Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 65

No way to run an operation

…

Cecelia called me when she was in place, waiting.

“Who’s there?”

“A woman, two small children, and a maid.”

“No man of the house?”

“No. She spoke on the phone about an hour ago and didn’t look happy. Who is she?”

“Someone you might have to shoot, so don’t get attached. Wait till I call you first, then invite yourselves in. Does it look expensive?”

“She does, and yes. It’s very posh. Why?”

“Curiosity.”

We were back in the hotel room. Francesca was working her way through a bottle of red wine.

“I can go now if you like. Cecelia told me the countess was dead. My work is done,” she said morosely.

“Not yet. Can’t have you telling people information I don’t want them to know yet. We still have people to catch.”

“OK. Does your current squeeze realise this one has feelings for you?” She nodded in Juliet’s direction, stopping her in her tracks.

“It’d be misplaced affection. Right now, she’s at the top of my shoot first and asks questions later list.”

“You know, if you don’t want to end up grumpy and lonely, you are going to have to work on your small talk. I don’t think women go for this shoot first thing. Whatever; just thought you ought to know.”

I glared at Juliet. “Is that what this is about, you being here?”

“Why on earth would you think that. You’re probably the snarkiest person I’ve ever met. She’s right, you need to work on your small talk.”

Then proceeded to turn around and go into one of the rooms, slamming the door.

“Exactly,” Francesca said.

13 minutes after that the call came.

Male voice, distorted.

“You are looking for an Englishwoman, Martha Rodby, yes.”

“Yes.”

“We know where she is, and once the money is transferred, we will tell you.”

“Nice try. You get the money, in a duffle bag, when I see her with my own eyes. No mirrors, no magic, no obstacle courses, and multiple phone booths and time limits. You tell me where and when and I’ll be there.”

“Alone?”

“If you’re not stupid, and I don’t think you are, there will be plenty of people around. Dark alleys and dank tunnels are not my thing.”

“I’ll call you back soon with the details.”

It was a quick call, so he was worried about me tracing it. I was not, or at least I wasn’t, but Alfie might.

A message popped up, after making a dinging sound. “Call came from Rome, can pin it down to a half kilometre square.”

I typed in, “Don’t bother. I know who it is.”

He couldn’t help himself. “Who?”

I ignored it.

“Your kidnapper?”

“A concerned citizen.”

“Your kidnapper. Do you ever say anything that means anything?”

“I try not to. You do know my shadowy world consists of nothing by lies and deception, and smoke and mirrors?”

“Do you actually get anything done?”

“Mostly not, but at least this time I haven’t got to kill anyone. Yet.”

“You should tell your girlfriend that?”

“Which one, according to you?”

“Juliet. You want to tell her you don’t have feelings for her.”

“Are you trying to annoy me?”

She gave me one of those looks, yes, I’d known her long enough to be able to classify them.

“How did your wife actually put up with you all those years?”

“I’m sure it made interesting reading?”

“What?”

“My file.”

She smiled. “It did. My boss thought if I stuck close enough, I might learn something. I did. Stick to Art History. By the way, I like you too, but I’m not going to compete with those other two. Oh, and I assume you have a plan or will have a plan by tomorrow, on how to take this guy down?”

“You assume correctly.”

“Good. Do I get a gun?”

“No.”

“Just when relations were improving. Do you want anything from room service? I’m getting some pasta.”

I sighed. This was no way to run an operation.

What I learned about writing – Editing mistakes

Sharpen Your Prose: Banishing Blunders Like Mixed Metaphors, Faulty Parallelism, and Tense Troubles

Ever read something that makes your brain do a little somersault? You know, where you start nodding along, then suddenly hit a snag, and have to backtrack to figure out what the writer actually meant? More often than not, these jarring moments stem from a few common writing errors.

Today, we’re going to tackle three of the most prevalent culprits: mixed metaphors, faulty parallelism, and incorrect tense. Mastering these will not only make your writing clearer and more impactful but will also elevate your credibility as a communicator. Let’s dive in!

The Tangled Web of Mixed Metaphors

Metaphors are beautiful things. They allow us to paint vivid pictures in our readers’ minds by likening one thing to another, creating deeper understanding and engagement. But when you try to weave too many disparate comparisons together, or let a metaphor stray too far from its original intent, you end up with a tangled, nonsensical mess.

The Goal: To use a single, consistent, and effective metaphor to illustrate a point.

The Blunder: Combining two or more unrelated metaphors, creating confusion and often unintentional humor.

Examples:

Wrong: “We need to get our ducks in a row before we can really hit the ground running and climb the ladder of success.”
- Why it’s wrong: “Ducks in a row” implies organisation and order. “Hit the ground running” suggests immediate action and speed. “Climb the ladder of success” is about progress and achievement. These are all fine individual ideas, but crammed together, they create a jumbled image. Are we a team of organised ducks, a sprinter, or a mountaineer?
Right: “We need to get our ducks in a row before we can begin implementing our new strategy.”
- Why it’s right: This focuses solely on the “ducks in a row” metaphor, meaning to organise things properly, and it works.
Right: “We need to be ready to hit the ground running when the project launches.”
- Why it’s right: This uses the “hit the ground running” metaphor to convey the need for immediate and energetic action.
Right: “Her dedication and hard work were instrumental in her climb up the ladder of success.”
- Why it’s right: This uses the “ladder of success” metaphor effectively to describe career progression.

The Uneven Scales of Faulty Parallelism

Parallelism, or parallel structure, is about balance and rhythm in your writing. It means using the same grammatical form for elements in a series or comparison. When this balance is disrupted, your sentences can feel clunky and awkward, like a song with a broken beat.

The Goal: To present items in a series or comparison with consistent grammatical structure for clarity and flow.

The Blunder: Using different grammatical forms for elements that should be treated equally.

Examples:

Wrong: “She enjoys hiking, to read, and swimming.”
- Why it’s wrong: “Hiking” is a gerund (verb acting as a noun). “To read” is an infinitive. “Swimming” is another gerund. The shift from gerund to infinitive and back breaks the parallel structure.
Right: “She enjoys hiking, reading, and swimming.”
- Why it’s right: All elements are gerunds, creating a smooth and consistent list.
Right: “She enjoys to hike, to read, and to swim.”
- Why it’s right: All elements are infinitives, also creating parallel structure.
Wrong: “The new software offers speed, efficiency, and it is easy to use.”
- Why it’s wrong: “Speed” and “efficiency” are nouns. “It is easy to use” is a clause.
Right: “The new software offers speed, efficiency, and ease of use.”
- Why it’s right: All elements are nouns, providing consistent structure.

The Shifting Sands of Incorrect Tense

Verb tense is the anchor that grounds your narrative in time. It tells your reader when an action is happening. Inconsistent or incorrect tense can lead to confusion about the sequence of events or the overall timeframe of your writing.

The Goal: To consistently use the appropriate verb tense to accurately reflect the time of the actions being described.

The Blunder: Shifting verb tenses unnecessarily within a sentence, paragraph, or narrative.

Examples:

Wrong: “Yesterday, I go to the store and buy some milk.”
- Why it’s wrong: The action happened “yesterday,” which is in the past. The verbs should reflect this past action.
Right: “Yesterday, I went to the store and bought some milk.”
- Why it’s right: Both verbs are in the simple past tense, accurately describing past events.
Wrong: “The character wakes up, realises he is late, and runs for the bus.”
- Why it’s wrong: While this can be used for vivid storytelling (present tense for immediacy), if the rest of the narrative is in the past tense, this shift is jarring.
Right (if the narrative is in the past): “The character woke up, realised he was late, and ran for the bus.”
- Why it’s right: Consistent use of the past tense for a narrative set in the past.
Wrong: “She will tell you the secret if you ask her nicely.”
- Why it’s wrong: Mixing future and present tense for actions that are concurrent or related in time.
Right: “She will tell you the secret if you ask her nicely.” (This is actually correct as it describes a future conditional event).
- Let’s try another wrong example: “She told me that she will visit tomorrow.”
- Why it’s wrong: “Told” is past tense, but “will visit” refers to a future event.
Right: “She told me that she would visit tomorrow.” (Using “would” for reported future in the past).
- Or Right: “She tells me that she will visit tomorrow.” (If the telling is happening now).

Practice Makes Perfect (and Polished Prose!)

Don’t be discouraged if you find yourself making these errors. Most writers do, especially when they’re developing their voice. The key is to be aware of them and to actively proofread with these concepts in mind.

Read aloud: Hearing your writing can help you catch awkward phrasing and inconsistencies.
Enlist a fresh pair of eyes: Ask a friend or colleague to review your work.
Use grammar checkers: While not foolproof, they can highlight potential issues.
Study examples: Keep an eye out for effective (and ineffective) uses of metaphors, parallelism, and tense in the writing you admire.

By paying attention to these fundamental aspects of grammar and style, you can transform your writing from merely understandable to truly compelling. So, go forth and banish those blunders! Your readers will thank you for it.

The 2am Rant: Having something to say is one thing; saying it is something else

As accomplished as we can be at putting words on paper, what is it that makes it so difficult to sit in a chair with a camera on you and say words rather than write them?

Er and um seem to crop up a lot in verbal speech.

OK, it was a simple question: “What motivates you to write?”

Damn.

My brain just turned to mush, and the words come out sounding like a drunken sailor after a night out on the town.

The written answer to the question is simple: “The idea that someone will read what I have written, and quite possibly enjoy it; that is motivation enough.”

It highlights the difficulties of the novice author.

Not only are there the constant demands of creating a ‘brand’ and building a ‘following’, but there is also the need to market oneself, and the interview is one of the more effective ways of doing this.

If only I could settle my nerves.

I mean, really, only my granddaughter is conducting the interview, and the questions are relatively simple.

The trouble is, I’ve never had to do it before, well, perhaps in an interview for a job, but that is less daunting. That usually sticks to a predefined format.

Here, the narrative can go in any direction. There are set questions, but the interviewer, in her inimitable manner, can sometimes slide a question in out of left field.

For instance, “Your character Zoe the assassin, is she based on someone you know, or an amalgam of other characters you’ve read about or seen in movies?”

That was an interesting question, and one that has several answers, but the one most relevant was: “It was the secret alter ego of one of the women I used to work with. I asked her one day if she wasn’t doing what she was, what she would like to do. It fascinated me that other people had the desire to be something more exotic in an alter ego.”

Of course, the next question was about what I wanted to be in an alter ego.

Maybe I’ll tell you next time.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 150/151

Days 150 and 151 – Writing Exercise

…

It was odd that an unidentified body washed up on shore in a relatively quiet stretch of shoreline.

It was winter, there were very few people about, and the person who found the body had only made a last-minute decision to go for a walk.

As it was, the anticipated rain came early, so it was a grim discovery on an appalling day.

I was well into the second half of the graveyard shift, shortly before dawn, and struggling to stay awake doing the paperwork I had been putting off for weeks.

The phone rang just as I was nodding off. Surprise nearly saw me fall off the chair.

I grabbed the receiver before the shrill sound set my nerves on edge. My partner had just left the room in search of some decent coffee.

“Yes?”

I should have answered with name and rank, and ended with How may I help you, but I hadn’t before and wasn’t going to start now.

“A member of the public had reported a body on Wilson’s Beach; uniforms are on their way “

I knew where Wilson’s Beach was, at the end of what used to be an almost impassable track, a short stretch of sand where teens took their alcohol and stupidity for a run. This wasn’t the first death to turn up there.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

“On my way.”

Not exactly true, I had to wait for Burns to get back from his odyssey. He would have more success finding Jason, the Argonauts, and the Golden Fleece than finding decent coffee in this building.

He looked disappointed when he arrived back five minutes after I hung up.

“We’ve got a job.”

“A drunk got hit crossing the road?” That was quite literally our last job.

“A dead body washed up on shore.”

“Let me guess. Wilson’s Beach?” He grabbed his coat and walked through the door I’d opened for him.

“How did you know?”

He just gave me one of those looks.

…

It was every bit as dreary outside as I’d imagined it would be, and rain was sleeting down on the vehicle we’d requisitioned before shift.

It was better than the last one, and at least it had fuel in it. We would not be lucky enough to get one of the electric vehicles.

I turned the heater up and the fan on full blast. It blasted cold air. The windows began to fog, a dangerous thing as the first shards of daylight appeared, making it hard to distinguish anything.

Water streamed off the windscreen and sloshed up from under the car, and those passing in the opposite direction. It was like driving through a tidal wave.

I was expecting more traffic.

Burns was surly at the best of times, a career detective who had only progressed as far as Detective Sergeant because he put family first.

He was one of the better ones I’d been paired with, except for being often regaled with the details of his life, wife, and six children, all of whom seemed to be larger than life.

At least he had a family, I didn’t, and the wife I had bailed many years ago after the first time I was nearly fatally shot. I guess you had to have a certain quality to be a cop’s wife.

It wasn’t a morning for conversation. Yesterday it was Burns’ 30th wedding anniversary, and their youngest child’s 18th birthday, a double celebration. He had come straight to work from the party.

I knew from his expression where he’d prefer to be.

Details of the case, if any, would magically appear in my cell phone, hopefully before we reached the crime scene, if it was a crime.

…

We arrived to join the collection of flashing lights easily seen in the darkened distance.

From the clearing just off the road, it was a longish twisty hike down to the beach. Not so bad going down, and an absolute bastard getting back up.

A uniformed officer in a raincoat was on guard.

Oliver, a newly assigned Detective Constable, had been assigned to me to learn the ropes. He was enthusiastic, but given his qualifications, far superior to Burns and mine, I thought he would be better off as a rocket scientist or jet fighter pilot.

Not standing in the rain waiting to fill in the crime scene details.

It was still raining.

“You look far more awake than I am, Oliver,” I said, wishing I could syphon some of his enthusiasm.

“Nothing like a dead body to liven up what might be an otherwise boring day.”

He handed us the necessary gear so we could go down, and we prepared.

“What’s the story?” I asked.

“Male, between 30 and 40, has not been in the water long. Initial inspection showed a bump to the head, but not severe enough to assume he was dead or unconscious before entering the water. My thought is that the victim fell overboard before or after hitting his head and face down, drowned. Sometimes the simple explanation…”

Oliver was like the Chief Superintendent, both liked closed, uncomplicated cases.

“We’ll know more after the post-mortem, I’m guessing. Anyone reported missing from a boat?”

“Not that I know of, but I’ll do a deeper dive when I get back to the station.”

We were ready, and Oliver led the way. The path had been recently hacked to clear away the usual entanglement of shrubbery. Several investigators were picking their way through the edges for any evidence.

At the beach level, there was a defined path we could walk along, about 20 yards to the water’s edge, where a tent had been set up over the body.

More investigators were searching the water’s edge.
.
I stopped at the entrance to the tent. Doc, the name we gave our coroner, was kneeling beside the body.

After a few minutes, she straightened and looked in my direction.

“Henry.”

“Doc. What have we got here?”

“A dead body.”

Doc had a strange sense of humour, one I got, but few others understood. Her medical experience came from a stint in the Army and volunteering in African hotspots. As well as the obligatory years as an intern in ER, in general practise, and specialising, though I was not exactly sure in what.

Didn’t matter, she had seen everything, and then some.

“Aside from the obvious.”

“Wounds consistent with falling overboard.”

“Pushed?”

“Or fell. Several contusions to the head, again consistent with a fall. He didn’t dive in on his own volition, though in the rough seas out beyond the bay, a wave could have picked him up and sent him back towards the boat. We’ll check the weather and tides.”

“Not a fall from a ship?”

“Possible, but there’d be more damage when he hit the water. I’ll know more when we get him back to the morgue. Doesn’t look like he’s been in the water too long. I’d be getting a list of boats in the area.”

“ID?”

“Nothing. A John Doe for the moment.”

I took a look at the body and surrounds. Swept in from the sea, and the person who found the body obviously dragged the body out of the water to check for life signs.

The waves were crashing, and it was rougher further out. Nothing screaming murder, not then.

Burns had spoken to the person who found the body. “The dog found it, rather than the owner. He then dragged the victim up the sand and checked for life signs. None. Called the police. Only one set of foot and paw prints.”

Burns put his head in the tent, took a moment, then came out.

“Not a party animal, not a fisherman. Just a normal person, like someone catching a ferry home.”

“Except there are no ferries.”

“There is that. I hate John Doe cases.”

He was not the only one. “Get a photo of his face. We’ll get Tech to run a check and see if we can get an ID. Also, check the nearest marinas for boats out last night.”

“Roger that.” Two notes in the pad, and back into the tent for a face photo.

Until we knew who he was and where he came from, this was not going to move quickly. I made sure he sent a photo to the Chief Constable. We needed his authority to widen the ID search beyond our jurisdiction.

As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait that long. An anonymous tip was received telling us that the man on the beach was Joshua Stevens. It came before the 10 o’clock news, and, oddly, it was on the 10 o’clock news.

A text message came from Wendy, one of the tech staff at the station who was assigned to our investigative team, telling me that there was an item of interest in the local radio station’s 10 o’clock news bulletin, and attached was a sound grab.

“The body of a 41-year-old London man, Joshua Stevens, was found on the shoreline at Wilson’s Beach in the early hours of this morning.

“So far, it is not known who Mr Stevens was, or if he had any family, or why he was in the area. Police are treating the death as accidental, but investigations are ongoing.”

That was it. It was more than I knew 10 minutes ago, and I thought it interesting that someone was more informed than I was.

That someone had to be Alison Brentwater, ace reporter for the local Chronicle, and if it could be said I had a nemesis, it was her.

…

Alison Brentwater and I were old sparring partners. It was not for the first time she had gazumped me in getting the juicy details of a murder suspect, and I often suspected she had a spy inside the station house.

I had her number on speed dial.

“Henry.”

“Alison.”

“Perhaps we should switch places,” she said with that special sarcastic tone she saved for me.

“The pay is terrible.”

“Perhaps not, then?”

“How?”

“I have my sources.”

“I’ll shout you coffee and cake, and we will have a talk.”

It wasn’t the first time she had all but thrown a spoke in the works, and I could feel the Chief Super reaching for the phone. I didn’t feel like a bollocking, not until I knew more.

“20 minutes, usual place.”

That she didn’t tell me where to go in no uncertain terms, like the last time, worried me.

. .

Petra’s Cafe was off the main street and an excellent choice to not be seen in. Petra was both Alison’s and my friend from University, the one who preferred being a barista to an accountant.

I was going to be a journalist, but the truth was Alison was so much better at it than I was, so I chose another profession. It wasn’t being a detective at first, that just came out of left field.

Alison thought it amusing, and typically of her, said she made a better detective, and in her inimitable manner set out to prove it.

She was the sort of girl you could love to hate. I had once considered dating, but it would not have lasted. She was too competitive in everything.

Petra was a different story, and I was still considering how I could approach her, given that she did not think as much of me as I did of her.

Petra was serving tables when I arrived, and I deposited myself at the back. It took a few minutes for her to reach me.

“You’re looking glum?”

“The case.”

“The floater?” Then she got that look. “Alison and her spies.” She shook her head. “You’re going to have to up your game. Latte?”

“Double shot.”

“That bad?”

We both saw her coming. It was not hard. She wasn’t conventional, still sporting green hair from an undercover reporting job in the city’s more seedy nightclubs. When she told me, I told her I didn’t want to be woken with the news she had been found in an alley somewhere.

It didn’t go down well.

“The usual,” she said, flopping into a chair.

Petra smiled, “Good morning to you, too.” And left.

“How do you do it?” I asked.

“It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

I knew she had a contact list that was a who’s who of the city, names that would make up an interesting suspect list if anything happened to her, if that book was ever found.

“Don’t spin me a line. There was no ID on the body, no distinguishing features, nothing except perhaps dental records, but I fear not even that will help us. How do you know?

“I briefly interviewed him two weeks ago in relation to an altercation in the Burberry Inn. Not a police matter, a friend was a victim of domestic violence, I was trying to get something on her boyfriend, and Joshua witnessed him being an ass. That’s it.”

“He was drinking a pint in the pub?”

“By himself, minding his own business. I got his name, that’s it. He wasn’t very helpful. He had a slight accent, I suspect he was born in England to foreign parents, no wedding ring, reasonably expensive clothes, nervous sort, kept looking in the direction of the door like he was expecting someone.”

“From London?”

“The bartender asked if he was new in town. He said he was up from London on business.”

“You think his death was an accident.”

Our coffee arrived in paper cups. Petra obviously thought we were both in a hurry.

“First impressions. But knowing now who he is, it depends on who he was doing business with. I guess I’d better set the wheels in motion.”

“I helped you, you have to help me.”

“You think I’m going to find out more than you. Perhaps it’s more appropriate for you to help me.”

“We’ll see.”

She put the lid back on her coffee, smiled, and left.

…

By the time I got back to the station, I had Oliver coming back from the crime scene, the body collected and taken to the morgue, and Burns on his way to the Burberry Inn looking for witnesses and CCTV. Oliver’s first job was to find as much information on Joshua Stevens as he could.

I went to see the Chief Superintendent and advised him on progress, the fact that Alison Brentwater had given us a preliminary identification of the body and the circumstances, and then held my breath.

I also added that consensus so far considered this the result of an accident, somewhat muddied by the fact that no one reported it, or a missing person within a 50-mile radius, which I’d checked before I got to his office. I was in the process of checking elsewhere in the country.

He simply wanted the case closed, but also the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed.

An email arrived with a list of missing persons after increasing the scope to Greater London, and Joshua’s name was on it, reported by his brother, and not his wife.

There were file notes on the interviews with both. The brother was concerned because they were in constant contact, and he had not sent an email for a week.

His wife said he was often on business trips that were sporadic and of indeterminate length. She thought he was just being Joshua, though she did say she suspected him of having an affair. She added that she had no idea where he was, and he rarely called. It was, I thought, an odd relationship.

I told Oliver to get a hold of his phone records and those of any family members. They would make interesting reading.

Next, I went down to the wharf where the two boats that offered cruises, fishing trips, and dinner cruises had their offices.

The first hadn’t run any cruises in the last few days. The second had run three, a fishing trip in the morning, a luncheon cruise, and, after dark, dinner cruises taking in the shore lights.

Margaret Bently, married to the son of the ship’s master and owner of Seaside Voyagers, according to the staff photographs posted behind the counter, was in the middle of a charter booking, city folk looking for an ocean adventure, or so it seemed.

The sales pitch was far more graphically interesting than the reality. Unless the picture I had in my mind was wrong.

I waited the five minutes before the conversation ended, not quite as expected. She did not seem pleased.

Putting the phone down, she gave me her attention.

I showed her my warrant card, and before I said a word, she was on the defensive. “We had nothing to do with anyone washing up on shore.”

To me, that sounded more like they did, but we’re not going to admit it.

“I take it you heard the news.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Your company ran three tours yesterday. I would like a passenger manifest for each and proof they got on and got off the boat.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“I can order the shutdown of this business, and impounding of all your vessels as potential crime scenes, and a complete audit of your operation, as well as a complete audit of your accounts.

“Apparently, the coast guard is about to investigate the possibility of small operations like yours picking up drugs brought in by large ships. It will only take one call.”

I had seen a memo hinting at a joint operation between services on drug importation, so I simply added a little embellishment.

She glared at me. “We have nothing to hide.” Her tone suggested otherwise. She pulled a binder out from under the counter and extracted three sheets, copied them and then gave them to me.

Passenger lists.

“Thank you.”

She ignored me. The phone had started ringing again.

…

The afternoon was taken up with Burns putting together a board that had Joshua Stevens on the centre, his brother Roger on one side, and his wife Stella, nee Williams, on the other. The photographs were missing.

The timeline working back from the time of discovery on Wilson’s Beach at about 6 am, time of death from 8 pm to 4 am, and before that, not a lot.

I listed Joshua in the Inn and Seaside Voyagers. Joshua’s name was not on any of the passengers’ lists, but it was possible he could have used an assumed name. Oliver was going to follow up on all the names.

We needed a coroner’s report, and that was in progress.

Joshua had a very small social media footprint. In face it was a Facebook page that had an icon and name and little else. There were no friends or family, and no wife. It was like he created it and then forgot it.

His wife had a similar page, a photo of EmWonder Woman, not hers, and no friends’ posts.

His brother had nothing but a name.

It seemed odd that the whole family just didn’t exist, outside a dead body and two ghosts. I asked the station that took the missing persons report to bring them in and ask more questions. And get photographs of them.

It was very unusual to be so anonymous. What struck me as a possibility was that Joshua and his wife were in some witness protection scheme, and he had been flushed out into the open.

There were no newspaper articles about either of them, which was a red flag. I set Wendy to dig deeper into the mire to see if anything was available anywhere on the internet.

Our board was very scant on details.

…

Before going home, I was called into the Morgue, where the results of the post mortem were in.

Death was not by drowning. He was not alive before he went into the water. In fact, he had suffered a severe heart attack and died quickly, not dragged out, and perhaps that was a good thing.

He had lipstick and scent about his person so he had been with a woman shortly before he died. No clues as to where he had been before ending up in the water, and equally, his time in the water hadn’t washed away the trace evidence.

It led to another possibility: he was murdered on the beach, and that put the man who discovered the body back on the list.

I went back to the office and added more items to the board, including the man who found the body, Jake Williams, and a photo Oliver had taken of him.

It was then that I noticed a slight similarity between him and Margaret at Seaside Voyagers. And the fact that both shared a surname.

Out of curiosity, I typed in the name Stella Williams and found an old Facebook page with a young photo of Stella.

No mistaking the resemblance.

What were the odds that Stella, Margaret and Jack were related?

…

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Paris

Escape the Crowds: Paris’s Top 5 Hidden Gems (That Deserve Your Visit)

Paris. The City of Lights, romance, and… endless queues? While the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre are undoubtedly must-sees, experiencing the best of Paris doesn’t have to mean battling shoulder-to-shoulder with thousands of fellow tourists.

If you’re looking to explore distinctive Parisian culture and history without the notorious bottlenecks, we’ve uncovered five incredible visitor attractions. These spots boast unique charm, fascinating features, and best of all: relative tranquillity.

Pack your walking shoes, grab your camera, and prepare to discover a side of Paris few tourists ever see.

1. Musée Rodin (The Gardens)

While the Musée Rodin itself—home to iconic works like The Thinker and The Kiss—is popular, the vast, sculpted gardens surrounding the mansion are often overlooked as a place to linger, making them a true, peaceful escape.

Distinctive Features:

Sculpture Meets Serenity: The three-hectare garden is an open-air gallery, where Rodin’s profound bronze figures are set against lush lawns, rose bushes, and towering hedges. It creates one of the most sublime atmospheres in Paris.
The Reflection Pool: A large, tranquil pool reflects the 18th-century Hôtel Biron (the main museum building), providing stunning photographic opportunities and a space for quiet contemplation.
The Workshop: You can catch glimpses of the former studio spaces, helping you connect directly with the creative process of one of history’s greatest sculptors.

Why It’s Worth the Trip: You get world-class art without the crush of a major museum, allowing the beauty of the artwork and the landscape to truly sink in.

2. Butte-aux-Cailles

Forget the tourist trap boutiques of Montmartre; head instead to the Butte-aux-Cailles in the 13th arrondissement. This small, elevated neighborhood feels like a secret village preserved within the modern city, rarely appearing on mainstream tourist itineraries.

Distinctive Features:

Village Atmosphere: The area escaped the sweeping renovations of Baron Haussmann in the 19th century, leaving behind narrow, cobbled streets (like Rue des Cinq Diamants) lined with low, charming houses and hidden courtyards.
Art Nouveau Architecture: Look out for beautiful examples of brick and stone façades and original lampposts.
Street Art Hub: While peaceful, the Butte-aux-Cailles is also a discreet, vibrant center for Parisian street art, featuring colorful, high-quality murals and stencils often tucked away on small side streets.
The Artesian Wells: The area is famous for its natural hot springs, and you can still find the historic communal swimming pool—Piscine de la Butte-aux-Cailles—fed by underground water.

Why It’s Worth the Trip: It offers an authentic glimpse into local Parisian life, complete with wonderful traditional bistros and quiet cafés, far removed from the noise of the center.

3. Parc des Buttes-Chaumont

When most visitors think of Parisian parks, they picture the Tuileries or the Luxembourg Gardens. But for truly dramatic landscapes and peaceful seclusion, the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont in the 19th arrondissement is unbeatable.

Distinctive Features:

Dramatic Topography: Built on a former gypsum quarry and landfill, the park features steep cliffs, grottoes, artificial waterfalls, and a large central lake.
The Temple de la Sibylle: Perched atop a sheer, 50-meter-high cliff (known as the Belvédère Island) is a miniature Roman-style temple offering one of the most spectacular, yet uncrowded, panoramic views of Paris, including Sacré-Cœur in the distance.
Rustic Charm: Unlike the manicured symmetry of other parks, Buttes-Chaumont embraces a rugged, romantic English garden style, complete with a charming suspension bridge designed by Gustave Eiffel’s company.

Why It’s Worth the Trip: It is a breathtaking feat of landscape architecture, providing dramatic views and quiet walking paths that make you forget you are in a major European capital.

4. The Archives Nationales (Hôtel de Soubise)

Tucked away in the historic Marais district, the Archives Nationales houses France’s national historical archives. While the documents themselves are fascinating, the primary draw is the opportunity to wander through one of the most beautiful and best-preserved 18th-century aristocratic residences in Paris, the Hôtel de Soubise.

Distinctive Features:

Rococo Masterpieces: The most stunning features are the magnificent state rooms, particularly the oval salons, which are considered peerless examples of French Rococo interior design. The intricate gilded woodwork, ceiling frescoes, and elaborate ornamentation are breathtaking.
Courtyard Grandeur: The cour d’honneur (main courtyard) immediately transports you back to the age of Louis XV, showcasing the sheer scale and opulence of Parisian high society.
Historical Significance: Visitors can tour selected exhibits showcasing pivotal documents from French history, offering a deep dive into the nation’s past within a spectacular setting.

Why It’s Worth the Trip: You get to explore hidden architectural gems that rival the palace interiors of Versailles, but without the mandatory entry lines and huge tour groups.

5. Musée de la Vie Romantique (Museum of Romantic Life)

The name truly says it all. Located in the residential Nouvelle Athènes neighborhood (near Pigalle), this delightful museum occupies two charming small buildings and a lush garden courtyard that celebrate the artistic and literary life of the 19th-century Romantic era.

Distinctive Features:

Intimate Scale: Housed in the former home of painter Ary Scheffer, the museum is dedicated to the works of George Sand, Ernest Renan, and other Romantic figures. It feels more like visiting a well-preserved family home than a traditional museum.
Literary History: Artifacts include portraits, jewelry, and personal items associated with the writer George Sand, offering a deeply personal look at her life and times.
The Best Tearoom in Paris: The garden courtyard transforms into a glorious, ivy-covered tearoom (operated by Café Renoir) during the warmer months. It is hands-down one of the most idyllic spots in Paris for a restorative coffee or lunch.

Why It’s Worth the Trip: It offers a deeply atmospheric and gentle cultural experience. It is the perfect antidote to the high-intensity visit of a major museum, wrapped up in Parisian charm and elegance.

The magic of Paris extends far beyond the well-trodden paths. By seeking out these distinctive, less-crowded attractions, you can enjoy the city’s profound history, stunning architecture, and unparalleled beauty at your own pace. Happy exploring!

In a word: Good

There is a TV show on at the moment called ‘The Good Place’.

It’s really the bad place which makes you wonder if there really is a ‘good place’.

This started me thinking.

How many people do you know, when you ask them how they are, they say ‘good’?

Can we see behind the facade that is their expression and see how they really feel?

Quite often, not. It is sometimes amazing just how good people are at hiding their true feelings.

And, thinking about that, how many of us reveal our true feelings?

It seems to me there is an acceptable level of understanding that we take people at their word and move on from there.

How many times when we suspect there is something wrong, we tend to overlook it in what is regarded as respect for that person?

What if something awful happened?

What if we could have prevented it?

What if we could have tried to gently probe deeper?

The problem is we seem to be too polite and there is nothing wrong with that.

But maybe, just maybe, the next time …

It’s just a thought.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

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!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – London

London’s Secret Charms: 5 Uncrowded Gems with Unforgettable Features

London. The very name conjures images of iconic landmarks, bustling streets, and a vibrant energy that pulses through its historic veins. But let’s be honest, that energy often translates into crowds – a beautiful, diverse, fascinating crowd, but a crowd nonetheless.

What if you yearn for a different rhythm? A London where you can connect with history, art, and nature without constantly jostling for a view? A London where distinctive features truly shine, allowing you to savour every unique detail?

Fear not, intrepid explorer! I’ve curated a list of five phenomenal London attractions that deliver on distinctive character without the typical tourist throngs. These are the places where you can breathe, ponder, and truly absorb the magic of this incredible city.

1. Sir John Soane’s Museum: A Collector’s Labyrinth of Wonders

What makes it distinctive? Imagine stepping into the mind of an eccentric 19th-century architect, where every surface, every nook, and every cranny is crammed with art, antiquities, and architectural fragments. Sir John Soane’s Museum is not a typical museum; it’s a meticulously preserved house that he designed to display his vast and eclectic collection exactly as he wanted it. Expect a fascinating, almost overwhelming, visual feast. Highlights include an Egyptian sarcophagus, a room of hidden paintings on hinged panels, and ceilings adorned with fragments of Roman sculpture.

Why it’s uncrowded: Its very nature – a house packed to the rafters – means visitor numbers are carefully controlled. It’s a small, intimate space, encouraging quiet contemplation rather than rapid sightseeing. You’ll often find yourself with plenty of room to explore.

Insider Tip: Look out for the “picture rooms” where walls literally open up to reveal more art behind them. It’s a delightful, theatrical surprise!

2. The Wallace Collection: Opulence and Masterpieces in a Grand Mansion

What makes it distinctive? Housed in Hertford House, a magnificent stately home in Marylebone, The Wallace Collection offers a truly unique experience: a peerless collection of 18th-century French art, furniture, porcelain, and old master paintings, all displayed in the sumptuous setting of a historic private residence. It feels less like a public gallery and more like you’ve been invited into a wealthy collector’s home. From rococo masterpieces like Fragonard’s “The Swing” to an impressive armoury, the sheer quality and variety are astonishing.

Why it’s uncrowded: While well-known, it often gets overlooked in favour of the larger, more public museums. Its location, slightly off the main tourist drag, also helps keep numbers manageable. Plus, it’s completely free to enter!

Insider Tip: Don’t miss the stunning central courtyard, which has been beautifully enclosed to create a light-filled restaurant – perfect for a refined coffee or lunch break.

3. Chelsea Physic Garden: London’s Oldest Botanic Oasis

What makes it distinctive? Tucked away behind high walls near the Thames, the Chelsea Physic Garden is a living museum of plants with a fascinating history. Established in 1673 by the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, it was created specifically for the study of medicinal plants. Today, it’s a tranquil four-acre oasis showcasing around 5,000 different species, including the largest fruiting olive tree in Britain and the world’s most northerly grapefruit tree. It’s a place where history, science, and nature intertwine beautifully.

Why it’s uncrowded: It charges a modest entrance fee and isn’t on the primary tourist routes, ensuring a peaceful atmosphere. It’s a favourite among locals seeking serenity, rather than a must-see for first-time visitors ticking off landmarks.

Insider Tip: Check their website for workshops, talks, and guided tours which offer deeper insights into the garden’s extensive collections and history.

4. St. Dunstan in the East Church Garden: A Ruined Beauty Reclaimed by Nature

What makes it distinctive? This is perhaps one of London’s most visually stunning “hidden” gems. What once was a grand medieval church, later rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren, was largely destroyed during the Blitz in 1941. Instead of rebuilding, the ruins were transformed into a public garden. Ivy-clad walls, elegant Gothic arches, and a Wren tower now frame a vibrant collection of trees and plants. It’s an ethereal, almost magical space that perfectly blends history with nature’s resilience.

Why it’s uncrowded: Despite its proximity to the Tower of London and Monument, it’s tucked away down a side street, making it easy to miss if you don’t know it’s there. It’s a favourite spot for city workers on their lunch break and photographers, but rarely overwhelmed by tourists.

Insider Tip: Visit on a sunny day when the light filters through the archways and foliage, creating a truly enchanting atmosphere. Find a bench and simply soak in the tranquility.

5. Leighton House: An Artist’s Victorian Fantasy

What makes it distinctive? Step into the fantastical home and studio of Victorian artist Frederic, Lord Leighton, and prepare to be mesmerised. The crowning glory is the “Arab Hall,” a breathtaking space inspired by Leighton’s travels to the Middle East. Adorned with over 1,000 iridescent Islamic tiles, a golden dome, and a tranquil fountain, it’s like stepping into a dream. Beyond this, the house offers beautiful period rooms, Leighton’s grand studio, and a collection of his and his contemporaries’ art. It’s a truly unique architectural and artistic vision.

Why it’s uncrowded: Located in Holland Park, West London, it’s a little further out than central attractions, which naturally reduces footfall. It also requires a timed ticket, ensuring a pleasant visitor experience.

Insider Tip: Look closely at the tiles in the Arab Hall – many are original 16th and 17th-century pieces, carefully acquired by Leighton himself.

So, the next time you find yourself in the magnificent city of London, consider taking a detour from the main thoroughfares. These five distinctive, uncrowded attractions offer a chance to connect with a different side of the capital – one that’s rich in history, beauty, and quiet wonder. Happy exploring!

Have you discovered any other uncrowded London treasures? Share them in the comments below!

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.

I remembered the car slewing sideways.

I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.

Or I could be underwater.

Everything was blurred.

I tried to focus, but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.

What happened?

Why was I lying down?

Where was I?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember.

It was a blank.

What, when, who, why and where are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.

I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.

I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”

I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.

I was blind. Everything was black.

“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”

Was I that poor bastard?

“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.

“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”

“What isn’t broken?”

“His neck.”

“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”

I heard the shuffling of pages.

“OR1 ready?”

“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”

“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.

It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.

Or somewhere.

I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.

Was it night or was it day?

Was it hot, or was it cold?

Where was I?

Around me, it felt cool.

It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence. And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.

I didn’t try to move.

Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.

A previous unpleasant experience?

I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.

My grandfather.

He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that, he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way down the same path. I could smell the smoke.

I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.

I couldn’t.

I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later, the clicking of a pen, then writing.

“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk or move; all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

She had a very soothing voice.

Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.

“Everything is fine.”

Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.

“Just count backwards from 10.”

Why?

I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.

It rose above the disinfectant.

She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.

It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning, she was back.

“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”

More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.

The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”

Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.

How could that happen?

That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact that I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment, was the fact that I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.

But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.

I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.

I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.

Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?

Now I knew Winifred, the nurse, was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”

So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.

But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.

This time, I was left awake for an hour before she returned.

This time, sleep was restless.

Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Other people, I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.

Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off, she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.

“This morning, the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”

I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.

I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.

I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.

I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.

I felt the bandage being removed and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.

Then a moment when nothing happened.

Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.

Nothing.

I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.

“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later, I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.

Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.

She wiped my eyes again.

I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.

I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.

Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.

I nodded.

“You can see?”

I nodded again.

“Clearly?”

I nodded.

“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”

I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring; there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.

I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.

They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.

Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.

I found it hard to believe that if he were, he would be at a small country hospital.

“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”

Warning enough.

The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.

Then it was done.

The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with it. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.

I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said, noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate that he was available. Are you ready?”

I nodded.

She showed me.

I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.

And I still could not talk. There was a reason; he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.

“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”

A new face?

I could not remember the old one.

My memory still hadn’t returned.