Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
I was a fool for thinking that I could help Nadia when the whole time she was playing me. There didn’t look like any tension between them, and nothing that would convince me that he had any sort of hold over her.
I cursed myself for my own stupidity.
With a shake of the head, I went over to the bar attached to the beachside restaurant and order a cold beer, then another. The bartender gave me a long measured look as if trying to gauge my age, but I was old enough and had the ID card to prove it.
It was a curse to look so young for that reason, but I suppose, like more old men, I would eventually curse being old. At least, that’s what my mother said, along with the warning I should not be so eager to start drinking booze.
At least I didn’t smoke, though that hadn’t always been the case, and, at times, it was hard not to reach for a cigarette in moments of anguish or anger, like now.
I was on my fourth bottle when I heard someone sit on the stool next to mine. About the same time I recognised the perfume wafting my way.
Nadia.
“So, this is where you’re hiding?”
I looked sideways at her. My first thought was to tell her exactly what I thought of her. That passed quickly. No telling how many of her friends were here, and the thought of facing Vince was not something I wanted to do, any time.
“What do you want?”
“I thought I saw you on the pier?”
“I like to see how the other half live. What’s your excuse?” OK, that didn’t come out exactly how I wanted it to.
I could feel her glaring at me. She knew exactly what I was talking about. At least she wasn’t going to dodge the issue.
“I do what I have to. If it means I have to cosy up to a rattlesnake, then I will.” Delivered barely above a whisper, but spat out with a great deal of venom. “What happened out there?”
“Rico got busted for having a dead body on his boat. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“I didn’t put it there if that’s what you mean.”
“Alex?”
“He hasn’t got the brains for something like that. Not in plain sight.”
That was an odd thing to say, in plain sight. Did that mean they were in full view of Rico’s boat the whole time he was not on it?
“Why do you say that?” I looked sideways at her. Slightly sunburned on the top of her cheeks. No makeup, and surprisingly, she looked very different, not as grown-up.
“The yacht was parked three bays down. Engines were not working again and Alex had to come back and just made it into the dock. Sent down a couple of divers to check the propellers or something.”
“You see Rico on his boat?”
“Briefly. He was with a couple of Benderby’s thugs. They left the boat, and about ten minutes later we left the dock. Alex said some fishing line had fouled the propeller.”
“What happened then?”
“We went down below to have lunch. The Captain took it for a run, everything seemed to be working, and we came back. That’s when I saw you and Rico on the dock and all the police. You in some sort of trouble?”
“No. The FBI has taken over the investigation, and told Johnson to let us go.”
“I’m sure Johnson is absolutely thrilled the feds took over his ticket to becoming the next Sherriff.”
“Why? Is he in the Cossatino’s back pocket?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. This will put a dent in your plan to help me out with Alex. I can’t pretend to like the bastard for much longer, and I swear if he touches me again, I’ll kill him.”
I guess it was easy, for a minute, to forget that her brother was exactly the same with other women, and, when we’d been at school, girls too frightened to say no. Perhaps it was the Cossatino blood running through her veins, that it was alright in some cases, and not in others. “That’s ironic after what Vince has done, and probably still does, don’t you think?”
The bartender stopped and put a half-full glass of straight bourbon in front of her. A nod and the bill was paid.
She looked at me, picked it up and drunk the contents straight down, then said, “You’re a bastard smidge. You know I could crush you like the insignificant bug you are, but I’m not going to. You see, I like you, no matter what you think of me. Just call me once you’ve got over your bout of smug superiority.”
A smile, or a grimace, I wasn’t sure what it was, she slid off the stool and left.
It seems rather fortuitous that we have a holiday at the end of the year.
I mean, who sat around a table however many years ago and decided that holidays like Christmas should be at the end of the year? And who decided one half of the world could freeze to death on their holidays, and the other half burn?
At the end of a long year at that, you know, 52 weeks, 12 months, 365 days, where even when some of us get a weekend off once in a blue moon, it still seems like we’re working 7 days a week, 52 weeks a year.
So, who decided a week would have seven days, a year would have 12 months, and while we’re at it, who decided to give each month a different name? And who named names?
Was it Father Time? As children, we all learn about Father Time, or has political correctness stepped in and we now call ‘Father Time’, ‘person time’.
Anyway…
Who do we blame for this mess? We have to blame someone. It’s not our fault. If it were up to me I’d have Christmas in September when there’s more temperate weather in both halves of the world.
And who decided that Christmas should be attached to Winter and not Summer?
It’s like the whole mess was designed by a group of academics majoring in philosophy sitting in a back room and fed Coca-Cola and Pizza until they came up with an answer, which was probably to send it all to a parliamentary committee made up of candidates from Bellevue Asylum.
The same people, by the way, who are responsible for coordinating traffic lights.
And then there’s that other mystery I’ve never quite understood.
If you work for the FBI, your first name suddenly becomes ‘Agent’. Everyone gets that name change, whether you like it or not.
Which is much the same as how all Russians once called each other ‘comrade’. Beats the hell, I suppose, out of remembering people’s first names, especially in Russia, where, to us, they’re unpronounceable.
Sorry.
You can tell I haven’t got over last Christmas.
Nor missing out, again, due to the world getting crazier.
The Feast of the Impossible: Why We Don’t Want a Slice of Life, But a Slice of the Imagination
There is a culinary term often used in creative circles: the “slice of life.” It refers to narratives that capture the ordinary, the mundane, the painfully relatable reality of human existence. It’s the story of the difficult commute, the awkward first date, the slow, inevitable march of rent payments and domestic chores.
And while critics and readers praise these narratives for their mirror-like accuracy, a growing chorus of us—the dreamers, the schemers, the creators—have started to push the plate away.
We are perfectly familiar with reality. We live in it every day. Why, then, should we dedicate our precious leisure time to consuming its reheated leftovers?
We are not interested in a slice of life; what we want is a slice of the imagination.
The Tyranny of the Mundane
The argument against the strict “slice of life” isn’t an argument against authenticity; it’s an argument against limitation.
Reality, for all its occasional beauty, is often characterised by bureaucratic ennui, disappointing physics, and a predictable set of social rules. The slice of life, at its most restrictive, holds us hostage to these limitations. It dictates that things must be believable, that characters must struggle with only the problems we currently possess, and that the scope of human experience must fit within the current legal code and the known laws of thermodynamics.
When we turn to art, literature, or media, we are not looking for confirmation that the world is exactly as depressing and limited as we suspected. We are looking for a lift.
We seek the moment of transcendence—the moment that allows us to step outside the constraints of our five senses and the 24-hour news cycle. The slice of life provides comfort in shared familiarity; the slice of the imagination offers freedom in glorious impossibility.
The True Taste of Imagination
What exactly is this “slice of the imagination”?
It is the narrative that begins not where the road ends, but where the road should have begun if we had been allowed to choose the construction materials ourselves.
It is the hidden history whispered by an exiled queen on a planet visible only through a telescope carved from ice. It is the intricate workings of a clockwork city powered by collective dreams. It is the raw, untamed emotion of a character whose heartbreak causes the actual atmosphere to fracture.
Imagination gives us narratives designed not to confirm the limits of our world, but to test the limits of our humanity under impossible pressures.
Why Imagination Is More Authentic Than Reality
Despite popular misconception, investing in the imaginative is often a deeper, more rigorous exploration of truth than merely documenting the real.
It isolates the core idea: If you want to explore the nature of sacrifice, you can write a story about a parent giving up a promotion for their child (a slice of life). Or, you can write about a space traveller forced to stop the flow of time at the exact moment their daughter smiles, knowing they will be trapped alone in that instant forever (a slice of imagination). The latter, while impossible, isolates and intensifies the emotional truth of sacrifice far more effectively.
It offers universal empathy: A narrative depicting the specific political struggles of 1980s Eastern Europe might struggle to resonate with a modern teenager in Sydney. However, a story about an oppressed people fighting a magically-enforced totalitarian regime (Fantasy) or resisting a hive-mind alien force (Sci-Fi) speaks directly to the universal human impulse for freedom, regardless of the historical moment.
It is the blueprint for the future: Every innovation, every breakthrough, every architectural marvel that defines our modern existence began as a “slice of the imagination.” The aeroplane, the smartphone, the idea of universal healthcare—all were once impossible concepts derided by those content with the current “slice of life.” To celebrate the imagination is to celebrate potential itself.
The Imperative of Invention
To choose imagination is not to choose childish escapism; it is to choose necessary fuel. We need stories built out of invented metal and arcane logic because they train our minds to accept the possibility of a world radically different from the one we inhabit.
The imagination is the muscle we use to solve problems we haven’t encountered yet.
It is the necessary ingredient for those who refuse to accept the status quo—the engineers, the artists, the social reformers, and the writers who believe that if Reality is flawed, the only ethical response is to invent something better.
So, the next time you sit down to read, watch, or create, allow yourself to look past the documentary style and the accurate mirroring of your weekly routine. Demand complexity. Demand strangeness. Demand dragons, ships that sail between dimensions, and philosophical conundrums posed by sentient black holes.
Take the slice of the imagination. It’s a messy, glorious, impossible meal, and it’s the only one that truly nourishes the soul.
What is the most important “impossible” story that changed your perspective on the world? Share your favourite slice of the imagination in the comments below!
The Myth of the “Blocked” Writer: Why Terry Pratchett Was Right
“I’m just waiting for inspiration to strike.”
If you’ve spent any time around writers, you’ve heard it. It’s usually accompanied by a dramatic sigh, a stare out of a rain-streaked window, and a total lack of actual words on a page. We call it “writer’s block.” We treat it like a divine affliction—a spiritual wall that descends upon us, rendering us incapable of stringing a sentence together.
But what if the wall isn’t real?
The late, great Terry Pratchett once famously quipped: “There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.”
It’s a brutal take, but it’s one that every professional should consider. If we strip away the romanticism of the “tortured artist,” what we’re left with is a simple truth: Writing is a job, not a mood.
The Comfort of the “Block”
Why do we cling to the idea of writer’s block? Because it’s an incredibly comfortable place to hide.
If I tell myself I have “writer’s block,” I am absolved of all responsibility. I’m not lazy; I’m “blocked.” I’m not failing to meet a deadline; I’m “waiting for the muse.” It transforms a technical failure—my inability to organize my thoughts or commit to a draft—into a mystical psychological condition.
The reality is that “writer’s block” is usually one of three things:
Fear: You’re afraid the words won’t be perfect. Perfectionism is a form of procrastination.
Lack of Preparation: If you don’t know what happens next in your story or your article, you haven’t done the heavy lifting of outlining or research.
Fatigue: You’re tired, and your brain is telling you to take a break. That’s not a block; that’s just biology.
Writing as a Blue-Collar Trade
Pratchett wasn’t belittling the difficulty of writing; he was elevating it to a craft. He treated writing like a plumber treats a leaky pipe or a carpenter treats a frame. When a plumber has a pipe to fix, they don’t sit in their van waiting for the “spirit of plumbing” to descend. They pick up a wrench and get to work.
If you sit down to write and the words aren’t coming, don’t call it a “block.” Call it “the hard part.”
The hard part is where you realise your opening paragraph is weak. The hard part is where the middle of the essay sags. The hard part is showing up at 8:00 AM, staring at a blinking cursor, and deciding to write a bad sentence just to get the gears moving.
How to “Unblock” (Without the Drama)
If you want to move past the myth, stop waiting for the lightning bolt. Try these, provided you’re willing to do the work:
Write garbage on purpose: Give yourself permission to write the worst first draft in history. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can fix a bad paragraph.
Lower the bar: Sometimes the block is just a result of trying to write a masterpiece in the first pass. Aim for “functional” instead of “brilliant.”
The 15-Minute Rule: Commit to writing for just 15 minutes. No distractions. Usually, the resistance vanishes once the momentum starts.
Break the outline: If you’re stuck, it’s likely because you’re trying to force the story in a direction that doesn’t make sense. Revisit your notes. The problem is usually structural, not spiritual.
The Bottom Line
There are days when writing feels like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. That’s not a block—that’s just the cost of doing business.
So, next time you feel that familiar resistance, don’t look for an excuse. Don’t blame your environment or your creative juices. Pour a cup of coffee, sit down, and accept that writing is labour. As Pratchett knew better than anyone, the only way to get through the “block” is to write your way out of it, one word at a time.
What do you think? Is “writer’s block” just a fancy excuse, or is it a genuine psychological barrier for you? Let me know in the comments.
Beyond the Castle: Unearthing Edinburgh’s Hidden Gems (The Road Less Travelled)
Edinburgh. The name alone conjures images of its majestic castle, the Royal Mile’s bustling crowds, and Arthur’s Seat’s iconic silhouette. And while these are undoubtedly must-sees for any visitor, what if you’re craving a taste of the city that goes deeper, a little off the well-trodden tourist path? If you’ve already ticked off the big hitters or simply fancy an Edinburgh experience that feels more personal and unique, then buckle up. We’re venturing down the road less travelled to uncover five fantastic, alternative experiences in this captivating Scottish capital.
1. Dive into the Artistic Depths of the Dean Village
Forget the galleries packed shoulder-to-shoulder. For a truly enchanting artistic escape, head to Dean Village. This picturesque oasis, nestled on the Water of Leith, feels like stepping back in time. Once a thriving milling community, it’s now a bohemian enclave dotted with stunning Victorian architecture, charming bridges, and lush greenery.
Why it’s off the beaten path: While it’s a beautiful spot for a stroll, many visitors overlook it in favour of more central attractions.
What to do: Wander along the river, admire the intricate buildings of Well Court and the former mills, and soak in the tranquil atmosphere. Keep an eye out for resident artists working in their studios (some even have open days!). It’s a photographer’s paradise and a balm for the soul.
2. Uncover Literary Secrets at the Writer’s Museum
Edinburgh is a UNESCO City of Literature, and while the National Library is impressive, the Writers’ Museum offers a more intimate and characterful glimpse into the lives of Scotland’s literary giants. Housed in a beautiful 17th-century tenement building off the Royal Mile, this museum is dedicated to the lives and works of Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson.
Why it’s off the beaten path: It’s tucked away on a side street, and its smaller scale means it’s often bypassed by those seeking grander institutions.
What to do: Explore the rooms filled with personal belongings, manuscripts, portraits, and furniture belonging to these iconic writers. You can almost feel their creative energy lingering in the air. It’s a deeply personal and inspiring experience for any book lover.
3. Explore the Fascinating Underbelly of the Real Mary King’s Close (Beyond the Main Entrance)
Okay, so “Real Mary King’s Close” is a popular attraction, but hear us out. Instead of booking a standard tour, seek out some of the specialist tours or historical reenactments that occasionally run. These often delve deeper into specific aspects of the Close’s history, focusing on social history, specific residents, or even ghost stories with more dramatic flair.
Why it’s off the beaten path: While the main tours are well-marketed, these niche offerings cater to a more dedicated historical interest and have limited availability.
What to do: Look for advertised events or inquire at local historical societies. These tours can offer a more immersive and less crowded experience, allowing you to truly connect with the stories of those who lived and died beneath the city.
4. Take a Tranquil Escape to the Hermitage of Braid Nature Reserve
Need a break from the urban buzz? The Hermitage of Braid Nature Reserve offers a surprisingly wild and peaceful escape within the city limits. This beautiful wooded glen, also along the Water of Leith, is a haven for wildlife and a perfect spot for a contemplative walk.
Why it’s off the beaten path: It’s further south from the city centre and less advertised than the more accessible parks.
What to do: Follow the winding paths through ancient woodlands, discover charming waterfalls, and enjoy the abundant birdlife. There’s a small, historic Hermitage building and a lovely walled garden to explore. It’s the ideal place to recharge your batteries and reconnect with nature.
5. Indulge Your Sweet Tooth (or Savoury Cravings) at the Stockbridge Market
While Edinburgh has plenty of great restaurants, for a truly local and vibrant food experience, head to the Stockbridge Market. Held every Sunday in the charming Stockbridge neighbourhood, this bustling market is a food lover’s paradise, showcasing a diverse array of local producers, artisanal bakers, and talented street food vendors.
Why it’s off the beaten path: It’s a local’s favourite and attracts a more discerning crowd than the typical tourist markets.
What to do: Sample delicious Scottish produce, from artisan cheeses and freshly baked bread to gourmet baked goods and international street food. Grab a coffee, enjoy the lively atmosphere, and perhaps pick up some unique souvenirs. It’s a fantastic way to experience the city’s culinary heart and support local businesses.
So, the next time you find yourself in Edinburgh, dare to stray from the familiar. These five hidden gems offer a different perspective, a chance to discover the soul of the city beyond the postcards. Happy exploring!
What are your favourite “off the beaten path” spots in Edinburgh? Share them in the comments below!
Yes, this is exactly what a dog does, sometimes annoyingly all night, that sharp explosive cry of a dog or, believe it or not, a seal
Much better if the dog is a guard dog, because then you need it to bark when there is intruders
Then there’s another form of bark, that which grows on a tree, and makes excelled burning material, if not a little smoky, for a BBQ.
Ot that the bark of some trees can be used as material for carving, and of others, like the paperbark, to make was seems like paper to write on.
Then there are expressions that start to make you think, concerning this word, such as:
He was a boss that liked to bark orders. I had one like that, almost looked like a dog too. Never could ask someone kindly.
He was barking up the wrong tree. Never seen a dog do this, but many people gave so the literal meaning is to waste your time looking in the wrong place
Then there’s bark or barque, the name of a certain type of boat or masted ship with three or more masts, dating back to sailing days
And then, just top it all off, someone goes and says your barking mad. Probably just after you were barking up the wrong tree, looking for the barking dog on a barque.
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.
Lisbon Beyond the Postcard: 5 Things to Do When You’ve Already Mastered the Classics
You’ve done the pilgrimage. You’ve braved the crowds on Tram 28, queued for pastéis de nata in Belém, and navigated the steep, melancholic streets of Alfama. You’ve seen the sunset from a crowded miradouro, and you’ve felt the history radiating from the Jerónimos Monastery.
Congratulations. You’ve seen Lisbon.
But the true magic of the Portuguese capital doesn’t lie on the postcard; it thrives in the quiet corners, the industrial chic neighborhoods, and the views reserved only for those willing to wander a little further.
If you’re ready to move past the tourist checklist and dive into the real Lisboa, here are the next top five, road-less-travelled experiences waiting for you.
1. Get Lost in the Green Lungs: Parque Florestal de Monsanto
What it is: Lisbon’s massive, sprawling answer to Central Park, covering over 10 square kilometers of forest, trails, and panoramic views.
The moment tourists step off the plane, they head east toward the castle or south toward the river. They forget that the city is hugged by a surprisingly wild, untamed forest park to the west. Monsanto is where locals go to truly escape the urban bustle.
Forget the crowded views from São Jorge; Monsanto offers dozens of quiet, breathtaking overlooks. The ultimate gem here is the abandoned Panorâmico de Monsanto. Once a glamorous restaurant and viewing deck built in the 1960s, it now stands as a vast, graffiti-covered ruin.
While officially decommissioned, the views from this concrete shell are genuinely jaw-dropping, offering a 360-degree perspective of the entire city, the Tagus River, and the Atlantic beyond. It requires a bus or short taxi ride to reach, making it inconvenient enough to keep the crowds away.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: It’s outside the central walking zone, requiring dedicated transport.
The Insider Tip: Go for sunrise or sunset. Bring good walking shoes and a tripod for unforgettable photos from the Panorâmico.
2. Sail Across the Tagus for Seafood Bliss at Cacilhas
What it is: A quick, inexpensive ferry ride across the Tagus River to the industrial-chic municipality of Almada, offering arguably the best views of the Lisbon skyline.
While the famous Vasco da Gama Bridge and the 25 de Abril Bridge dominate the skyline, taking a short trip on the iconic orange Cacilheiros ferry from Cais do Sodré is a true local experience. The destination, Cacilhas, feels a world away from the busy, boutique-lined streets of Chiado.
Instead of monuments, you find authentic, old-school Portugal. Head straight for Rua Cândido dos Reis, a street lined with incredible, reasonably priced seafood restaurants (marisqueiras). Dining here means indulging in freshly caught fish, grilled to perfection, and avoiding the tourist mark-up found in the city center.
Don’t miss the chance to walk a little further to the 110-meter-tall Cristo Rei statue. While Belem Tower is beautiful, viewing the city skyline with the entire Lisbon waterfront framed across the water is a perspective few tourists ever seek out.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: Tourists rarely leave the Lisbon side of the river unless heading to the main beaches.
The Insider Tip: Try the restaurant Ponto Final for stunning riverside dining right on the water (reservations essential) or Solar dos Nunes for a cozier, highly authentic experience.
3. Explore Tile-Soaked History at the Museu Nacional do Azulejo
What it is: The National Tile Museum, housed in the magnificent former Convent of Madre de Deus, dedicated entirely to the history and artistry of Portugal’s defining cultural expression: the azulejo (painted ceramic tile).
While every street corner in Lisbon is adorned with beautiful tiles, few visitors dedicate the time to understand the profound history behind this art form. The Azulejo Museum may not sound as instantly thrilling as a castle, but it is essential to understanding the city’s identity.
Located slightly off the beaten track in the eastern suburbs (near Santa Apolónia), the museum showcases five centuries of ceramic evolution, from Moorish influence to Baroque grandeur. The real highlight is the stunning Great View of Lisbon—a 23-meter-long panel of tiles dating from 1738, depicting the city’s skyline before the devastating earthquake of 1755.
Walking through the ornate church and the quiet cloisters of the convent offers a peaceful, meditative experience far removed from the crush of the central museums.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: Its location is slightly inconvenient, requiring a short taxi or specific bus route.
The Insider Tip: Take time to admire the stunning, gold-leaf-laden chapel inside the former convent—it rivals those in Belém.
4. Discover the Industrial Grit of Marvila (Lisbon’s Brooklyn)
What it is: A rapidly gentrifying, formerly industrial neighborhood east of the Parque das Nações, now home to warehouses converted into craft breweries, contemporary art spaces, and cutting-edge gastronomy.
If you’re looking for Lisbon’s hip, creative heartbeat—the neighborhood where young artists and entrepreneurs are truly setting up shop—it’s Marvila. It lacks the historic charm of Alfama but makes up for it with raw, industrial energy.
This is the perfect spot for the craft beer enthusiast. Marvila boasts a strip of excellent breweries operating out of converted warehouses, including Musa and Dois Corvos. Unlike the tourist taverns, these spots offer excellent local brews, complex menus, and a true sense of community.
Beyond the beer, Marvila is home to massive art galleries and unique cultural hubs that are constantly changing, reflecting a contemporary Lisbon that is dynamic and forward-looking.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: It’s still transitioning and is primarily a local destination, far from the central tourist loop.
The Insider Tip: Visit on a weekend afternoon to enjoy the buzzing atmosphere at the breweries when they often have food trucks or live music.
5. Trade Sintra’s Fairytale Crowds for the Coastal Calm of Ericeira
What it is: A traditional fishing town located about 45 minutes north of Lisbon, designated as Europe’s only World Surfing Reserve.
Sintra is spectacular, but during peak season, it can feel more like an amusement park than a historical site. For a coastal day trip that delivers beauty, tradition, and relaxation, head to Ericeira.
While it’s internationally famous among surfers for its diverse reef and beach breaks, the town itself maintains an incredible, whitewashed village charm. Here, you’ll find narrow, winding streets, blue-and-white houses, and excellent local bakeries selling regional specialties (ouriços and tâmaras).
The atmosphere is noticeably slower and more authentic than that of the tourist hub of Cascais. Spend the day watching the surfers at Ribeira d’Ilhas, wander through the historic center, and enjoy a spectacular ocean-view meal featuring the freshest catch of the day.
Why it’s “Less Travelled”: It requires a dedicated bus journey (or car hire) and is often overlooked in favor of the more marketed Sintra or Cascais.
The Insider Tip: Have lunch at a traditional marisqueira near the fishing port to ensure the fish was caught that morning.
The Next Chapter of Your Lisbon Story
Lisbon is a city of layers. Once you peel back the vibrant, initial layer of historic landmarks and Fado-filled taverns, you discover a deeper, more rewarding experience.
These five spots are not just alternatives; they are invitations. They invite you to slow down, cross the river, explore the urban edge, and understand the real, living pulse of one of Europe’s most exciting capitals.
Have you explored any of these hidden Lisbon gems? Share your favourite road less travelled experience in the comments below!
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
The Myth of the “Blocked” Writer: Why Terry Pratchett Was Right
“I’m just waiting for inspiration to strike.”
If you’ve spent any time around writers, you’ve heard it. It’s usually accompanied by a dramatic sigh, a stare out of a rain-streaked window, and a total lack of actual words on a page. We call it “writer’s block.” We treat it like a divine affliction—a spiritual wall that descends upon us, rendering us incapable of stringing a sentence together.
But what if the wall isn’t real?
The late, great Terry Pratchett once famously quipped: “There’s no such thing as writer’s block. That was invented by people in California who couldn’t write.”
It’s a brutal take, but it’s one that every professional should consider. If we strip away the romanticism of the “tortured artist,” what we’re left with is a simple truth: Writing is a job, not a mood.
The Comfort of the “Block”
Why do we cling to the idea of writer’s block? Because it’s an incredibly comfortable place to hide.
If I tell myself I have “writer’s block,” I am absolved of all responsibility. I’m not lazy; I’m “blocked.” I’m not failing to meet a deadline; I’m “waiting for the muse.” It transforms a technical failure—my inability to organize my thoughts or commit to a draft—into a mystical psychological condition.
The reality is that “writer’s block” is usually one of three things:
Fear: You’re afraid the words won’t be perfect. Perfectionism is a form of procrastination.
Lack of Preparation: If you don’t know what happens next in your story or your article, you haven’t done the heavy lifting of outlining or research.
Fatigue: You’re tired, and your brain is telling you to take a break. That’s not a block; that’s just biology.
Writing as a Blue-Collar Trade
Pratchett wasn’t belittling the difficulty of writing; he was elevating it to a craft. He treated writing like a plumber treats a leaky pipe or a carpenter treats a frame. When a plumber has a pipe to fix, they don’t sit in their van waiting for the “spirit of plumbing” to descend. They pick up a wrench and get to work.
If you sit down to write and the words aren’t coming, don’t call it a “block.” Call it “the hard part.”
The hard part is where you realise your opening paragraph is weak. The hard part is where the middle of the essay sags. The hard part is showing up at 8:00 AM, staring at a blinking cursor, and deciding to write a bad sentence just to get the gears moving.
How to “Unblock” (Without the Drama)
If you want to move past the myth, stop waiting for the lightning bolt. Try these, provided you’re willing to do the work:
Write garbage on purpose: Give yourself permission to write the worst first draft in history. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can fix a bad paragraph.
Lower the bar: Sometimes the block is just a result of trying to write a masterpiece in the first pass. Aim for “functional” instead of “brilliant.”
The 15-Minute Rule: Commit to writing for just 15 minutes. No distractions. Usually, the resistance vanishes once the momentum starts.
Break the outline: If you’re stuck, it’s likely because you’re trying to force the story in a direction that doesn’t make sense. Revisit your notes. The problem is usually structural, not spiritual.
The Bottom Line
There are days when writing feels like pulling teeth with a pair of rusty pliers. That’s not a block—that’s just the cost of doing business.
So, next time you feel that familiar resistance, don’t look for an excuse. Don’t blame your environment or your creative juices. Pour a cup of coffee, sit down, and accept that writing is labour. As Pratchett knew better than anyone, the only way to get through the “block” is to write your way out of it, one word at a time.
What do you think? Is “writer’s block” just a fancy excuse, or is it a genuine psychological barrier for you? Let me know in the comments.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 