OK, I could have made one, I have a Nespresso machine, purchased after watching an inspiring George Clooney advertisement (well, my wife bought it) but I was after something with a little more oomph!
We have a small shopping centre just up the road about a kilometre and I thought, what’s five minutes and a short drive against a cup of hot, steaming, delicious to the last drop, coffee?
That’s where any semblance of sanity ends.
I walked out the back door and forgot the car keys, so I had to go back in. The door opens and the cat gets out. Not so bad you think, but no, after three road kills, the cat getting out is a major catastrophe (pardon the pun).
Ten minutes later, cornered like a rat in a trap, he is back inside, I have the keys, and out in the car. It’s a hot day, and the air conditioning isn’t working. Damn. It’s like 45 degrees Celsius in the car.
This is the time to give up and go back inside. The omens are telling!
I don’t.
Our driveway is up a slight hill and usually we back the cars up so it’s easier to drive out onto the street. We live in a corner house, and whilst it is not a busy intersection, it has been known for cars to treat it like the third chicane of a grand prix. Late at night cars have rolled trying to make that tight corner.
I’m reversing off the driveway, too lazy the previous day to back it up, and you guessed it, Enzo Ferrari’s brother is making heavy weather in the third chicane and takes the corner wide, sliding across to the other side of the street, a) because he’s going too fast, and b) because he just saw me backing out of my driveway.
I’m having a heart attack and waiting for the bang, and he’s rapidly accelerating, smoke pouring from streaming tyres, and engine roaring in first or second as the revs pass 9000 and are redlining.
Disaster averted. One speed junkie and daredevil happy, one old man shaken to the core.
So far I’ve travelled 10 metres.
On the radio the station is playing the James Bond theme from ‘You Only Live Twice’.
Apt, very apt.
I am now very sedately driving to the shopping centre, the road following a wide curve. Nothing can go wrong here, until I reach the T intersection. I stop like I do every time, and look. No cars from the left, and one opposite me, turning into my street.
I start to turn. The car opposite decides to do a U Turn, and I slam the foot on the brakes. The driver of the other car is oblivious to me, happily chatting on her mobile phone. Didn’t stop, didn’t look, didn’t care.
My heart rate is now 170 over 122, and perhaps I should be clinically dead.
Coffee is the last thing I need.
But I persevere. How much worse can it get?
The shopping centre is not far, up to the roundabout and a right turn into the shopping centre car part. Usually there are plenty of parking spots, today there a none. I drive down one of the lanes, and nearly get hit but a reversing driver. Again, not looking, or perhaps distracted by four children in the back seat.
Or the very, very loud music coming from the car.
I thought at first it was the pounding of my headache, brought on by high blood pressure.
I back up the car a) top give the driver more room to reverse out, and b) so I could turn into the spot when he vacates it.
More fool me. The car backs out, another driver swoops in and takes the spot.
I get out to remonstrate, but he’s three feet wide and seven feet tall with a scarred face and tattoos on both arms. Time to move on.
Yes, there’s nothing like a tall hot steaming cup of coffee on a pleasant Sunday morning.
The Writer’s Quest: Not Preaching, But Discovering Truth
Milan Kundera, the literary titan behind “The Unbearable Lightness of Being,” posited a profound idea about the writer’s role: “To be a writer does not mean to preach the truth, it means to discover the truth.” This statement, seemingly simple, carries immense weight. It shifts our perception of literature from a didactic tool, a podium from which to dispense wisdom, to a more intricate, exploratory, and frankly, more human endeavour.
Think about the writers we truly admire. Are they the ones who confidently declare absolutes, who arrive with ready-made answers to life’s complex questions? Or are they the ones who delve into the murky depths of human experience, who ask the uncomfortable questions, who present us with characters grappling with dilemmas, whose narratives leave us with more to ponder than to accept? Kundera’s assertion points squarely to the latter.
The Perils of Preaching:
When a writer aims to “preach the truth,” they often fall into the trap of pronouncements and dogma. This can lead to a literature that feels rigid, self-righteous, and ultimately, less engaging. The reader, instead of being invited into a shared exploration, is positioned as a passive recipient, expected to nod in agreement. This approach can alienate, rather than connect, because it presumes a singular, universally applicable truth, which, as any honest observer of life knows, is a rare commodity.
Furthermore, the act of preaching implies certainty. But life, in its most compelling and resonant forms, is rarely certain. It’s a tapestry woven with doubt, ambiguity, and the constant negotiation between conflicting desires and circumstances. A writer who preaches a singular truth risks flattening this rich complexity, presenting a sanitised and incomplete version of reality.
The Power of Discovery:
Kundera’s alternative, “to discover the truth,” is an invitation to a journey. It acknowledges that truth is not a static object to be unearthed and displayed, but a fluid, multifaceted entity that can be approached from myriad angles. The writer, in this paradigm, becomes an explorer, venturing into the uncharted territories of the human psyche, societal structures, and the very fabric of existence.
This discovery process is inherently collaborative. The writer offers a map, a collection of observations, a series of carefully crafted questions, and the reader embarks alongside them. Through the act of reading, we engage with the writer’s discoveries, testing them against our own experiences, questioning them, and in doing so, forming our own understanding, our own truths.
What This Discovery Looks Like in Practice:
Embracing Ambiguity: Great literature often thrives on ambiguity. Characters are rarely all good or all bad. Situations are rarely clear-cut. The writer, through their art, allows these shades of gray to exist, inviting us to grapple with the moral and emotional complexities they represent. Think of the moral quandaries faced by characters in Dostoevsky or the existential struggles in Camus.
Asking Profound Questions: Instead of providing answers, the writer poses questions that resonate deeply. They might explore the nature of love, the weight of memory, the impact of power, or the search for meaning. These questions, presented through narrative and character, become prompts for our own introspection.
Illuminating the Human Condition: By focusing on the often-mundane yet profound experiences of individuals, writers can illuminate universal truths about what it means to be human. The act of observing and articulating these experiences, with honesty and nuance, is a form of discovery.
Challenging Assumptions: Effective writers don’t just reflect the world; they interrogate it. They use their stories to challenge our preconceived notions, to reveal hidden biases, and to offer fresh perspectives that might otherwise remain unseen.
In essence, Kundera’s statement liberates the writer. It frees them from the burden of certainty and empowers them to embrace the messy, beautiful, and often bewildering process of understanding. It reminds us that the true magic of literature lies not in being told what to believe, but in being guided to discover it for ourselves, thread by intricate thread, word by evocative word. And in that shared act of discovery, we find a deeper, more authentic connection to the stories we read and to each other.
The Burden of “Unpaid Favours”: How Writers Can Protect Their Time and Sanity
If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly felt the sting of “The Ask.”
It starts with a ping in your inbox or a DM on social media: “I love your work! Would you mind just taking a quick look at my manuscript?” or “Could you write a quick blurb?” or “Can I pick your brain for an hour over coffee about how to break into the industry?”
The legendary literary critic Edmund Wilson famously lamented these demands, referring to them as “unpaid favours.” For the recipient, these requests represent a genuine dilemma: you want to be generous and supportive of your community, but your time is your professional capital. If you said “yes” to everyone, you would never write another word of your own.
So, how do you manage the flood of requests without burning bridges—or burning out? Here is a guide to navigating the delicate art of saying “no.”
1. The “Gatekeeper” Strategy: Use a FAQ Page
Prevention is the best medicine. If you have a professional website, create a dedicated “Contact” or “FAQ” page. Clearly outline your current capacity.
Pro-tip: Add a section titled “Mentorship and Inquiries.” State politely but firmly: “Due to my current writing schedule, I am unable to accept requests for manuscript reviews, informational interviews, or unpaid consulting.”
When someone sends a request, you don’t have to draft a long explanation. You can simply link to your policy. It removes the personal nature of the refusal.
2. Master the “Template of Kindness”
You don’t need to be rude to be firm. A “template of kindness” allows you to send a polite refusal in under 30 seconds.
Try this script:
“Hi [Name], thanks so much for reaching out and for your kind words about my work. I’m currently deep in a deadline and have had to step back from all outside projects and consultations to protect my writing time. I’m afraid I can’t help with this request, but I wish you the very best of luck with your [manuscript/project]!”
By keeping it brief, you prevent the “back-and-forth” that often results when you leave the door slightly ajar.
3. Redirect, Don’t Reject
Sometimes, the person asking genuinely needs help but doesn’t know where to turn. Instead of providing the labour yourself, provide a roadmap.
If someone asks for advice on how to get published, direct them to three reliable resources: a specific book on craft, a reputable industry organisation (like Poets & Writers or AWP), or a craft-focused newsletter.
Why this works: You are still being helpful, but you are shifting the burden from your labour to your curation.
4. Set “Consultation Hours”
If you truly want to give back but are overwhelmed, carve out a small, manageable block of time. Perhaps you offer one 30-minute coffee chat per quarter, or you answer one email question a month.
When that slot is full, it’s full. You can then honestly tell people: “My mentorship slots for the year are currently filled, but please check back in January.”
5. Recognize the “Unpaid Favor” Trap
Many writers feel guilty saying no because they fear being labelled “unapproachable” or “stuck up.” It is important to reframe the request: When someone asks for your labour for free, they are asking you to prioritise their career over your own.
You are not obligated to provide free consulting, editing, or networking. Protecting your time is not an act of arrogance; it is an act of professional sustainability. If you don’t save your creative energy for your own work, your work will eventually stop existing—and then you won’t have anything to offer anyone.
The Bottom Line
Edmund Wilson was right: requests for “unpaid favours” are an occupational hazard for any successful writer. But you are the CEO of your own creative practice. You get to decide how your time is spent.
Be polite, be concise, and stay focused on your work. The best way to support the writing community is to keep writing, keep publishing, and keep showing the world that writing is a profession deserving of boundaries.
Are you a writer struggling with boundary-setting? Share how you handle “unpaid favours” in the comments below!
Sardinia is famous for its glamorous coastlines, but the island truly shines when you venture inland or to its quieter corners. For a journey on the road less travelled, here are five of the best places and activities:
1. Hike the Gola Su Gorropu Gorge
What it is: Often called the “Grand Canyon of Europe,” this is one of the deepest gorges on the continent, carved by the Flumineddu River in the Supramonte mountain range.
Why it’s less travelled: It requires a moderate-to-challenging hike (or a 4×4 transfer) to access, keeping the crowds away. This activity takes you deep into Sardinia’s rugged, wild heart, offering a dramatic contrast to the beaches.
Activity: Trek through the immense canyon walls, navigating the huge boulders within the gorge floor.
2. Meet the Albino Donkeys of Asinara National Park
What it is: A protected, uninhabited island off the northwest coast, formerly a maximum-security prison and penal colony.
Why it’s less travelled: Access is restricted to preserve the environment. Its primary inhabitants are the rare wild albino donkeys (known as Asinara donkeys), horses, and other wildlife.
Activity: Take a ferry from Stintino or Porto Torres and explore the island by bike (or e-bike), following the paths that connect coves, ancient watchtowers, and abandoned prison infrastructure.
3. Explore the Dunes of Piscinas
What it is: Located in the Arbus area on the west coast, this is the largest desert in Europe, with vast, rolling golden dunes that stretch for miles and meet the sea.
Why it’s less travelled: It’s a remote area, part of the old mining region, far from the main tourist hubs. The landscape is unique, offering a “wild-west” feel.
Activity: Wander through the immense dunes, admire the rust-red lagoons, and spot the abandoned mining carts illuminated by the Milky Way at night.
4. Step Back in Time at Nuraghe Su Nuraxi
What it is: The largest and most complete example of the nuraghi, the massive stone defence structures erected by the ancient Nuragic civilisation (1800–700 BCE). It is a UNESCO World Heritage site located inland in the village of Barumini.
Why it’s less travelled: It’s located deep in the countryside, away from the coastal routes. While famous, it draws a different crowd focused on deep history and archaeology.
Activity: Take a mandatory guided tour to explore the ruins of the fortified complex, which has re-emerged in its entirety, offering a window into one of the oldest civilisations in the Mediterranean.
5. Walk the Streets of the Open-Air Museum of San Sperate
What it is: A small, vibrant agricultural village about 15 minutes from Cagliari, transformed into an open-air art gallery.
Why it’s less travelled: It’s often overlooked by tourists heading straight for the beaches. Since the 1960s, local and international artists have covered the exterior walls of homes and shops with colourful murals depicting social, political, and historical themes.
Activity: Get “lost” walking the quaint streets, admiring over 200 murals and the basalt sculptures by local artist Pinuccio Sciola, who started the town’s artistic renaissance.
Yes, I’m drawing a blank, which means I have no idea
It seems that I do this a lot these days, perhaps one of the perils of being a writer
But…
Using blank in a story doesn’t necessarily convey the antagonist is clueless, more likely he or she just used one in a gun, put there by a person who didn’t want to get shot.
No, still drawing a blank on this one.
A blank space means there’s nothing in it, and you see a lot of these in crosswords and sudoku, even when the user has been toiling for hours
I’m thinking anyone who met me might misinterpret my blank expression, well, it’s not too expressive in the first place
Perhaps before the coin becomes a coin; it is a piece of blank metal to begin with. How good would it be to get a one-sided coin, that’d be worth a lot?
And the very worst description of blank; having a blank piece of paper in front of you, and you really are drawing a blank!
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continued on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think, is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.
But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.
I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.
Beyond the Palaces: 5 Unexpected Seoul Delights Off the Beaten Path
Seoul. The name itself conjures images of shimmering skyscrapers, ancient palaces, and the pulsating energy of K-Pop. And while those iconic sights are undeniably breathtaking, what if you’re looking for something a little… different? What if you’ve already ticked off Gyeongbokgung and conquered the Namsan Tower, and your wanderlust craves a Seoul that whispers secrets rather than shouts them?
Fear not, intrepid traveller! Seoul’s magic extends far beyond the well-trodden tourist trails. If you’re ready to immerse yourself in the city’s multifaceted soul, here are five alternative experiences that will leave you with unique memories and a deeper appreciation for this dynamic metropolis.
1. Get Lost (and Found) in a Local Market’s Labyrinth
While Namdaemun and Gwangjang are famous for good reason, venture into one of Seoul’s lesser-known Dongdaemun (east gate) markets for a truly authentic adventure. Think Migun-dong Electronics Market or the sprawling Tongin Market (though it’s gaining popularity, it still offers a more intimate feel than its mega-market counterparts).
Here, you won’t just find souvenirs. You’ll witness the daily rhythm of Seoul locals. Wander through aisles overflowing with everything from vintage cameras and artisanal crafts to the freshest produce and sizzling street food. Engage with vendors, practice your basic Korean greetings, and savor the thrill of discovering treasures you never knew you needed. The vibrant chaos, the cacophony of sounds, and the intoxicating aromas are an experience in themselves.
2. Step Back in Time at a Traditional Tea House in Seongbuk-dong
While Insadong offers a taste of traditional Korea, the charming Seongbuk-dong neighbourhood offers a more serene and authentic tea house experience. Tucked away in its hilly streets are hidden gems like Moonbird Porcelain or O’Sulloc Tea House (Seongbuk Branch).
Imagine this: stepping out of the bustling city into a tranquil haven adorned with traditional Korean architecture. You’ll be presented with delicate porcelain cups, fragrant teas like omija (five-flavour berry) or barley tea, and perhaps a plate of traditional Korean sweets (hangwa). It’s an opportunity to slow down, disconnect, and engage in a centuries-old ritual of mindfulness and conversation. The quiet elegance of these spaces is a welcome antidote to the urban rush.
3. Ascend the Less-Climbed Peaks for Panoramic Views
When most people think of Seoul views, Namsan Tower comes to mind. But for a more rewarding and less crowded panoramic experience, consider hiking some of Seoul’s other magnificent peaks. Bukhansan National Park is a hiker’s paradise, but for a slightly more accessible yet equally stunning vista, try Achasan Mountain.
The trail to Achasan is relatively moderate, and the reward at the summit is immense. You’ll be greeted with breathtaking views of the Han River snaking through the city, with the iconic buildings of Gangnam and Lotte World Tower in the distance. It’s a fantastic spot for sunrise or sunset, offering a different perspective of Seoul’s sprawling beauty. Bonus points if you pack a simple picnic to enjoy amidst nature.
4. Delve into Subculture at a Themed Cafe or an Independent Bookstore
Seoul’s cafe culture is legendary, but move beyond the mainstream and discover its quirky corners. Explore the Hongdae area (beyond the main shopping street) for its abundance of independent bookstores and uniquely themed cafes. Think cat cafes, sheep cafes, board game cafes, or even cafes dedicated to specific K-Pop groups.
For book lovers, Chronicler B’s or Village offer curated selections of art, design, and independent publications, often with cozy reading nooks. These spaces are not just for sipping coffee; they are vibrant hubs of creativity and community, offering a glimpse into Seoul’s subcultures and passions.
5. Discover the Art of Hanji at a Traditional Paper Workshop
Hanji, traditional Korean paper, is renowned for its durability and beauty. While you can admire Hanji crafts in museums, why not try your hand at creating something yourself? Seek out a Hanji workshop in areas like Bukchon Hanok Village or inquire at cultural centres.
These workshops offer a hands-on experience where you can learn about the intricate process of making Hanji, from the Mulberry bark to the final paper. You might even get to create your own small piece of art, try your hand at calligraphy on Hanji, or craft a beautiful lantern. It’s a deeply satisfying way to connect with a traditional Korean craft and take home a truly unique, handmade souvenir.
So, the next time you find yourself in Seoul, dare to stray from the well-worn paths. Embrace the spirit of exploration, and you’ll discover a city that’s not just grand and modern, but also intimate, quirky, and brimming with hidden wonders waiting to be unearthed. Happy adventuring!
By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope that the day would improve.
The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.
I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passengers’ attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.
I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket, then nodded dismissively and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.
From what I could see, there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.
She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.
Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.
She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.
I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare and take a tour of the medieval village.
Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and letting the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.
It didn’t work.
I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?
I usually blamed it on my upbringing.
I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.
Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would have needed to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later, a keen military mind. If nothing else, I could ride a horse and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.
I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.
Computers were the new vogue, and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which, although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.
About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.
Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.
Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited my qualifications, and the rest I think I intimidated simply because of who I was. In that time, I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist and, through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.
And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time, she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship, compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise, and what had happened was always going to be the end result.
It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfil, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.
I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.
Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.
Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her, when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.
Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.
I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.
I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact that her hair was short rather than long and jet-black.
I had to wrench my attention away from her.
A few minutes later, several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.
I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes before retracing my steps to the front of the ship, and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerising. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.
Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”
I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close to me without my realising it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.
“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”
Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her, particularly around the eyes, and of her hair, which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtly, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.
Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent and was fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.
Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.
“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.
The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanour as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”
It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.
“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped, she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.
I realised then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”
“Zoe.”
“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”
She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”
“I might throw myself overboard?”
“An idiotic notion, I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”
Then she tilted her head to one side, then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”
I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she were, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.
“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact that she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.
She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realised who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”
Of course. She was not the first who had recognised me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.
“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.
“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”
The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times, which had made that exact comment recently.
“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”
She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.
“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian, on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.
But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.
She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”
A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”
I was not sure if she looked surprised or amused. “Do I look like one?”
I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”
I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead, she astonished me.
“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact that this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”
I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignore their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.
“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be travelling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”
“She’s not here?”
“No.”
“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment, then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be travelling with someone.
“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”
OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.
She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.
I wondered, if only for a few seconds, if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.
She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”
“I saw it coming.”
“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”
OK, that was unexpected.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realising what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”
She stood and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?
I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.
The Burden of “Unpaid Favours”: How Writers Can Protect Their Time and Sanity
If you are a writer, you have undoubtedly felt the sting of “The Ask.”
It starts with a ping in your inbox or a DM on social media: “I love your work! Would you mind just taking a quick look at my manuscript?” or “Could you write a quick blurb?” or “Can I pick your brain for an hour over coffee about how to break into the industry?”
The legendary literary critic Edmund Wilson famously lamented these demands, referring to them as “unpaid favours.” For the recipient, these requests represent a genuine dilemma: you want to be generous and supportive of your community, but your time is your professional capital. If you said “yes” to everyone, you would never write another word of your own.
So, how do you manage the flood of requests without burning bridges—or burning out? Here is a guide to navigating the delicate art of saying “no.”
1. The “Gatekeeper” Strategy: Use a FAQ Page
Prevention is the best medicine. If you have a professional website, create a dedicated “Contact” or “FAQ” page. Clearly outline your current capacity.
Pro-tip: Add a section titled “Mentorship and Inquiries.” State politely but firmly: “Due to my current writing schedule, I am unable to accept requests for manuscript reviews, informational interviews, or unpaid consulting.”
When someone sends a request, you don’t have to draft a long explanation. You can simply link to your policy. It removes the personal nature of the refusal.
2. Master the “Template of Kindness”
You don’t need to be rude to be firm. A “template of kindness” allows you to send a polite refusal in under 30 seconds.
Try this script:
“Hi [Name], thanks so much for reaching out and for your kind words about my work. I’m currently deep in a deadline and have had to step back from all outside projects and consultations to protect my writing time. I’m afraid I can’t help with this request, but I wish you the very best of luck with your [manuscript/project]!”
By keeping it brief, you prevent the “back-and-forth” that often results when you leave the door slightly ajar.
3. Redirect, Don’t Reject
Sometimes, the person asking genuinely needs help but doesn’t know where to turn. Instead of providing the labour yourself, provide a roadmap.
If someone asks for advice on how to get published, direct them to three reliable resources: a specific book on craft, a reputable industry organisation (like Poets & Writers or AWP), or a craft-focused newsletter.
Why this works: You are still being helpful, but you are shifting the burden from your labour to your curation.
4. Set “Consultation Hours”
If you truly want to give back but are overwhelmed, carve out a small, manageable block of time. Perhaps you offer one 30-minute coffee chat per quarter, or you answer one email question a month.
When that slot is full, it’s full. You can then honestly tell people: “My mentorship slots for the year are currently filled, but please check back in January.”
5. Recognize the “Unpaid Favor” Trap
Many writers feel guilty saying no because they fear being labelled “unapproachable” or “stuck up.” It is important to reframe the request: When someone asks for your labour for free, they are asking you to prioritise their career over your own.
You are not obligated to provide free consulting, editing, or networking. Protecting your time is not an act of arrogance; it is an act of professional sustainability. If you don’t save your creative energy for your own work, your work will eventually stop existing—and then you won’t have anything to offer anyone.
The Bottom Line
Edmund Wilson was right: requests for “unpaid favours” are an occupational hazard for any successful writer. But you are the CEO of your own creative practice. You get to decide how your time is spent.
Be polite, be concise, and stay focused on your work. The best way to support the writing community is to keep writing, keep publishing, and keep showing the world that writing is a profession deserving of boundaries.
Are you a writer struggling with boundary-setting? Share how you handle “unpaid favours” in the comments below!
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 