boats you could take.

With some time to spare, we take a quick walk down one of the alleyways where on the ground level are small shops, and above, living quarters.

Then we go to the bell and drum towers before walking through some more alleys was to where the rickshaws were waiting.
The Bell tower

And the Drum tower. Both still working today.

The rickshaw ride took us through some more back streets where it was clear renovations were being made so that the area could apply for world heritage listing.  Seeing inside some of the houses shows that they may look dumpy outside but that’s not the case inside.

The rickshaw ride ends outside the house where dinner will be served, and is a not so typical hose but does have all the elements of how the Chinese live, the boy’s room, the girl’s room, the parent’s room, the living area, and the North-south feng shui.

Shortly after we arrive, the cricket man, apparently someone quite famous in Beijing arrives and tells us all about crickets and then grasshoppers, then about cricket racing.  He is animated and clearly enjoys entertaining us westerners.

I’m sorry but the cricket stuff just didn’t interest me.  Or the grasshoppers.

As for dinner, it was finally a treat to eat what the typical Chinese family eats, and everything was delicious, and the endless beer was a nice touch.

And the last surprise, the food was cooked by a man.

In a word: Holiday

Some call time off from work whether it is for a day, a few days, a couple of weeks, or maybe longer, a holiday.

Or leave, leave of absence, annual leave, or long service leave.

Others may call it a vacation.

It depends on what part of the world you live in.

But the end result is the same, you do not go to work, so you stay home and do all those things that have mounted up, you drive up, and for some reason, it is always up, to the cabin, for a little hunting shooting fishing, or you get on a plane or a ship and try to get as far away from home and work as possible.

That’s called going overseas. It seems if there is an ocean between where you go and where you live, no one will be able to disturb you.

Sorry, I bet you didn’t leave that mobile phone or iPad at home did you?

But, of course, there are a few other obscure references to the word holiday.

For instance,

It can be a day set aside to commemorate an event or a person, a day when you are not expected to work, e.g. Memorial Day, Christmas Day, or Good Friday. In Britain, they used to be called Bank Holidays.

It can be a specified period that you may be excused from completing a task or doing something such as getting a one-year tax exemption, which might also be called a one-year tax holiday.

Yes, now that is an obscure reference, particularly when no tax department would ever grant anyone an exemption of any sort.