I remember hearing one day, a line from a poem, ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud’.
Little did I know at the time it was the first line of a poem by William Wordsworth, and mentioned something else, daffodils, and I had a moment where a memory came back from when I was about five, gathering daffodils in a field behind the house we lived in.
But, how often is it we look at clouds and try to make them into something else we’ve seen before?
Clouds are the subject of many conversations, like he’s got his head in the clouds, not literally of course in this instance, just that he, or it could be a she, if far removed from reality.
Dark clouds are associated with ill will and infamy, e.g. he was born under a dark cloud. I heard my grandmother use that expression once, and wondered what she meant by it, because, being a child, it was a literal interpretation, that dark clouds brought heavy rain, and he go ‘very wet’.
I’ve been caught out by dark clouds too, misjudging how long before they arrive, and it always seems like next to no time before you, and the washing on the line get a thorough soaking.
These days, the cloud now means something else entirely, though based on an old analogy, that we store our computer files in the cloud, which simply means at a remote location on someone else’s computer. With file sizes the way they are, it’s not practical to store them on our own smallish computers.
And, isn’t it fun when you are flying through the clouds?
Not!
In those cases, going up or going down in a plane, it’s a very bumpy ride, and isn’t it quite strange when you are flying above the clouds, or can just see mountain tops appearing through the blanket of white.
Of course, you can have your head in the clouds and not be off with the fairies, if you are on a mountain when the clouds have come down so low you can touch them. Sometimes it’s called mist or fog, but there are such things as low clouds. I’ve seen them.
And, as for a single cloud as inspiration…
…
The story starts,
I was sitting down in a quiet corner of the park, the sound of children playing just audible in the background, along with a lawn mower, and the distant sounds of civilization.
I wanted to get as far away as possible, but in the concrete jungle that was not possible.
IT had bene a difficult morning, juggling customer complaints with the the call from the girl I thought was the one, but who had decided we were going in different directions and it was time.
Yes, we were literally going in different directions, she was heading off to Boston to start a new job, one that she only just decided to tell me about.
Was I disappointed? Just a little. Was it inevitable? My best friend thought so, and had said he had noticed a change in her. I had too, but was hoping it was a passing phaze.
I looked up, and there was a single cloud moving slowly across the sky, perhaps chasing after others that had passed before it.
Was it an omen. Would I become like that cloud, alone, always chasing after the impossible dream?
My phone vibrated, and I took it out. A message.
It was from the girl once of my dreams. I had not expected to hear from her again.
Yesterday, the dark clouds were swirling overhead, and there was an air of impending doom all around.
Much like those few hours before a storm is about to hit, one of those really big ones with very loud thunder that feels like it’s over your roof and not moving, and, a short time later, the deafening sound of torrential rain.
You know the feeling, you could cut the air with a knife.
I’ve been in that state of mind for some time now, but yesterday something changed.
It wasn’t the internet, that was still as dreadful as ever, despite the assurances we get that we will have the best internet in the world. The best joke, I think they mean, after spending $50 billion on it, I had better speeds on my 300 baud modem 20 odd years ago.
Sorry, I had to have another whinge about it. Politicians are such liars.
No, it was not something I could put my finger on.
But…
What was it?
Yes…
I found I could write again.
Well, I could always write, but it was a matter of forcing myself to sit down and do it, as if it were a chore I really didn’t want to do. And how easy it was to get sidetracked on social media.
Not today.
Today, I simply looked at the writing I wanted to do, and it all came to me without having to stare at the blank screen, waiting for the words to appear, and then find myself deleting them over and over. Yesterday, writing 500 words really meant writing 5,000 crappy words and continually revising.
Today I am going to write 5,000 words, and it will be all good.
Get to the Point, Make ‘Em Laugh, and Ignore Fay Weldon (A Little Bit)
Let’s rip the bandage off right away: The most boring book wins literary contests.
That gem of a quote comes from the fiercely witty British novelist Fay Weldon. And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. Think about the last time you read a critically acclaimed, prize-winning heavyweight novel. Did it feel like a brisk jog through a comedy club, or did it feel like trudging through an intellectual swamp of heavy metaphors, agonizing grief, and sentences that stretch across three paragraphs?
Exactly.
We live in a culture obsessed with efficiency. Get to the point! Cut the fluff! Give me the TL;DR! But writing—especially the kind of writing you actually want to read and write—often rebels against this sterile efficiency.
So, what is the ultimate writing philosophy? Should we cut straight to the chase and inject a healthy dose of humor, or should we embrace the sprawling, solemn boredom that wins awards? Let’s dive in.
The Cult of “Get to the Point” (And Why Humor is Our Savior)
In the digital age, attention spans are shorter than a TikTok loop. If your opening paragraph doesn’t hook the reader, introduce a conflict, and promise emotional payoff, they’re gone. Click. Back to Instagram.
Because of this, modern copywriters, bloggers, and even fiction writers are told to get to the point. Brevity is king.
The Problem: Being purely concise is dangerously close to being boring. A user manual is concise. A tax form gets straight to the point. Nobody stays up until 3:00 AM crying over the IRS instructions.
The Solution: Humour.
Humour is the spoonful of sugar that helps the conciseness go down. It’s the human element. When you get to the point while making the reader snort coffee out of their nose, you’ve won. You’ve respected their time (by not rambling) while entertaining their soul (by being funny).
If Fay Weldon says boring books win prizes, humour is the rebellion against the prize committee. It says: I want people to actually enjoy this.
Why Fay Weldon Was Right About “Boring” Books
Let’s not throw Fay under the bus just yet. She knew the literary establishment’s inner workings better than most.
Literary prizes—think of the Booker, the Pulitzer, or heavy-hitting academic nods—often reward gravitas. A book about a happy couple who communicate well, pay their mortgage on time, and occasionally go to brunch does not win awards. Why? Because it lacks suffering and significance.
To win a literary contest, a book usually needs:
Misery: Preferably historical, existential, or deeply psychological.
Slow pacing: Often disguised as “rich atmospheric development.”
Sentences that require a semicolon and a master’s degree to decode.
Weldon’s warning is a liberation for everyday writers. She is essentially telling us: Stop writing for the judges in ivory towers. Write for the human beings on the subway.
If your book is so thrilling, funny, and fast-paced that it disqualifies you from winning a dusty trophy in a wood-paneled room in London or New York… take it as a compliment.
Can You Have It All? (Point + Humor + Depth)
Is it a zero-sum game? Must we choose between being a humor-filled, punchy writer who people actually read, and a solemn literary genius who wins medals that nobody checks out at the library?
Not necessarily. The sweet spot of modern writing lies in the intersection of clarity, wit, and depth.
You can get to the point quickly, keep the reader laughing, and still deliver a profound emotional punch. Think of authors like David Sedaris, Nora Ephron, or Kurt Vonnegut. They didn’t write boring, prize-winning snoozefests. They wrote punchy, hilarious, deeply moving works that outlived the prize committees anyway.
How to Apply This to Your Writing:
Respect the reader’s time: Get to the point. Don’t spend three pages describing a tree unless that tree is plotting a murder.
Disarm with wit: Use humour as a vehicle for truth. If you have a heavy point to make, a joke is the best shock absorber.
Ignore the gatekeepers: If you write something genuinely entertaining, fast-paced, and funny, the literary establishment might sniff at it. Let them. You’ll be too busy having an audience to notice.
The Verdict
So, what is the best thing to do?
Fay Weldon gave us great advice: don’t write the boring book just to impress the critics. But we also don’t need to live in a world of purely rushed, hyper-efficient bullet points, either.
The best thing to do is write the book you would want to read. Get to the point, make ’em laugh, and leave the boring, prize-winning misery to the people who enjoy sitting in silence.
What’s your take? Do you prefer a laugh-out-loud page-turner, or do you secretly love a 600-page historical epic about melancholy? Let us know in the comments below!
One Day in Santiago? Make It Unforgettable With One Iconic Stop
Your 24‑hour layover, a single must‑see spot, and a story you’ll retell forever.
Why One Place Can Change a Whole Day
A layover is a sprint, not a marathon. You’re juggling luggage, flight‑times, and the inevitable jet‑lag, so the temptation is to “see everything.” The truth is, quality beats quantity. Pick a destination that captures the soul of the city, offers a splash of culture, a pinch of adventure, and an unbeatable view for that Instagram‑ready shot — and you’ve got a day you’ll remember long after you’re back on the tarmac.
In Santiago, that place is Cerro San Cristóbal, the crown jewel of the city’s sprawling Parque Metropolitano. It’s a natural high point, a cultural hub, and a shortcut to the essence of Chile’s capital, all wrapped into one unforgettable experience.
Cerro San Cristóbal: The One‑Stop‑Shop for a Memorable Stopover
What it offers
Why it matters for a 1‑day layover
Panoramic 360° city view
Instantly see Santiago’s skyline, Andes backdrop, and the Pacific Ocean on a clear day.
Easy access via funicular or cable car
No need for a long trek; you’re up in minutes.
Cultural landmarks (Statue of the Virgin, historic shrine, Japanese garden)
A taste of Chilean faith, history, and international flair.
Botanical garden & zoo
A quick stroll among native flora or a peek at local wildlife if you have extra minutes.
Food & drink (Café San Cristóbal, food trucks)
Refuel with a Chilean coffee, a “completo” hot dog, or a fresh fruit jug.
Free or low‑cost entry
Keeps your budget intact for the rest of the trip.
How to Turn the Visit Into a Perfect 24‑Hour Itinerary
Before You Land – Set Yourself Up for Success
Action
Details
Store your luggage
Use lockers at Estación Central (metro Line 1) or the SCL Airport “Baggage Concierge” (≈ USD 4 per bag, 8‑hour limit).
Grab a Metro card
Purchase a Bip! card at the airport (cash or card) – it works on Metro, buses, and the funicular.
Check the weather
Santiago’s climate is Mediterranean: sunny most of the year, cool evenings in winter. Pack a light jacket for the summit.
Download the “Metro de Santiago” app
Real‑time train arrivals, route maps, and fare calculator.
Morning – Touch Down, Freshen Up, Head to the City
07:00 – 08:00 – Clear customs, store bags, and catch the Airport Express Bus (Bus 184) to Estación Pajaritos (Metro Line 1).
08:30 – Hop on the Metro (green line) toward “Los Dominicos.” Get off at “Baquedano” (the interchange for Line 5) and transfer to Line 5 (green) toward “Plaza de Maipú.”
09:00 – Arrive at “Plaza de Maipo” station – a short 5‑minute walk to the base of Cerro San Cristóbal.
Mid‑Morning – Ascend to the Summit
09:10 – Purchase a funicular ticket (≈ CLP 650, ~USD 0.80). The ride is a nostalgic wooden carriage that climbs steeply in ~3 minutes.
09:15 – Step out at the Cerro San Cristóbal station and follow the paved path to the Statue of the Virgin Mary (the highest point).
09:30 – 10:30 – Take in the view. Snap panoramas of the Andes, the Mapocho River, and the bustling downtown. If you’re lucky, you’ll see snow‑capped peaks—perfect for those “I’m in the Andes” photos.
Late Morning – A Taste of Chilean Culture
10:30 – 11:30 – Wander down to the Santiago Metropolitan Park:
Japanese Garden – A serene oasis with koi ponds and traditional tea houses.
Santuario de la Inmaculada Concepción – A small chapel with historic murals.
Botanical Terrace – Spot native flora like caupolí and copihue (Chile’s national flower).
Lunch Break – Eat Like a Local
11:30 – 12:30 – Head to Café San Cristóbal (right near the funicular exit). Order a “café con leche” and a completo (hot dog topped with avocado, mayo, tomato, and sauerkraut). Pair it with a freshly squeezed “mote con huesillos” (a sweet peach‑nectar drink) for a truly Chilean experience.
Early Afternoon – Quick City Sweep (Optional)
If you have a few extra hours before your next flight, you can:
**Take the Cerro San Cristóbal cable car (Teleférico) down to Pío Nero station and hop on Metro Line 5 to “Baquedano.”
Stroll through Plaza de Armas, the historic heart of Santiago, to see the Catedral Metropolitana and Museo Histórico Nacional (both free).
Grab a quick pastel de choclo (corn pie) from a street vendor.
Return to the Airport
13:30 – 14:30 – Retrieve your luggage at the locker, catch the Metro back to Estación Pajaritos, then the Airport Express Bus to SCL.
15:00 – Arrive at the terminal, giving you plenty of time for security and a relaxed boarding.
Insider Pro Tips – Make the Most of Your Cerro San Cristóbal Visit
Tip
Why It Helps
Visit on a weekday
Fewer locals and tourists mean shorter lines for the funicular and more space for photos.
Bring a compact rain jacket
Even on sunny days, a sudden drizzle can roll in from the Andes.
Carry a small power bank
You’ll be snapping photos and using maps non‑stop.
Buy a “Bip!” card before you land
Saves you from hunting for a ticket booth after a long flight.
Ask the funicular operator for the “best photo spot” – usually the bench right in front of the Virgin statue.
Locals know the golden hour lighting.
Don’t skip the Japanese Garden – it’s a hidden gem that many tourists miss.
Adds a tranquil break to your high‑altitude adventure.
The Bottom Line: One Stop, Unlimited Memories
When you have only 24 hours in a vibrant capital like Santiago, you don’t need to cram every museum and market into your schedule. Cerro San Cristóbal delivers a panoramic snapshot of the city, a dose of Chilean culture, and a dash of adventure—all accessible within an hour of the airport.
Takeaway: If you can only see one place during a brief stopover in Santiago, climb Cerro San Cristóbal. From the moment the funicular pulls you up to when you sip a glass of fresh juice beneath the Andean peaks, you’ll carry a piece of Chile home with you.
Ready to make your layover legendary?
Pack a light jacket, grab a Bip! card, and set your sights on the hill that watches over Santiago. Your one‑day adventure starts at the top — and the memories will stay with you forever. Safe travels!
Everyone knows the man or woman in the left seat up front of the aeroplane is the person we entrust with our lives the moment we get into the air. It is usually an aeroplane, but it can also be a balloon or a helicopter.
Some still say, if God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings. Still, it’s quicker to fly sometimes than drive, and I’ve always had the desire to learn to fly a plane, but just never got around to it.
A pilot doesn’t have to be in charge of a plane; he or she can also be in charge of a ship, generally when they arrive at a port and have specific navigational information getting the ship to the berth.
Of course, it can apply to anyone who is steering the ship.
And it can also mean to guide people through a difficult phase, a forest, or a hike.
First episode, when a TV show is commissioned, the first episode is always called a pilot. It’s used to test the audience’s reaction, and sometimes it still amazes me what succeeds and what fails. It seems my favourite shows generally last only one season.
There’s a pilot light, which is a small continuous fire, used to ignite a larger one.
A pilot program is rolled out to a few people as a test before introducing it on a much larger scale. I used to use these when creating teaching programs for computer skills.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
One‑Day Stopover in Lima? Make It Unforgettable With a Visit to Plaza Mayor
If you’ve only got 24 hours in Peru’s bustling capital, there’s one spot that will let you taste its history, culture, and culinary magic all at once: the historic heart of the city—Plaza Mayor.
Why Plaza Mayor is the Perfect One‑Stop Destination
What you get
How it fits a tight schedule
A UNESCO‑listed heritage zone – Colonial palaces, a cathedral, and the Government Palace all within a few blocks.
No need to hop between neighborhoods; everything is foot‑accessible.
Iconic photo‑ops – Colorful façades, the famous “Basilica of San Francisco” bell tower in the background, and the central “Fuente de la Victoria.”
Capture the city’s essence in minutes, leaving more time for food and souvenirs.
Culinary micro‑cosmos – Street vendors selling anticuchos, ceviche to go, and artisanal chocolate.
Sample authentic Peruvian bites without a long sit‑down lunch.
Free or low‑cost entry – Most buildings can be admired from the outside; the Cathedral interior is a modest ticket.
Keeps your budget intact for that extra pisco sour.
In short, Plaza Mayor is Lima’s “must‑see‑in‑an‑hour” that also gives you a genuine feel for the city’s soul.
Arriving at Plaza Mayor: The Logistics
From the Airport (Jorge Chávez International – LIM)
Taxi / Ride‑share: 20‑30 min (≈ S/ 30‑40). Use a reputable app (Beat, Cabify) or the official airport taxi desk.
Bus “Airport Express”: Free, stops at the Central Station (Estación Central). From there, hop on a Metropolitano bus (Line 1) to Plaza Mayor (stop Plaza San Martín).
Best Time to Go
Morning (08:00‑10:30): Light, fewer crowds, and the city’s iconic “Lima sunrise” casts a golden glow on the stone façades.
Late afternoon (16:00‑18:00): The plaza comes alive with street performers, and you’ll catch the sunset over the Pacific in the background of the Government Palace’s balcony.
What to Wear
Light layers (Lima’s climate is mild, 18‑24 °C).
Comfortable walking shoes—cobblestones can be uneven.
The 3‑Hour Itinerary That Packs a Punch
08:30 – 09:15 | Stroll Around the Square
Start at the Cathedral of Lima – Enter for a quick 10‑minute peek at the baroque altar and the tomb of the famed painter José Gálvez.
Walk clockwise: admire the Palacio de la Municipalidad, the elegant Palacio de Gobierno (guard change ceremony at 10 am if you stay a bit longer), and the Casa de la Literatura Peruana (pop‑in for a coffee and a literary souvenir).
09:15 – 10:00 | Culinary Pit‑Stop
Anticucho stand (skewered beef heart) – ≈ S/ 10 for a tasty bite.
Ceviche “to go” from Ceviche La Mar kiosk (fresh, portable, and perfect for a waterfront vibe).
Pisco sour at the historic Bar “La Casa del Pisco” – a quick 5‑minute sip to kick‑start your day.
10:00 – 10:45 | Dive Deeper – Guided Mini‑Tour
Free walking tours run daily (check the kiosk near the plaza). Guides will whisk you through the hidden stories of “El Cabildo” and the “El Cristo del Pacífico” statue.
If you prefer a solo pace, grab an audio guide from the Tourist Information Centre (S/ 5) and wander at your own rhythm.
10:45 – 11:30 | Cultural Finale
Visit the Museum of the Central Bank of Peru (just a block away). A quick 30‑minute look at pre‑Columbian artifacts and colonial silverwork ties together the narrative of Lima’s past.
Take a final photo at the Fuente de la Victoria—the fountain’s bronze lion is a beloved Instagram spot.
Total time: ~3 hours, leaving you ample room for a quick hop to Miraflores or the airport for your onward flight.
Bonus: Extending the Magic (If Time Allows)
Option
Why It Works After Plaza Mayor
Walk to the “Parque de la Exposición” (5‑min) – Beautiful gardens, a historic glass pavilion, and occasional art fairs.
Keeps you in the historic zone while adding a green pause.
Cross to the “Barranco” district (taxi, 10 min) – Bohemian murals, the Bridge of Sighs, and a sea view.
Gives you a taste of Lima’s modern, artistic side.
Head to “Miraflores” (Metropolitano, 20 min) – The clifftop “Parque del Amor” and the spectacular Circuito Mágico del Agua light show.
Ideal for a sunset finale and a last‑minute souvenir hunt.
Quick Checklist for the One‑Day Stopover
Passport & boarding pass – Keep them handy for airport re‑entry.
S/ 50 cash – Small vendors and taxi rides still prefer cash.
Light rain jacket – Lima’s “garúa” (mist) can appear unexpectedly.
Portable charger – Your phone will be busy with photos, maps, and the audio guide.
Travel‑size sanitiser – Public plazas are bustling; stay safe.
Wrap‑Up: Why Plaza Mayor Beats All Other Options
In a city where the modern skyline competes with centuries‑old stone, Plaza Mayor is the single point where history, architecture, and flavour intersect. It lets you:
Walk through time (from the Spanish conquest to modern Peruvian identity).
Taste the nation (quick bites of ceviche and pisco).
Snap stunning photos without a long trek across traffic‑choked avenues.
So, if your itinerary says “Lima, 24 h,” set your compass to Plaza Mayor. One stop, endless stories, and a day that will feel far richer than the minutes on the clock.
Ready to Make Your Layover Legendary?
Book your taxi, grab a map, and let Plaza Mayor be the heartbeat of your Lima adventure.
Got a different favourite stopover spot in Lima? Drop a comment below—let’s keep the conversation (and the travel inspiration) rolling!
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledgedthat something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Get to the Point, Make ‘Em Laugh, and Ignore Fay Weldon (A Little Bit)
Let’s rip the bandage off right away: The most boring book wins literary contests.
That gem of a quote comes from the fiercely witty British novelist Fay Weldon. And honestly? She wasn’t wrong. Think about the last time you read a critically acclaimed, prize-winning heavyweight novel. Did it feel like a brisk jog through a comedy club, or did it feel like trudging through an intellectual swamp of heavy metaphors, agonizing grief, and sentences that stretch across three paragraphs?
Exactly.
We live in a culture obsessed with efficiency. Get to the point! Cut the fluff! Give me the TL;DR! But writing—especially the kind of writing you actually want to read and write—often rebels against this sterile efficiency.
So, what is the ultimate writing philosophy? Should we cut straight to the chase and inject a healthy dose of humor, or should we embrace the sprawling, solemn boredom that wins awards? Let’s dive in.
The Cult of “Get to the Point” (And Why Humor is Our Savior)
In the digital age, attention spans are shorter than a TikTok loop. If your opening paragraph doesn’t hook the reader, introduce a conflict, and promise emotional payoff, they’re gone. Click. Back to Instagram.
Because of this, modern copywriters, bloggers, and even fiction writers are told to get to the point. Brevity is king.
The Problem: Being purely concise is dangerously close to being boring. A user manual is concise. A tax form gets straight to the point. Nobody stays up until 3:00 AM crying over the IRS instructions.
The Solution: Humour.
Humour is the spoonful of sugar that helps the conciseness go down. It’s the human element. When you get to the point while making the reader snort coffee out of their nose, you’ve won. You’ve respected their time (by not rambling) while entertaining their soul (by being funny).
If Fay Weldon says boring books win prizes, humour is the rebellion against the prize committee. It says: I want people to actually enjoy this.
Why Fay Weldon Was Right About “Boring” Books
Let’s not throw Fay under the bus just yet. She knew the literary establishment’s inner workings better than most.
Literary prizes—think of the Booker, the Pulitzer, or heavy-hitting academic nods—often reward gravitas. A book about a happy couple who communicate well, pay their mortgage on time, and occasionally go to brunch does not win awards. Why? Because it lacks suffering and significance.
To win a literary contest, a book usually needs:
Misery: Preferably historical, existential, or deeply psychological.
Slow pacing: Often disguised as “rich atmospheric development.”
Sentences that require a semicolon and a master’s degree to decode.
Weldon’s warning is a liberation for everyday writers. She is essentially telling us: Stop writing for the judges in ivory towers. Write for the human beings on the subway.
If your book is so thrilling, funny, and fast-paced that it disqualifies you from winning a dusty trophy in a wood-paneled room in London or New York… take it as a compliment.
Can You Have It All? (Point + Humor + Depth)
Is it a zero-sum game? Must we choose between being a humor-filled, punchy writer who people actually read, and a solemn literary genius who wins medals that nobody checks out at the library?
Not necessarily. The sweet spot of modern writing lies in the intersection of clarity, wit, and depth.
You can get to the point quickly, keep the reader laughing, and still deliver a profound emotional punch. Think of authors like David Sedaris, Nora Ephron, or Kurt Vonnegut. They didn’t write boring, prize-winning snoozefests. They wrote punchy, hilarious, deeply moving works that outlived the prize committees anyway.
How to Apply This to Your Writing:
Respect the reader’s time: Get to the point. Don’t spend three pages describing a tree unless that tree is plotting a murder.
Disarm with wit: Use humour as a vehicle for truth. If you have a heavy point to make, a joke is the best shock absorber.
Ignore the gatekeepers: If you write something genuinely entertaining, fast-paced, and funny, the literary establishment might sniff at it. Let them. You’ll be too busy having an audience to notice.
The Verdict
So, what is the best thing to do?
Fay Weldon gave us great advice: don’t write the boring book just to impress the critics. But we also don’t need to live in a world of purely rushed, hyper-efficient bullet points, either.
The best thing to do is write the book you would want to read. Get to the point, make ’em laugh, and leave the boring, prize-winning misery to the people who enjoy sitting in silence.
What’s your take? Do you prefer a laugh-out-loud page-turner, or do you secretly love a 600-page historical epic about melancholy? Let us know in the comments below!
Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone, then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
Before You Land – Set Yourself Up for Success
Morning – Touch Down, Freshen Up, Head to the City
Mid‑Morning – Ascend to the Summit
Late Morning – A Taste of Chilean Culture
Lunch Break – Eat Like a Local
Early Afternoon – Quick City Sweep (Optional)
Return to the Airport
