The 2am Rant: I think the asylum is beckoning

I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by any number of scraps of paper with more storylines, written excerpts, parts of stories, and a number of chapters of a work in progress.

Does this happen to anyone else?

The business of writing requires a talent to keep focused on the one project and silence all the other screaming voices in your head, pouring out their side of the story.

But it’s not working.

I try to be determined in my efforts to edit my current completed novel, after letting it ‘rest’ in my head for a few months.

I planned to have some time off, but all of those prisoners in my head started clamouring for my attention. A story I started some time ago needs revising, another story I wrote last year of NANOWRIMO has come back to haunt me, and characters, well, they’re out in the waiting room, pacing up and down, ready to tell me their life stories.

Is the temporary cure coffee or wine?

Now I think I really do need a holiday

Or a trip to the asylum. Thank God this is not the early 20th century, or I might never return. And if it’s named Bellview, it would be just another story to be written.

The Author that went Bonkers!

Does it ever end?

What I learned about writing – What we give up to write

The Unnecessary Sacrifices: What We Really Give Up To Pursue Our Trade

The narrative of the struggling artisan is deeply ingrained in our culture. The solitary writer fueled by instant coffee, the entrepreneur sleeping on their office floor, the painter eating cold beans for dinner—we romanticise the idea that true devotion requires extreme hardship.

We constantly ask ourselves: What must I tell myself I can do without in order to ply my trade?

This line of questioning often leads us to scrutinise the basic necessities of life. Do we cut food? Do we wear patched clothes? Do we forgo self-care?

The truth, however, is far more subtle and far more strategic. If your trade is a marathon, sacrificing your fuel (physical, intellectual, or emotional) is not devotion—it’s self-sabotage. To thrive, we must learn the difference between necessary austerity and counterproductive deprivation.

Here is a professional perspective on what is truly shed when we commit to our craft, and what must absolutely be protected.

1. Shedding the Myth of Monetary Deprivation

The common wisdom suggests we must sacrifice the big three: food, clothes, and looking good.

If we are being honest, very few successful professionals or skilled tradespeople literally starve themselves or wear rags. What we sacrifice isn’t the necessity itself, but the performative consumption surrounding it.

Food: Quality Over Spectacle

We don’t give up food; we give up time-consuming dining experiences and expensive ingredients that don’t increase our productivity.

The sacrifice is the elaborate lunch hour, the $15 artisanal coffee every morning, or the weekend spent trying complicated new recipes. We trade the gourmet for the pragmatic, optimising our diet for consistent energy and focus. The decision isn’t “Should I eat?” it’s “Does this meal purchase me another hour of high-quality work?”

Clothes and Appearance: Utility Over Status

The sacrifice here is not looking presentable; it is the need to impress onlookers and the time spent shopping for trends.

The dedicated professional often adopts a uniform—a set of clothes that are comfortable, reliable, and require zero decision-making energy in the morning (the classic example of Steve Jobs’ turtlenecks or Mark Zuckerberg’s grey t-shirts). This is a strategic sacrifice of bandwidth. We give up the mental effort of fashion tracking and external validation so that our finite focus can be diverted entirely to the work itself.

2. Protecting the Intellectual Engine

The most dangerous question posed by the hustle culture mindset is whether we must give up books and writing to survive.

For the modern professional—be they a coder, a writer, a consultant, or a marketer—these are not luxuries; they are fundamental operating costs.

If your trade requires cognitive skill, problem-solving, or communication, sacrificing these inputs is akin to a carpenter giving up their hammer.

Books and Reading: Fueling the Engine

We cannot afford to stop learning. When we are deep in the trenches of a trade, reading books—whether they are technical manuals, industry reports, or even great fiction—is the only way to fill the well of knowledge needed to stay competitive.

The real sacrifice is often mindless entertainment: binge-watching television that contributes nothing to our professional growth, or endlessly scrolling validated social media feeds. We trade passive consumption for active learning.

Writing: Sharpening the Tool

Whether you write code, marketing copy, or detailed client briefs, writing is how we clarify thought, document processes, and communicate value. Giving up personal writing, journaling, or even drafting non-work-related essays inhibits our ability to structure complex ideas.

The sacrifice is not the act of writing; it is the expectation of perfectionism in every draft. We sacrifice the time spent trying to make the first sentence flawless so that we can get the crucial idea down quickly and move forward.

3. The True Sacrifices: Time, Comfort, and Bandwidth

When we are truly committed to a trade, the things that disappear are not our fundamental needs, but the luxurious buffers we previously relied upon. These are the real opportunity costs:

1. The Buffer of Time

The biggest sacrifice is spontaneity and unstructured time.

If you are serious about your craft, your schedule becomes deliberately rigid. You sacrifice the freedom to say “yes” to every last-minute social invitation, because that time has already been allocated to deep work, administration, or necessary rest. This is often misunderstood as anti-social behaviour, but it is actually the strategic protection of your workflow.

2. The Comfort of Stability

The trade requires a willingness to live closer to the edge of failure. You sacrifice the comfort of guaranteed outcomes.

Every new project, every pitch, every innovative attempt carries a genuine risk of falling short. This trade demands emotional resilience and the sacrifice of the secure, predictable path for one that offers significant growth but zero guarantees.

3. The Need for External Validation

Finally, we sacrifice the energy spent chasing approval.

When you are intensely focused on the quality of your output, you stop trying to manage the fickle opinions of others. This is where the sacrifice of “looking good” truly comes into play—not physically, but professionally. We stop sacrificing genuine progress for the sake of public performance.

The Wise Exchange

The commitment to a trade is not a vow of destitution; it is a vow of strategic alignment.

The professional does not ask, “What must I suffer through?” but rather, “What non-essential things are draining the time, energy, and resources I need to excel?”

Stop sacrificing your intellectual fuel (books, learning) and your physical fuel (health, decent food). Instead, identify and eliminate the silent drains: the distraction, the excessive consumerism, the need for immediate gratification, and the fear of saying “no.”

Ply your trade, but do so from a position of strength, not starvation. Sacrifice wisely, or risk burning out before the real work ever begins.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 195

Day 195 – Writing exercise

…

It was hard, very hard, to stand at the altar and find the words that could adequately describe how much he missed Catherine, or explain in simple words how much she had meant to him.

These days relationships and marriages were throwaway items, something you jump into and out of as easily as getting on and off a boat.

It was a dilemma that had been haunting him since the priest had told him he should prepare some words to remember her in a way everyone would understand.

The thing was, not everyone did. Certainly not her brother and two sisters. Certainly not her parents; they simply didn’t understand who she was and didn’t try. They had three other children to bend to their will.

Certainly not my parents, of similar practical ilk as hers, and didn’t understand my choice. My younger sister did; they were friends, soul mates for life, and her sudden death had affected her as much as it had me.

But to find words that made her relatable? That was going to take a collaborative effort, simply because she was ‘artistic’.

There were various ways of interpreting artistic, most ending up on a scrapheap of misunderstandings that usually generated into misguided insults.

When I first met her I did the same. I had not yet broken free of what she called the shackles of formalism. It was a polite way of saying I was trying to conform to my parents’ ideal person.

Hard working, university educated as a doctor or lawyer, certainly a professional, and ideally working in the family business. My father was a lawyer; his father was; my brothers were. Then, my mother was a doctor, and my sister was meant to be, but she, like myself, fell off that wagon before it was too late, and we became autonomous.

My parents blamed Catherine for that.

But that took a while. I had yet to meet her and go through the hardest year of my life.

…

I was studying law at the same university my great-grandparents and my brothers attended. We Berkeley’s were well known, even famous, given that Berkeley’s featured everywhere in the walls and the fabric of university lore.

I, like my brothers, had very big shoes to fill, and when you are a so-so student not gifted with instant recall and a photographic memory, law really is a struggle.

Catherine was there doing art history or archaeology or some esoteric degree that to me seemed more fun than gritty learning. She stood out because of her manner, the way she dressed, and the fact that every day she was like a ray of sunshine.

The first time I met her was in the library. I was trying to study for a difficult exam that I had to pass, or I would be spending my summer holidays locked in a tutorial instead of going on the family holiday in Capri.

I knew I wasn’t going to make it.

That day I was searching for a law volume, and she was up a ladder and dropped a book on my head. She said it slipped out of her hand.

It hit me in just the spot where it briefly knocked me out cold. A book. I couldn’t believe it.

Anyway, when I woke up, I was in a medical room lying on a cot with a doctor looking concerned, and Catherine, though I didn’t know her name then, hovering at the end of the cot, hoping, she said later, she hadn’t killed me.

The doctor asked me if I knew where I was, loosely translated to ‘at the university ‘, and what day it was, ‘the worst day of my life ‘, and what happened to me, ‘God was answering my prayer to kill me now before I failed the exam and went straight to hell’.

I think there were tears because my head really hurt, so he recommended painkillers and bed rest. The nurse was very unsympathetic. Catherine was contrite.

She sat down beside the cot and held my hand.

I’d seen her many times, always from afar. I was not in her classes nor did I have a reason to be in her friend group. Why she had stayed was unexplainable. I had survived; her obligation was over. I didn’t blame her for anything. It could have happened to anyone.

She opened with, “I’m so sorry. Things like that just happen to me.”

“Dripping books of heads?”

“Books, spilling drinks and food, bumping into things. People say I’m in a different world.”

“Are you?”

She smiled. “Most of the time I see the world differently. It’s the same as everyone else. I just see only the good things.”

“How?”

“Take your accident. It brought us together. That’s a good thing. Unless you’re an axe murderer.”

“They don’t let me bring my axe to school.”

She gave me a strange look, then smiled again. “You have a sense of humour. That will never work if you’re going to be a lawyer.”

“How do you know…”

“You look like your brother Aloysius. I hope you’re not like him. He keeps asking me out, but it’s only to settle a bet. He’s basically horrible. I’m sorry, but that’s how I see him.”

She was right, of course; he was. And I knew about him and his university friends. They had no respect for women, a trait handed down from their father. Mine too, but that part missed me. He called me ambivalent, a traitor as wild as my red hair.

He stopped short of saying I wasn’t his son, especially when my mother was not around. Curiously, I never suspected her of having affairs, not like him in his quest to stay relevant and young, a battle he was losing as he got older.

“I hate to say it, but I agree with you. I’ll be happy to kick his ass if he tries too hard, if you like. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’d do that for me, even after I tried to kill you.”

“I think it was the law trying to kill me. It was sending me a message. You just happened to be nearby.”

“Now you’re being too nice.” She stood. “You seem to be alright, so I’ll leave you to contemplate the hidden meaning behind the attack of the book. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Probably not. We moved in completely different circles, and I was not the sort of person that fitted into her friend group.

“Maybe. I could get delayed amnesia, and forget you.”

“You could, but I am unforgettable.” That said, she left.

I didn’t expect to see her again, except from afar. Somehow that made me feel sad.

. .

Some people stay in your mind for a variety of reasons. Catherine stayed in mine simply because she was different, in a way that made her, as she said, unforgettable.

But toiling with the vicissitudes of the law took my mind off everything as I battled to get my head above water. Law just wasn’t my thing.

Later that year, when I was seriously contemplating leaving university and going home to face the music, I wandered into the cafe looking for a cup of strong black coffee.

That’s when I saw her again, sitting with two other girls who no doubt were in her classes. What bothered me was that my brother was talking to her.

Well, not talking to her as such, it looked to me like he was being an ass. Again.

I stood on the doorway for a fraction too long, causing a hold-up that drew comment and her attention.

Just what I didn’t want.

I was going to leave, but she saw me and waved. My brother turned to see who she was waving at, and that sealed my fate.

The last thing I wanted to do was confront him. He was condescending at best and abrasive at worst when I wandered into his line of sight.

It was a shame I had to go to the same school as he did.

Fate sealed, I wandered over.

She was more interested in me than him. He glared at me, “What are you doing here?”

“Getting coffee, though something stronger would be better. What are you doing? Harassing the female students in your usual manner?”

If her plan was to put us against each other, it might just work. I was in a bad mood, and he was just the person to take it out on.

“Just go away and get whatever it is you came for.”

She looked at me, and I think she could see I was spoiling for a fight. Maybe she wanted to throw some duel on the fire.

“Your brother is being a pain.”

“No. My brother wanted to win a bet that he can get you to go out with him. Put him out of his misery, and as a gentleman he will go away and not bother you again “

I looked at him. “Not that you know what a gentleman really is. Perhaps I should have a quiet word to Margaret and tell her you’re still sowing those wild cats Dad keeps banging on about.”

“You should be minding your own business.”

“Your misbehaving is my business. I’m protecting the family name while you seem to think besmirching it is fine.”

“Go away, Steven. Or else.”

“Or else what?”

“You don’t want to know.”

He was bigger and meaner than me, a member of the rugby team. I’d seen what he could do when he took his temper out on Jeffery, our middle brother.

I was no match in size and weight, but he had no finesse.

I looked back at her. “You want this jackass to leave you alone?”

“He doesn’t understand the word no.”

“Not when money is involved.” I looked at him. “You and me, the gym. I win, you leave alone.”

“And if I win,” he said, grinning.

“You won’t.”

He looked me up and down, evaluating his chances. They were good. Probably better than good.

“Done. 6 pm. You really are that stupid.”

Perhaps I was, but one thing I knew in that moment. I was going to take my temper and all the bad stuff about law I hated on him.

…

“You really shouldn’t be doing this,” Catherine said. She had decided to come with me to the gym to watch the epic battle.

She didn’t portray it as two fools fighting over a girl who wanted nothing to do with either of them. She wanted to believe I was defending her honour.

That might have been the case if it was 1780, or a page out of a Jane Austen novel.

The truth was I hated him. He was the favourite; everything came easy for him. Law studies were easy, rugby was easy, dating any girl he wanted was easy.

I just wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.

In reality, I was going to get pounded into the middle of next week.

And I think she knew that my gesture was just that, one that I hadn’t thought through. She had already told me I didn’t have to go through with it.

I said it was about time I stuck up for myself instead of living in his shadow. This was sibling rivalry, and she was just an excuse I was using to justify my actions.

Yet she did go off after telling me I was being stupid, or that she didn’t appreciate me making a fool of myself on her behalf. I think I was offended at her lack of faith.

When I got there, about five minutes before the event, there was a crowd of about two hundred. Friends of his, and people who had learned there was going to be a fight.

A civilised fight.

He was dressed for the occasion, in fact, the whole boxing thing, and it didn’t surprise me he was into sparring. I had been taking lessons, but the odds of any of it sticking in my brain were slight.

“Go change. We do this properly.”

I shrugged, then climbed into the ring. One of the gym staff came over with gloves and a helmet and helped me put both on.

Then he read the riot act, as much to say this was going to be by the book and no underhanded punching and clinging. There was more, but I wasn’t listening. I was trying to remember what my instructor had told me.

We took our corners.

The gym instructor stood in the middle. Someone clanged the bell, and it was on.

I watched him circle, fists pumping like pistons, throwing out exploratory jabs as he circled. Perhaps he thought it would make me dizzy watching him.

Then he came at me, trying to land a punch on the way past. I saw the move and moved out of the way, and landed a punch to his upper arm that elicited a grunt.

And an expression changed. Perhaps I might take a little effort on his part.

More circling, more punches, one of which rattled me, but not unduly so. I had lowered my guard.

Then he came at me. Perhaps he thought he had me at a disadvantage. He landed one, but while he was doing that, he left himself exposed, and I lashed out with all the force I could muster.

Thwack. That’s what it sounded like. Clean, hard, and right on the money.

He crumpled, collapsing to the floor and then didn’t move. The gym instructor was beside him checking the damage.

It wasn’t much. I had caught him flush, and it knocked him out. A few seconds later he was awake, realised what had happened and tried to get up. His legs could not support the weight, and he had to stay down.

But the fight was over.

I stood there and looked down at him. There was a vacant stare behind those eyes of his. Stunned perhaps at the idea that I could beat him.

“You win,” he said. “No hard feelings.”

Pity. I wanted to pound him some more. Instead I just shrugged and took off the gloves. By the time I got out of the ring, my brother was back on his feet. He would survive.

The crowd had dispersed.

Catherine was still there, sitting on a seat by the wall well away from the ring.

“Did you win?”

“Of course. What were you expecting?”

“Taking you to hospital in an ambulance. It seems to me the only time we spend together is me taking you to random medical facilities “

“Well, you don’t have to. He won’t be annoying you again.”

“What about you?”

“I won’t be annoying you at all.”

“What if I want to be annoyed by you?”

“I wouldn’t believe you. I’m not your sort.”

“How do you know what my sort is?”

“It would not be a deadly dull law graduate. You have too much life in you to be dragged backwards by a dour person like me.”

I had no idea how or why this conversation was going, other than it shouldn’t. We were opposites that in a normal world would never meet.

“OK. Take me to dinner. If by the end of it I judge you to be too dour, we’ll call it off. But what you just did, no one has ever done for me before. That’s not dour.”

“No. It was bloody stupid.”

“Calculated, yes; stupid, no. You knew you could beat him.”

“I knew the odds were in my favour. But fights like that are unpredictable. I could have got hurt.”

“Then I would have taken you to hospital and got you patched up. Then I would tell you how remarkable I think you are. You should never be the person other people want you to be, but the person you want to. He’s in there,” she touched my heart, which coincidentally was beating rather faster than normal, “and we’ll find him.”

“Dinner?”

“A posh restaurant. Impress me. I can be impressed.”

Then she took my hand in hers, and she stood.

I knew then that she was the one, the only one for me; and that I was never going to be a lawyer

…

I was standing behind the priest who had just delivered a remarkable eulogy, one that encapsulated her life, her manner, and her influence over the world at large.

It was meant to light up what a very sad day was, and it did. I remembered her, not only from the first day I met her, but through that amazing dinner date at her so-called posh restaurant, to the day I asked her to marry me and she said yes.

What could I say that could ever tell anyone what I had and what I’d lost?

I could not.

But given the chance to get back at my brother, well, there was a wealth of stories right there.

I looked out over the crowd, all sitting and expecting something witty.

“Everyone knew Catherine, and unfortunately for some, Catherine knew them. I remember her speech at the wedding. As progressive as we were, she took us all by surprise…

“Some more than others…

Quite a few of those before me were there. It was the first inkling they got that she was not afraid to speak her mind or trample on egos.

I was not going to remind them, but it led into more humorous memories, and it got the conversation going. We remembered, we laughed, and how we laughed, until we cried. She had that effect on each and every one of us.

And yes, as I spoke, I knew she was standing next to me, slipping her hand in mine and squeezing it gently, just to let me know I was not, and never would be, alone.

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Ankara

Off the Beaten Path: Top 5 Alternative Things to Do in Ankara

Ankara, the capital city of Turkey, is often overshadowed by its more popular counterpart, Istanbul. However, this vibrant city has a rich history, cultural significance, and a plethora of exciting activities to offer. While many tourists flock to the Anıtkabir, the Museum of Anatolian Civilisations, and the Kocatepe Mosque, there’s more to Ankara than meets the eye. In this blog post, we’ll delve into the top 5 alternative things to do in Ankara, taking you on a road less travelled.

1. Explore the Hamamönü District

Tucked away in the heart of the city, the Hamamönü District is a charming neighbourhood that showcases Ankara’s Ottoman heritage. This historic district is filled with beautifully restored 19th-century Ottoman houses, quaint shops, and traditional Turkish cafes. Visitors can wander through the narrow streets, admire the architecture, and experience the local culture. Don’t miss the opportunity to try some traditional Turkish delight and coffee at one of the many cafes in the area.

2. Visit the Ankara Castle

Perched atop a hill in the Ulus district, the Ankara Castle offers breathtaking panoramic views of the city. This ancient fortress dates back to the 7th century and has been occupied by various civilisations, including the Romans, Byzantines, and Ottomans. While the castle itself is impressive, the surrounding neighbourhood is also worth exploring, with its narrow streets, historic mosques, and traditional shops.

3. Discover the Turkish Aerospace Museum

For aviation enthusiasts and families alike, the Turkish Aerospace Museum is a hidden gem. Located near the Etimesgut Air Base, this museum showcases a vast collection of aircraft, including historic planes, helicopters, and even a spaceship. With interactive exhibits and a play area for kids, this museum is an excellent alternative to the more traditional attractions in Ankara.

4. Wander through the Gençlik Park

The Gençlik Park, which translates to “Youth Park,” is a tranquil oasis in the heart of the city. This beautiful park offers a peaceful escape from the hustle and bustle of Ankara, with its lush greenery, walking trails, and picturesque lake. Visitors can rent a boat and enjoy a relaxing ride, or simply sit back and enjoy the scenery. The park also hosts various events and festivals throughout the year, making it a great place to experience local culture.

5. Explore the Söğütözü District’s Street Art

Ankara’s Söğütözü District is a hub for street artists, with vibrant murals and graffiti adorning the walls of buildings. This up-and-coming neighbourhood is a great place to explore, boasting an eclectic mix of boutiques, cafes, and restaurants. Visitors can take a self-guided walking tour to discover the unique street art, which reflects the city’s modern and artistic side. Be sure to check out the iconic “Ankara” mural, which has become a popular spot for Instagram-worthy photos.

In conclusion, Ankara is a city that offers much more than the usual tourist attractions. By venturing off the beaten path, visitors can experience the authentic culture, history, and beauty of this vibrant city. Whether you’re interested in history, art, nature, or simply exploring a new neighbourhood, Ankara has something to offer. So, take a road less travelled and discover the hidden gems of Ankara – you won’t be disappointed!

In a word: Straight

Yes, that man is straight as an arrow.

Well, in my experience, based on the fact that many years ago I used to play Cowboys and Indians, and I was always an Indian, I used to make bows and arrows from the limbs of a tree in our backyard; those arrows were never straight.

How they got them so back in the Middle Ages without a lathe is anybody’s guess.

We all know what straight means: level, even, true, not deviating. It could be a board, a road, the edge of a piece of paper.

But, of course, there are other meanings like,

He was straight, meaning heterosexual, a question not 50 odd years ago anyone would ask you, and 100 years ago, you wouldn’t dare admit anything but.

In poker, a card game, it is a sequence of five cards, and the sort of straight I’d like to get is ace high. Chances of that happening, zero per cent.

It can mean being honest; that is, you should be straight with her, though I’m not sure telling your wife you’re having an affair would be conducive to continuing good health.

It could mean immediately, as in, I’ve got a headache and going straight to bed, probably after hearing news of that affair that was best left unspoken.

Perhaps that would be the time to have a whiskey straight, that is, without mixers or ice. I’ve tried, but still, at the very least I need ice.

This is not to be confused with the word strait, which is a narrow waterway between two areas of land.

But, here’s where it gets murky because a company can be in dire straits after being in desperate straits, and a person can be strait-laced, and just to be certain, most lunatics finish up in a straitjacket.

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream. She didn’t.

She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”

“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled. “As you say, I was never here.”

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Sofia

Discovering the Hidden Gems of Sofia: 5 Off-the-Beaten-Path Experiences

Sofia, the vibrant capital of Bulgaria, is a city that seamlessly blends ancient history, cultural richness, and modern charm. While many tourists flock to the city’s iconic landmarks like the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral and the Ivan Vazov National Theatre, there’s a treasure trove of lesser-known experiences waiting to be uncovered. In this blog post, we’ll take you on a journey to explore the top five alternative things to do in Sofia, venturing off the beaten path to reveal the city’s best-kept secrets.

1. Explore the Sofia Central Market (Halite) for a Taste of Local Life

Tucked away in the heart of the city, the Sofia Central Market is a bustling hub of activity that’s often overlooked by tourists. This historic marketplace has been in operation since 1909 and offers a fascinating glimpse into local life. Wander through the stalls, sampling traditional Bulgarian delicacies like banitsa, shopska salad, and lukanka, while soaking up the lively atmosphere. From fresh produce to handicrafts, the market is a treasure trove of authentic Bulgarian culture.

2. Visit the Museum of Socialist Art for a Unique Glimpse into Bulgaria’s Past

Located in a quiet neighbourhood, the Museum of Socialist Art is a quirky and fascinating museum that showcases a collection of artworks from Bulgaria’s socialist era. With over 70 artifacts, including sculptures, paintings, and mosaics, the museum provides a thought-provoking insight into the country’s complex history. The museum’s outdoor sculpture park is particularly noteworthy, featuring an impressive array of monumental socialist-realist artworks.

3. Take a Stroll through the Borisova Gradina Park and Lake

Escape the hustle and bustle of city life with a leisurely walk through the beautiful Borisova Gradina Park, one of Sofia’s largest and most scenic green spaces. The park is home to several lakes, walking trails, and plenty of picnic spots, making it an ideal spot to relax and unwind. Rent a boat and enjoy a serene ride on the lake, or visit the park’s charming restaurants and cafes to sample some delicious Bulgarian cuisine.

4. Discover Street Art in the Oborishte Neighbourhood

Sofia’s Oborishte neighbourhood is a hotspot for street art, with vibrant murals and graffiti adorning the walls of buildings and fences. Take a self-guided walking tour to explore the area’s eclectic mix of urban art, which reflects the city’s modern, creative spirit. From quirky portraits to thought-provoking social commentary, the street art in Oborishte is a must-see for anyone interested in contemporary culture.

5. Attend a Performance at the Sofia Opera and Ballet

While the Ivan Vazov National Theatre is well-known, the Sofia Opera and Ballet is another cultural gem that’s often overlooked by tourists. With a rich history dating back to 1890, the opera house hosts a diverse range of performances, from classical operas to contemporary ballet productions. Even if you’re not an opera or ballet enthusiast, the stunning architecture and ornate interior of the building make it worth a visit.

In conclusion, Sofia is a city that rewards exploration and curiosity. By venturing off the beaten path, you’ll discover a treasure trove of unique experiences, from bustling markets and quirky museums to scenic parks and vibrant street art. Whether you’re a history buff, a foodie, or an art lover, Sofia has something to offer, and with this guide, you’ll be well on your way to uncovering the city’s best-kept secrets. So why not take the road less travelled and discover the real Sofia?

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 195

Day 195 – Writing exercise

…

It was hard, very hard, to stand at the altar and find the words that could adequately describe how much he missed Catherine, or explain in simple words how much she had meant to him.

These days, relationships and marriages were throwaway items, something you jump into and out of as easily as getting on and off a boat.