This is another of those words that can be used for manly different situations.
But…
What happened to it being just an egg, you know the sort you can have for breakfast, fried, scrambled or boiled. Or eggs Benedict.
Or…
We can go down that path where the discussion is about what came first, the chicken or the egg? Don’t ask me, it could be both.
So, now it seems egg has a few other meanings that could be considered somewhat obscure, such as,
He is a good egg.
Wow, comparing someone to an egg? I guess I’d hate to be compared to a rotten egg.
What about, the crowd egged the man on to start a fight.
Well, perhaps a couple of rowdy schoolboys looking for some action behind the shelter shed, or at least that’s what we called it when I went to school (when I’m told, dinosaurs walked the earth)
Then,
If you do something embarrassing, then you are said to finish up with egg on your face.
Oh dear, been there a few times.
Or…
If you were to put all your money into that match tree forest in Ecuador, that’s the equivalent to putting all your eggs in one basket.
In other words, when you discover that the match tree forest in Ecuador was really your financial advisor’s private bank account and he’s now living in a non-extradition country, you understand just what that expression means.
In other words, diversify.
And lastly, if the above happens to you, then it’s time to go on an expedition, to find the goose that laid the golden egg.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
while poking around in what could be considered part of our colonial past, we came across a place that had a few remnants.
It’s hard to imagine that in the 1800s wagons like the above were a principal means of transport, with variations for transporting goods, or people, drawn by horses.
Whereas these days we can travel 300, 400 miles in a day in the modern car, and in relative comfort, to do the same distance in a horse-drawn vehicle, with no spring loaded axels, would take days.
And the journey is particularly uncomfortable over any distance. There would have to be a series of Inns and Hotels to stay overnight because travel at night would be difficult.
It’s hard to imagine where we would be without the modern motor car.
I have had a ride in a stagecoach once, over a short journey, and it was not something I would contemplate over a long distance.
But, then, what if we suddenly have no oil to create petrol, and we use up all the minerals needed for electric car batteries?
I think it could inspire a post-apocalypse world we would bearly be able to survive in.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. He has suddenly become delusional.
I’m not sure if a cat can become so, but since I gave him a role in one of my stories, he’s started acting weirdly.
I’m sure if he could wear sunglasses indoors he would. As it is, it’s head in the air, looking straight ahead, ignoring everything and everyone around him.
I think about opening the concertina doors that lead into the dining room just to see if he crashes into them.
He thinks, no doubt, that I think he’s just sniffing the air to see if there are any mice to be caught, but I’m on to him.
As he strolls past I say, “Perhaps I might turn that role into a walk on.”
He stops in mid step, and turns his head.
“You can’t. I’ve read the latest chapter. I’m integral to the plot.”
I smile. “You do realise often the best roles end up on the cutting room floor, or in this case, perhaps I’ll start editing early. There’s such a thing as the delete key.”
Smug, or is that haughty, look gone.
“Just go back to being your usual self,” I say, “and I’ll reconsider your role.”
“Does that mean no fresh fish for lunch today?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
I’m sure cats can’t shrug, but he gives it his best shot, and continues on his way minus the attitude.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
An unlikely ally?
When we were far enough away, not far from the bridge that crossed the Thames towards the Houses of Parliament, and with the London Eye in the foreground, I slackened my pace. There were enough people around to afford us cover if Maury and his team realised quickly enough what we had done to escape.
“What now?” she asked.
“Go back to your people, tell them you’ve been compromised, but only on the basis that your flat was tossed, don’t mention Nobbin or Severin unless you feel compelled you have to, and make sure you don’t go back to the flat. Both of them will have it staked out by now.”
“And what are you doing to do?”
“Try and play them off against each other, which probably won’t work. I’m not nearly good enough at this caper yet. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to talk to both of them and tell them I’m onto McConnell, though that will hardly be a surprise to either of them. After that, find somewhere safe to figure out what to do next.”
“Who was that back at the station?”
“A chap called Maury, and I think he’s one of Severin’s hatchet men. He was one of those who trained me and several others.”
“You do realise what you’re saying?”
“That my situation is so screwed up, yes, I know.”
It was when I stopped to think about it. Trained by a rogue group no one knew about, or so they said, and transferred to another group, but not told about it, well, not officially, anyway.
“Maybe we should keep each other’s back. I mean, if what you say is true, if I go back to my people and tell them about this, it’s likely I’ll be putting a target on my back too.”
True. I had considered that, but not that we might team up. It would introduce a third group to the game, and it might be one too many, or act as a catalyst leading to catastrophic consequences.
“What are you saying?” I asked her, just in case I was misinterpreting what she was saying.
“I’m not safe, you’re not safe, together we might be. I might have something useful about O’Connell, but I wouldn’t know if it was useful of not. You at least know what to look for, and basically who to avoid. Who knows, we might make a great team.”
We might. But it would have to be predicated on trust, and, right now, I was not sure if I could trust her. That pen thing, she might have precipitated it, and was working with Severin. It seemed logical in the circumstances.
But what was that saying, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer? I’d soon find out.
“Ok. What do you think we should do first?”
“Find a hotel, an obscure one, nearby, and you call your so-called friends, and see what happens, as you said.”
I nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
And, I thought to myself, ideal for her if she was insinuating herself into my world, much the same as she had in O’Connell’s case. In was now in my nature to suspect everyone and everything, because a few words of one lesson came back to haunt me. We trust people because we instinctively want to believe them, and in this line of work, the people we come across are good and sincere storytellers.
It was a question of how much truth they weaved into their story, that made it believable. I wanted to believe her, but the facts, circumstantial or otherwise, pointed me in the other direction.
I would have to wait and see and make sure I was prepared for the worst.
It was Jan’s idea t stay near the Charing Cross station in a hotel that I would not normally stay in because of the cost. I let Jan do the check-in and when we arrived at the room, I discovered she hadn’t booked two rooms, but a Studio Suite with two single beds and a sofa bed.
Apparently, we were brother and sister, which made sense after I had overheard some of the conversation with the check-in clerk. I didn’t hear what her excuse was for lack of luggage. Perhaps the airline had lost it, but I had to admit the girl could think on her feet.
Once inside the room, it felt cramped, but the beds looked comfortable, and it had a minibar.
“Before you make any calls, you need to disable the GPS in your phone.”
“They’ll still be able to track it.”
“Not if you are on it for a short period, and we are outside the hotel.”
Well, before that I need a drink.”
“So, do I. Give me a minute to freshen up and we’ll go down to the bar. It’ll be a lot cheaper than the minibar. Then I think we both need to get some supplies.”
I wondered if this is what it was like to be married.
This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.
…
Yesterday there was a moment where I went back over the plot, and whilst that exercise was a success in a way, it also got me thinking, and like always, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about how the timeline was working, but the narrative wasn’t.
Yes, I made the fatal mistake of considering editing in the middle of a writing marathon.
What brought this self-destructive mood on? A movie. No relevance at all to my story, but it was a study in interactions between disparate people, which is what I have going on between John and Zoe.
It works in the first story because they are thrown together and everything is new and crazy.
In the second, the premise is that the novelty of the thing they had is wearing off.
Zoe needs to keep occupied and doing something other than all she’s ever known is not exactly on her to-do list.
Of course, that’s all put on hold because she is now a target because of the death of Alistair, and it’s a problem she has to take care of. Alone.
I realize now there needs to be some discussion around this, and the way the story starts does not set the scene.
Similarly, there should be more definition of the relationship as it stands, or not as the case may be, and reasons why John decides to go after her, if only to get the truth because he believes she is using the people seeking revenge as an excuse to keep him at arm’s length.
And, from her perspective, it’s not so much she doesn’t want to be with him, it’s because she doesn’t want him to end up dead, given the sort of people she was up against. Not being able to articulate her feelings, as it’s not something she really knew how to do, there’s bound to be some confusion.
Inevitably he is going to find her, and when they d, the reasons why they are together are clear, but there are still many reasons why he shouldn’t be there. Her life is not the sort of life he would want, by choice, and it’s not going to improve, so where is this thing going to take them?
I haven’t thought it through, so I’m going to take some time out to sort it out. I’m 47,000 odd words into the narrative, so I have a day, two at the most to review, and perhaps rewrite to get the missing perspective I’m looking for
…
Today’s writing, a part of the assessment of their relationship underway, 560 words, for a total of 47,626.
When You pick up a document that describes tourist attractions in Coffs Harbour, there’s one about the Orara Valley, and what caught my eye was firstly the Lowanna Railway Station.
To get there, you pass through Coramba, which has a railway line running through it, but any attempt to find the railway station will be met with disappointment.
But …
That’s not the railway story, that is the Glenreagh to Dorrigo line, first mooted in 1906, but not getting started until 1910, then halted because of the First World War and not completed until December 1924, and ran until October 1972.
However, back to Coramba…
The North Coast railway (the primary rail route in the Mid North Coast and Northern Rivers regions of New South Wales) passes through Coramba, which had a now-closed railway station from 1922. An attempt to find the station took us to a private residence, which obviously was once the station.
And then to the right historic station, in Lowanna…
Lowanna was the largest of the intermediate stations. It was an attended station, with a crossing loop and siding. Most of the timber was loaded at this location.
Opened 23-Dec-1924 and Closed 20-Sep-1975
What we were really looking for was the Lowanna Railway Station, which, when we put it in the GPS almost got us lost. We eventually found the refurbished station, and a rather run down platform, and rail tracks.
Lowanna was on the Dorrigo branch and lies on the north coast of NSW. It branches off the North Coast Line at Glenreagh and climbs up to the Dorrigo Plateau.
The Dorrigo area was settled in the early 1900s by pastoralists and tree fellers. Due to the steep terrain, it was decided to build a railway to allow products to be brought to nearby port towns. Several routes were surveyed, with the route from Glenreagh eventually chosen. The line climbs 664m over a length of 69km.
Apart from the endpoints of Dorrigo and Glenreagh, the station on this line was very small, often consisting of a short platform with a small shelter. The major traffic on this line was timber.
I’m currently sitting in my car waiting to pick the grandchildren up from school wondering where that dream of the glamorous life of an author went.
Can it be said that any author leads a glamorous life, except for maybe J K Rowling, James Patterson, and a handful of others?
That dream is of course only a dream. I did not start this writing caper to become rich and famous or live a glamorous life. I started It, and it continues in the same vein, that I have a lot of stories in my head that I want to get on paper.
If anyone else wants to read them, then that’s a bonus. If I happen to make enough money, rather than live high on the hog, an expression my father often used to describe the rich, I would happily invest in programs that get young people reading more.
It also strikes me that it would be difficult to write a literary novel in the vein of Jane Austen or the Bronte sisters, to name a few because modern-day life has no real meaning like it did then.
Instant news, instant communications, and the rest of the country, as well as the world, do close, we can go anywhere, and communicate instantly. In the days of classic literature, the protagonist’s exchange of letters, and the arduous traveling to another part of the same country would be enough to generate a chapter, or the visit itself could generate several.
But those tales of life were always about people of means, not the ordinary people. Stories that have the minutiae of daily life do not appeal. No one wants to read about their lives, they want to be transported to another world where there is no such inanity like cooking, cleaning, washing, and picking up children.
I’m using this time to write another episode or chapter, or, in this case, a blog post.
As any parent will tell you, it is the calm before the storm.
There was something about this one that resonated with me.
This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.
I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.
For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.
For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.
For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.
Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.
When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.
But is it all the truth?
What would we do in similar circumstances?
Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.
And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.
The old Shanghai refers to a small area of Shanghai that used to be walled in and remained that way until about 1912 when all but a small section of the wall was demolished. With the advent of the concessions, Old Shanghai became the administrative center until later when it became a shopping complex.
Now it has many restored historical buildings as well as new buildings in a somewhat traditional style that has become one of Shanghai’s main tourist attractions, housing many shops and restaurants.
The “Old Town” is not exclusively old, as you still have a chance to take in the atmosphere if you wander into the quaint side streets.
But, on first viewing walking down the street towards the complex, I’m not sure I’d go as far as to say this is in reality old Shanghai, except for what appears to be a true representation of it architecturally.
The buildings, which are shops and restaurants, are set out symmetrically, with streets, alleyways, and squares which may prove that it was specially built for the tourists, and no mechanized traffic.
Anyway…
The buildings are magnificent, and a photographer’s delight, and you’d finish up having hundreds of photos by the time you leave. All the buildings are exquisite representations of traditional Chinese architecture.
As for buying stuff, remember if you’re not Chinese you have the sucker tourist stamp on your forehead, so be prepared to walk away if the vendors will not bargain.
Nothing here is worth the price tag and in our group discounts like from 130 RMB to 50 RMB and from 1 for 1,200 to 2 for 950 RMB are common.
Here common t-shirts that we can get for 3 dollars back home start at 150 RMB which is roughly 35 dollars. It’s that kind of market.
We end up is a tea room, on the third floor of the meeting point below, and discover all the tour guides sitting around a table counting money, and I have to say it’s the most $50 notes I’ve ever seen in one place. It is, we were told, where they discussed ‘strategy’.
