Category: Blog

That word: Line – in sayings

There’s more to that word ‘line’, a lot more, making it more confusing, especially for those learning English as a second language.

I keep thinking how I could explain some of the sayings, but the fact is, it’s only my interpretation, which could possibly have nothing to do with its real meaning if it has one.

Such as,

Hook, line, and sinker

We would like to think that this is only used in a fishing depot, but while it is generally, there are other meanings, one of which is, a con artist has taken in a victim completely, or as the saying goes, hook, line, and sinker.

At the end of the line

Exactly what it says, though the connotations of this expression vary.

For me, the most common use is when you’re waiting, like for a table in a restaurant with a time-specific reservation, and you see people who arrive after you getting a table before you, it’s like being continually sent to the end of the line.

Line ball decision

This is a little more obscure, but for me, it means the result could go either way, and it’s a matter of making a call. The problem is that both decisions are right, and unfortunately, you’re the poor sod who has to decide.

It, of course, partners very well with ‘you can’t please everyone all of the time’.

These are the most difficult because one side is going to be aggrieved at the decision, especially when it is supposed to be impartial and sometimes isn’t.

Get it over the line

This, of course, has many connotations in sport, particularly rugby, when the aim is to get the ball over the try line.

But another, more vicarious meaning might be from a senior salesman to a junior, get [the sale] over the line, i.e. get it signed, sealed and delivered by any means possible by the close of business.

Line of credit

A more straightforward use of the word, meaning the bank will extend credit up to a certain limit, but it’s generally quite large and can feel like its neverending.

Until you have to pay it back.

There’s more, but it can wait till another day.

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

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365 Days of writing, 2026 – 78

Day 78 – Writers are outlaws

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“I Became a Writer Because Writers Were Outlaws.”

Why the Rebel‑Heart Still Drives Literature – and Why It Matters Today

“I became a writer because writers were outlaws.” – Paul Theroux

When Paul Theroux drops this line in an interview, it feels like a secret handshake among anyone who has ever felt more at home in the margins than in the mainstream. It’s a declaration of allegiance to a lineage of “outlaw” writers—people who have deliberately stepped outside the accepted rules of language, politics, and morality to expose hidden truths, provoke discomfort, and, above all, keep the imagination untamed.

In this post, we’ll unpack what Theroux meant, trace the outlaw tradition from ancient epics to the digital age, and ask: Why does the rebel spirit of the writer still matter in a world that seems both more censored and more free than ever before?

1. The Outlaw Archetype: From Homer to the Underground Press

Era“Outlaw” WriterWhat Made Them a Rebel
Ancient GreeceHomer (if we accept the legendary status)Oral poets who travelled, challenging the city‑state’s rigid mythic canon.
RenaissanceGiordano Brunelleschi’s “Il Principe” (although a political treatise, it was a seditious “how‑to” for power)Directly confronted the Church’s monopoly on moral authority.
19th c.Charles Dickens (early serials)Exposed the underbelly of industrial London while keeping a popular voice.
Early 20th c.James Joyce – UlyssesBanned in the U.S. for “obscenity,” he turned narrative form itself into a crime.
Mid‑20c.Jack Kerouac – On the RoadCelebrated a nomadic, drug‑tinged lifestyle that “damaged” the post‑war American ideal.
Late‑c.Mikhail Bulgakov – The Master & MargaritaWrote magical realism under Stalin’s watchful eye; the manuscript survived only because he hid it.
1990s‑2000sWilliam S. Burroughs – Naked LunchBanned, confiscated, and deemed “pornographic”; he embraced the “read‑it‑if‑you‑dare” culture.
Digital AgeAnonymous/Online Activist Writers (e.g., WikiLeaks, whistle‑blowers)Disseminate classified information, turning the act of publishing into a legal risk.

The pattern is clear: outlaw writers are those who refuse to let the powers that be dictate what stories can be told, how they can be told, or who is allowed to hear them. They often operate at the intersection of art and activism, using narrative as a weapon.

2. Why Did Theroux Call Writers Outlaws?

Theroux’s own career is a perfect case study:

  1. Travel as Subversion – He turned the travel memoir into a critique of colonialism, capitalism, and tourism. The Great Railway Bazaar (1975) does not simply catalogue stations; it reveals the hidden economies of displacement and the veneer of “exotic” hospitality.
  2. Political Confrontation – In The Old Patagonian Express and later works, Theroux went into places under authoritarian regimes (Chile under Pinochet, Soviet‑occupied Afghanistan) and wrote about what the local press dared not say.
  3. Narrative Style – He stripped away the sentimental travelogue, opting for a dry, observational prose that makes the reader feel the unease of being a foreigner. That “detached” voice is a form of rebellion against the romanticised wanderer myth.

When Theroux says, “I became a writer because writers were outlaws,” he’s acknowledging that the act of choosing the writer’s path is itself an act of rebellion—a deliberate sidestepping of conventional careers, societal expectations, and, often, personal safety.

3. The Mechanics of Literary Outlawry

What actually makes a writer an outlaw? It isn’t merely the content, but the method and the consequence.

ElementHow It Turns a Writer Into an Outlaw
Form‑BreakingExperimental structures (stream‑of‑consciousness, non‑linear narratives) that disregard “commercial” readability.
Forbidden TopicsSex, drug use, political dissent, religion—subjects censored by governments or cultural gatekeepers.
Subversive LanguageSlang, profanity, or invented dialects that erode the hegemony of “standard” language.
Risk of ReprisalArrest, exile, bans, or even death. The stakes give the work a visceral urgency.
Community BuildingUnderground presses, samizdat, zines, and now encrypted digital platforms that bypass mainstream distribution.

These mechanisms overlap. James Joyce’s Ulysses combined form‑breaking (the famous “stream of consciousness”) with taboo topics (sexuality, bodily functions). The novel’s ban in the United States turned it into a literal criminal case (the 1933 United States v. One Book Called Ulysses trial). The legal battle itself amplified the book’s status as a cultural outlaw.

4. Outlaw Writers in the Digital Era: New Frontiers, Same Spirit

You might think the internet has democratized publishing, erasing the “outlaw” label. Yet digital platforms have spawned a fresh breed of literary rebels:

  • Encrypted Journals – Writers in authoritarian states now post on Tor sites, using code words and self‑censorship to dodge surveillance.
  • Crowd‑Funded Zines – Platforms like Kickstarter let dissident poets launch limited‑run anthologies without a publisher’s gatekeeping.
  • AI‑Generated Satire – Projects that manipulate deep‑fake text to satirise political figures—legal grey areas that test the limits of free speech.
  • Social‑Media Manifestos – Threads that blur the line between short‑form poetry and protest; a 280‑character haiku can trigger a wave of real‑world action.

The outlaw’s toolbox has simply been upgraded. The risk—whether state censorship, doxxing, or platform bans—remains the same, but the reach is now global. A single tweet can ignite a movement in three continents the same way a pamphlet did in 1917.

5. Why We Still Need Literary Outlaws

  1. Guardians of the Uncomfortable Truth
    History remembers the outlaw for exposing what the majority prefers to ignore. From The Gulag Archipelago (Solzhenitsyn) to the modern whistle‑blower blogs, these works force societies to confront systemic violence.
  2. Catalysts for Language Evolution
    When writers defy linguistic norms, they expand the expressive capacity of language itself. Think of how Ulysses introduced new verb forms that later entered everyday English.
  3. Counter‑Power to Market Homogenization
    The publishing industry, driven by profit, often pushes formulaic best‑sellers. Outlaw writers serve as antidotes, reminding us that art can be messy, ambiguous, and even unprofitable.
  4. Inspiration for Civic Engagement
    A reader who discovers that a novelist risked imprisonment for a paragraph about police brutality is more likely to question authority and perhaps join a protest.

6. The Moral Ambiguity of “Outlaw” Status

Being an outlaw is not automatically virtuous. Some writers have used the rebel label to glorify violence, propagate hate, or romanticise criminality (e.g., extremist propaganda disguised as “literature”). The modern reader must therefore ask:

Who decides which outlaw narrative serves the public good?

The answer, paradoxically, often comes from collective critical discourse—reviews, academic analysis, and, increasingly, community moderation on digital platforms. The outlaw’s power lies not just in the act of publishing, but in the dialogue that follows.

7. How to Channel Your Inner Literary Outlaw

If Theroux’s quote resonates, you might be wondering how to embrace the outlaw spirit without getting locked up (unless you’re a spy novelist—then, go ahead). Here are practical steps:

  1. Read Widely, Then Dig Deeper – Study classic outlaw writers. Note the techniques they used to circumvent censorship.
  2. Experiment with Form – Try a story told entirely through footnotes, or a poem that uses only emojis.
  3. Choose a Taboo Topic – Write about something you suspect your family or workplace avoids discussing.
  4. Publish Outside the Box – Submit to literary journals that focus on experimental or political work, or use a self‑publishing platform with a Creative Commons license.
  5. Build a Community – Join or start a writing circle that values risk‑taking. Online forums like r/experimentalwriting can be a good incubator.
  6. Accept Consequences – Be prepared for criticism, rejection, or even legal pushback. The outlaw’s path is rarely comfortable.

8. Closing Thoughts: The Outlaw as a Mirror

Paul Theroux’s simple confession—“I became a writer because writers were outlaws”—does more than romanticise rebellion. It positions the writer as a mirror that reflects society’s cracks, a torch that lights hidden corridors, and a weapon that can dismantle oppressive narratives.

In a time when algorithms decide what we read, when governments label “fake news” as a crime, and when the very act of questioning can trigger deplatforming, the outlaw writer becomes even more essential. Not every writer will go to jail, but every writer can choose a moment to step outside the comfortable script, to ask the question that “outlaws” have always asked:

“What if we told a different story?”

If that question makes you a little uneasy, you might just be on the right track. And that, dear reader, is the true legacy of the literary outlaw.

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If you enjoyed this exploration, let me know in the comments which outlaw writer has most inspired you, and feel free to share your own “outlaw” experiment. The rebellion, after all, thrives on conversation.

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 5

Although the main reason for its existence is to follow Friday, in some cases, it is the first day of the weekend.

Once upon a time, Saturday used to be a working day, you know, those days when we worked a 48-hour week.  Then it became a 44-hour week, and we only worked in the morning.

As time progressed, we started working 40 hour weeks and had both Saturday and Sunday off.  Sunday, of course, was always a non-starter.  The church made sure you were able to go to church on Sunday.

As time progressed, weekends started to begin on a Friday, with the day in question being granted by employers as a Rostered Day Off, provided you made up the time during the preceding two-week period.

Now it seems the standing joke is we should work weekends and have the week off.  Odd, it hasn’t quite caught on yet.

But, as usual, I digress…

After a week that got out of control, Saturday was supposed to pull it back into some sort of shape.  In a sense, it happened.  I looked at that list of things I had to do, picked one and got on with it.

PI Walthenson is now about to get a second case, as intimated at the end of his first, involving not only the search for his missing father, but also the search for those who kidnapped him.

That done, I moved onto the helicopter story, otherwise titled ‘What happens after writing an action-packed start’, and I have been researching and making notes for the third section of this story, starting at episode 31, and it looks like we’re going back to Africa, and the remoter part of the Democratic Republic of Congo to rescue the two agents he failed to the first time.

And it is NaNoWriMo time, and I have to keep the writing project going, a story that has now been tentatively renamed to Betrayal. Very spy-ish, isn’t it?

With that, there is the upkeep of the blog.  I never thought maintaining material for a blog would be so hard.

But…

Now I can say last week wasn’t a total disaster.

And, tomorrow the Maple Leafs are playing.  Can’t wait.

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 47

The four members of the high council – maybe

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There was a man in a red suit, a man in a blue suit, a woman in a green suit and another woman in a grey suit.

Grey suit spoke first, “Are all you people from the earth as tiresome as you are Captain?”

She was either the lowest rank or the highest.

“We are an interesting bunch when you get to know us, which, despite this turn of events, I hope we do.  We have a predilection for interfering in matters where we see injustices.”

“Be that as it may, I would like to remind you, that what might pass as acceptable behaviour on your planet, might not be on ours.  You should be aware that in your travels, everyone you may or may not meet has their own specific rules, customs, and regulations which can and will be a lot different to yours.”

“I accept that, and in fact, in the briefing we had before leaving earth, it was impressed upon us that very premise.  And I understand that we may be seen to be interfering in matters that are not our concern.  But, and there’s always a but, that’s how we humans think and rationalise the many situations we often find ourselves in, we don’t like injustices.”

“Does what might appear an injustice to one, not be one to another?  There is ample evidence in your history that points to those overlooking so-called injustices for the greater good?”

“That may be true in the past, but we like to think we have evolved into a better civilization.  But we are not perfect, as you point out.  However, this instance does not qualify as an instance for the greater good, it is simply the selfish whim of a single person.  We have people who are supposed to set an example too and don’t, because they don’t believe the rules apply to them, and I would like to believe that you, too, would not tolerate this sort of behaviour in your leaders.  Your people have been living on our planet for some time, I gather, so you should know that.”

Blue suit had been looking rather severely at me.  “It was a mistake to let you people develop space travel capability.  Our efforts to delay it haven’t been as successful as we had anticipated.  You are not ready.”

That someone or something had been manipulating our progress would probably not come as a surprise to some back home.  My knowledge of the steps we took to get where I was now pointed to several disasters that set the whole program back nearly twenty years, if not more.

I wonder how the Admiral would react when I told him.  If I told him.

“It was inevitable, like everything we do.  Unfortunately for you, we thrive on adversity.”

“You are not the only warlike race in the galaxy you know.  You may want to hold off meeting them for as long as you can, but they know where you are, so there’s more than one inevitability.”

“By uttering those words, does that make you look more like the aggressors than us?  The thing is, we’re out her for better or for worse, and I think you know what has transpired here is an injustice, but the ramifications are unpalatable.  We have an expression; absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

Blue suit looked as though he was going to explode.  “It is no use talking to these primitives.”

Grey suit glared at him.  “It is your house that is not in order, and we have tolerated it for long enough.”  She looked at her fellow members and received nods.  Blue suit disappeared, most likely transported back to the planet.

Grey suit:  “You are, using another of your sayings on earth, “treading on very thin ice.”

Green suit took up the narrative.  “We believe you would not adhere to a request to turn around and go back home, so, before you alert the galaxy that you are now participants in intergalactic exploration, take heed of this warning.  Not all species are friendly.  Most are bound by customs and rules which are nothing like yours, and it is possible you will commit the most heinous of crimes by just acting normally.

In this instance, you may have uncovered a problem that we were not aware of, and lucky for you, is a minor transgression in accordance with our customs.  We are no longer those people and will rectify the issue.  The prisoner in question will be allowed to remain on your vessel to do with as you wish.  If you are to continue your travels, I suggest you do so with caution.”

Grey suit again, “We acknowledge you are not going to go away.  So, as the first gesture of friendship between our worlds, we would like you to return the Princess to her home world, and before you do, we will provide you with an advisor to help you navigate the protocols of her world.  We will also grant two members of your crew an audience with our scribes who will give you knowledge of our worlds and people, and that of others in this galaxy.  The other ship does not get this privilege and must leave immediately.  If they do not, they will be destroyed.  There will be no negotiation on this matter.  Do you agree?”

It was probably the best we could hope for under the circumstances.

“Yes.”

Grey suit to their captain.  “I’ll leave you to work on the details.”

With that, the remaining three were gone.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 4

It’s an unusual topic, but I was looking for a distraction from the rigours of NaNoWriMo, and this fitted the bill perfectly.

For someone who doesn’t really care about sport in general and is rarely able to find the time in between all the writing to actually sit down for several hours, and, in some cases, all day, today seems to have been an exception.

I got through my NaNoWriMo exercise earlier this morning, and since the Maple Leafs were playing today, I thought I’d fire up the computer and take a look at how they’re going.

By the time I’d found the streaming site, the game had started, but it was nil-all, so it was much the same as not missing the start.

I thought it odd that an Australian would be interested in ice hockey, but it seems I’m not alone.  Nor that others barracked for Toronto, Ottawa, and Edmonton, and all seem to dislike the New York Islanders with varying degrees of intensity.

Maybe because they’ve won ten straight games.

So, it takes a long time, almost halfway through the third period, for the first goal, and it’s the opposition, the Vegas Golden Knights.

Damn them.

And now I have this sinking feeling the game might slip away.  Their form can hardly be labelled stellar, and I thought I heard the home crowd booing them, but that must have been my imagination.

No, my dismay is misplaced, there it is, Mathews comes to life and evens up the scoreline.

And for the rest of the period, the goalie keeps the Golden Knights out.  As only the new, is he, goalie can when he’s on his game. Goalies all seem to look the same.

Once again, we’re in overtime, with more heart-in-mouth stuff, and, of course, the man we’ve been missing, Tavares, finally pulls the rabbit out of the hat.

It’s a pity we couldn’t be there in person to see it.

Maybe I could incorporate a hockey game into the spy story…

A to Z – April – 2026 – D

D is for – Delores

…

She spent the first weekend of the month dreaming about the things she was too afraid of doing every other weekend of every other month of her life until one day, something happened…

It was just another one of those dreams, of dressing up, going out to a bar, sitting at the counter sipping on a long, cool cocktail when a tall, dark, mysterious, handsome man slipped into the seat beside her…

“Doris!”

The grating sound that resembled her name came from another room, a voice that was the product of a lifetime of smoking 50 cigarettes a day, a voice belonging to her mother, the woman who was stealing the very days of her life away from her.

Doris was never going to see 30, well 35, alright then 41, again.

“What?”

She should not have yelled back, but it was the umpteenth time that day, and she was tired.  Her mother’s hacking cough had kept her awake all night, and it wasn’t getting better.  She refused to go into palliative care where they could look after her, preferring to burden her youngest daughter with her care.  Payback, she said, for all the years she had to look after Doris.

Not the two older sisters who were married with children, who also got the same care as Doris, which basically amounted to zero.  The other two couldn’t wait to get away from home, knowing what was going to happen.

“I need my pills.  Where are they?”

“In the yellow bottle next to the bed.”

The old woman knew exactly where they were.

“There isn’t any cold water!”

Doris shrugged.  It would be the third time she had refilled the water bottle.  What was she doing with it?

She waited another minute, and then went to the refrigerator, got the jug of water, and then went into the room.

It was hot and stuffy, and the window closed.  When she had last been in the room, it had been open.  There was also a slight hint of cigarette smoke in the room.  She had been smoking again, very much against doctors’ orders.

It meant her mother could move around and quite easily have come out.  Certainly, if she could go to the window and put her head out, she would attempt to disperse the smoke outside.

Doris filled the bottle.  “Next time, come out yourself.  You’re quite capable of walking, and the exercise will do you good.”

“You heard the doctor.  No excessive movement.”

“Doesn’t stop you from breaking the rules and smoking.  You have emphysema, and smoking won’t help it.”

“I’m dying anyway. What do you care what I do?”

“More than you can obviously comprehend.  Do whatever you’re going to anyway.”

She turned and walked towards the door.  This battle of wills was never going to end, and she knew neither of them was going to win.

“What’s for dinner?”

She stopped and turned around.  At first, she was sympathetic, but that was before she realised her mother could be very manipulative.   “What do you care.  You won’t eat it anyway.”

“That’s because it tastes horrible.”

“That’s because of your treatment.  I’m just giving you what the doctor and dietician recommended.”

“Then I’d rather starve to death.”

Doris gave her a glare and left.  There was no point arguing with her.  All that would do was upset them both.

Respite came once a month when Doris was able to escape for a weekend, which inevitably ended up just staying at a small hotel not far from home, dining in the restaurant, and rising late to have breakfast in bed.

Just not having to wake to the barked sound of her name, “Doris,” reverberating through the passageways of their tiny house was reward enough.

But away from home, she could give free rein to her imagination and wondered what adventures she could get up to in just the course of one day.

This Saturday, she had arrived at the hotel, and the proprietor, Jason Prederfield, greeted her in his usual cheery manner, asked her the same question she had no doubt he asked all the guests on arrival, then gave her the key to the room.

It was the same room each week, overlooking the park and playing fields, which in summer hosted cricket matches and in winter soccer matches.  Sometimes she told herself she should go over and watch, but more often, she just sat in the very comfortable old leather lounger chair near the window and read.

She was an avid reader of Mills and Boon romance novels and had brought three with her. 

More than once, she had wished that her life would be like a Mills and Boon, but there was no fairy godmother, as there wasn’t a three-wish-granting genie.

If only there was.

She woke with a start, the sound of the book plopping on the ground after it slipped out of her hands, waking her.

It was just beginning to get dark, and soon night would set in.  Time to dress for dinner.  This time, instead of going down to the hotel dining room, she was going to treat herself at an upmarket fish restaurant not far from the hotel.

She had seen it when out on a morning walk the last few months and decided it was time for something different.

She showered, went through the rigours of applying her ‘face’ more carefully, added style and a ribbon to her hair, then brought her special occasion dress, her version of a little black dress that was less revealing than it could be but just enough to make her feel at least five years younger.

An examination of the finishing product in the mirror told her that her life was not over yet, and maybe something might just happen.

And, even if it didn’t, she had at the very least felt a spark of excitement she hadn’t for a long time.

At the bottom of the stairs, she collected her coat from the rack, and Jason helped her put it on and said that he had not seen her look better, in a tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

At the restaurant, she had made the booking in the name of Delores Sparks, using her surname but a change in the first.  Doris sounded plain, the name of a woman who would never frequent this restaurant.

While being escorted to her table, she noticed there were about a dozen other diners, married or not, couples, and she could feel the eyes of the men on her.

She ordered a glass of French Champagne, Bollinger, one she had seen advertised, and perused the menu.  For some odd reason, it was written in French, perhaps a mistake, but she smiled to herself.

She had taught herself French back in school and was now fluent.  One of those dreams was to visit France, but she never quite found the courage to go alone. 

Perhaps, after tonight…

The waitress came, stood beside her, and waited patiently.  She gave her order in French and then had a quick conversation with the waitress, surprisingly able to speak the language.

It seemed to captivate some of the people around her.

A few minutes later, the maitre d’ came over.  “Excuse me, madam.”

She looked up, wondering what the problem could be.

“We have a slight problem which you may be able to help us with.  We are fully booked and just realised we have a regular guest whom we cannot accommodate…”

She glanced over to the front door and saw a middle-aged well-dressed man who looked on her opinion, either a banker, a lawyer, or an accountant.  He was a rather good-looking man at that.  Probably married, the good ones she discovered early on were always taken.

“Would it be possible to share a table?  He says he is prepared to pay for your dinner.  I will be happy to cover your drinks.  He has been here many times, and I can vouch for his good character.”

Another glance, then back to the maitre’d.

“Of course.  I accept your kind offer.”

“Very good.  This will not be forgotten, Madam, when you return.”

She deliberately didn’t turn around to watch as he was escorted to the table, but as he appeared in front of her, she rose to greet him.  In that moment, she felt a little weakness in her knees, a strange reaction indeed.

“I must thank you, Miss, Mrs…”

“Just call me Delores.”

“Delores, what an interesting name.  My name is Jackson Courtney, Jack for short.”

They shook hands, a rather peculiar thing to do for her, perhaps not him, but the touch of hands was almost electric.  She had to quell her imagination, or she might start blushing.

“Please, sit.”

They did, and the waitresses came over for his drink order.

“I’ll have what Delores is having.”

The waiter nodded and left.

Delores smiled inwardly, noticing how he pronounced her name had that edge to it that might give a little shiver.

“What brings you to this restaurant?  I have to say I am somewhat surprised that you are dining alone.”

Oh, God.  She hadn’t quite thought that far ahead that she would have a proper and sensible conversation, one that didn’t include her telling him she was a full-time carer for her sick mother.

Delores was far more sophisticated.  She took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled.  “I try to find a small hotel and a different restaurant every so often after the hustle and bustle of London.”

“There’s no Mr Delores?”

“Is there no Mrs Courtney?”  Better to answer a question with a question and work on that air of mystery.

He smiled, and it made all the difference to his expression.  Tanned, signs of being an outdoor type, hair lightly receding, but no greying.  There was more, but that would do for now.

“Touche.  We should not dance on the boundaries.  Do you prefer the weather or our health as suitable topics?”

A sense of humour.  “Latest movies perhaps, a book, news that doesn’t involve politics, religion or that swamp on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“You don’t like America?”

“Oh, I love the country, I just don’t like half the people.  But that’s a woman’s perspective.  I suspect a man’s opinion would be different.”

And she swore to herself she was not going to talk politics.  “Sorry.  My personal opinions are mine and best left in my head.  Sometimes I speak without thinking, or perhaps it sounded better in my head.”

“You and me both.  I can and have put my foot in my mouth.”

His champagne came, and they decided to focus on the menu.  He didn’t speak French.

…

The conversation was at first centred around interests. She did not think that she could tell him that she preferred to sit quietly and read, so she embellished the truth, that she liked taking long walks in the countryside, weekends in towns or cities by the sea, easily accessible by train, as she didn’t drive.

There was a stutter in the flow for just a moment when he learned she did not drive, and it led to a diversion about motor cars, and it seemed he had a passion for expensive vehicles.

She did not ask what type of car he drove.

He liked long walks and seaside towns, with piers.

He liked reading thrillers, adventure, and detective novels, and oddly, he thought, gardening magazines.

It led to the discovery that he lived only a few villages across, closer to London, and he took the train to work each day, and sometimes stayed in London overnight, if he worked late.

Oops, he said apologetically, he nearly stepped over one of the invisible boundaries.

Soup was followed by fish, followed by chicken, followed by bread and butter pudding. He selected the white wine, and she selected the after-dinner port they had with coffee.

Food, wine and coffee tastes were the same.

The restaurant had emptied, and the owner was hovering. It was time to leave.

He stood and helped her with the chair, then accompanied her to the door, where he helped her with her coat. They thanked the owner and left.

Outside, he said, “I must thank you for an excellent evening. I have not enjoyed myself for such a long time.”

“And I, too.” There was a question on her mind, one she wanted to ask but did not have the courage.

“I know this is perhaps impertinent of me, but perchance do you come here very often?”

She was going to say, as many times as you would ask me to, but instead had to temper he reply, taking into account the reality of her situation. “About once a month, though not necessarily here, but not far.”

“Do you stay at quaint hotels. I rather want to believe you have that sort of whimsical nature. I find staying in those modern concrete and glass building have no soul. Creaking stairs and floorboards, strange noises in the night, muffled conversations as they pass your door.”

She smiled. “I can see why you like mystery novels. But yes, I do. I’m staying at one tonight, the Railway Hotel has been there forever. My room is like it has been preserved from the 1800s.”

“What a remarkable coincidence. I’m staying there too. Please allow me to escort you there.”

If he had been anything other than the perfect gentleman, she might have refused, but he had. And why not? Ten minutes more with him would give her enough time to imagine what it might be like…

No… It could never be possible. Once he found out about her mother, the truth of her situation, that would be the end.

It was perhaps fortuitous that he was on the second floor and she was on the third. They bade each other good night in the lift, she stepped out, the door closed, and she was taken up to her room.

Once inside, she leaned against the door and smiled.

“Delores and the retired Captain” was practically writing itself, right there, in her head.

….

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 77

Day 77 – The Gimlet eye

…

How to Cultivate a “Gimlet Eye” for Detail – Lessons from George Orwell’s Early Years

“The writer’s job is to make sense of the world, and the only way to do that is to see it with a sharp, unflinching eye.” — paraphrasing George Orwell

When Eric Blair set out to become George Orwell, he didn’t start in a fancy study with a stack of literary journals. He lived “almost down and out” in the gritty back‑streets of London and the squalid basements of Paris, penning Down and Out in Paris and London while sleeping on a bench, sharing a room with a drunkard, or scrambling for a crust of bread. It was in those cramped, chaotic corners that he forged a gimlet eye—a razor‑sharp, probing vision that could pick out the smallest tremor of truth in a bustling crowd.

If you want to write with that same forensic clarity, you don’t need to abandon your apartment and take up a night‑shift in a soup kitchen (though it wouldn’t hurt). Instead, you can adopt the habits, mind‑sets, and practical techniques that turned Orwell’s lived‑in‑hardship into literary gold. Below is a step‑by‑step guide to sharpening your observational muscles, inspired by Orwell’s early apprenticeship.

1. Live “Just Inside the Fence” of the Experience You Want to Capture

Orwell’s ApproachHow to Apply It Today
Immersion – He worked as a ploughman, librarian, cook’s assistant, and bookshop clerk to feel the pulse of each world.Pick a micro‑environment you can access: a coffee‑shop kitchen, a warehouse, a community garden, a public transit hub. Take a shift, volunteer, or shadow for a week.
Economy of Comfort – He deliberately gave up comforts to feel the pressure of scarcity.Create constraints: Write from a coffee‑shop table for a month, limit yourself to a $10 lunch budget, or sleep on a couch for a few nights. The discomfort forces you to notice the details you’d otherwise gloss over.
First‑Person Documentation – He kept a notebook in his pocket, jotting down snippets of dialogue, smells, and sensations.Carry a small notebook or a notes app. Capture anything that strikes you: a bus driver’s sigh, the way rain smells on pavement, the pattern of a coworker’s sarcasm. Review weekly.

Pro tip: You don’t need to stay in poverty; you just need to touch its edges. Even a single night in a low‑cost hostel can give you a fresh lens.

2. Train Your Senses, Not Just Your Brain

Orwell’s prose is vivid because he recorded what he saw, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt.

SenseOrwell‑Inspired ExerciseQuick Daily Drill
SightSketch a street corner in 5 minutes – no details left out.Look at a city billboard for 30 seconds; write down every word, colour, and emotion it evokes.
HearingRecord ambient sounds on your phone, then transcribe the “conversation” of the city.Spend 2 minutes listening to a cafe. List every distinct sound and why it matters.
SmellWrite a paragraph that uses only olfactory cues to describe a place.When you enter a room, note the first three scents you notice.
TasteEat a simple meal (e.g., toast) and describe it as if writing a novel.At lunch, pick one ingredient and document how it changes through the dish.
TouchSit on a park bench for 10 minutes, catalog textures (bench wood, wind, your own clothing).Close your eyes for a minute; list everything you feel on your skin.

Consistently exercising each sense forces you to notice subtleties that most writers skim over.

3. Adopt the “Reporter” Mindset

Orwell started as a journalist (the BBC’s Indian service, the Tribune). Reporting taught him to:

  1. Ask the “Five Ws + H” of Every Scene
    • Who is present? What is happening? Where exactly? When (time of day, season, historical moment)? Why does it matter? How does it unfold?
    Practice: Choose a mundane event—like the line at a grocery store—and answer the five Ws + H in 150 words.
  2. Seek Contradictions
    • Orwell loved spotting the gap between what people say and what they do.
    Practice: Record a conversation, then write a short paragraph highlighting any mismatch between claim and action.
  3. Strip Away the Superfluous
    • He famously edited his drafts until each sentence earned its place.
    Practice: After a first draft, underline every adjective. Remove any that don’t add a concrete detail or a new nuance.

4. Make Space for “Idle” Observation

Orwell’s most striking passages often came from moments when he was waiting—on a train, in a queue, at a pub. Idle time is a fertile hunting ground for detail.

  • Schedule “Observation Walks”: 10‑minute walks with no destination, only the intent to notice.
  • Turn Commutes into Labs: Bring a small notebook onto the bus and note down one scene per ride.
  • Use “Micro‑Journals”: A single page per day with headings like Sound, Smell, Glimpse, Tension—you’ll be surprised how much accumulates over a month.

5. Read Like a “Reverse Engineer”

Orwell’s own reading habits helped him refine his eye.

  • Deconstruct a Paragraph: Pick a passage from Down and Out that dazzles you. Identify:
    • The concrete detail anchors the scene.
    • The sensory verbs (e.g., “clanged,” “stank”).
    • The underlying social commentary is hidden beneath the description.
  • Write a “Shadow” Version: Take the same scene and rewrite it without any adjectives, then rewrite again, adding only sensory nouns. Compare the effect.

6. Cultivate Empathy, Not Just Observation

Orwell didn’t just see poverty; he felt its weight. Empathy is the engine that turns raw data into a compelling narrative.

  • Practice “Perspective Shifts”: After observing a scenario, write a short paragraph as if you were one of the participants.
  • Use “Emotional Mapping”: Sketch a simple chart with the observed scene on one axis and possible emotional responses on the other. Identify which feeling is most resonant and why.

When you can inhabit the inner world of the people you observe, your details acquire moral and psychological gravity—just as Orwell’s descriptions of the “tramp” or the “shop‑assistant” do.

Putting It All Together: A 30‑Day “Orwellian Bootcamp”

DayActivityGoal
1‑3Choose a “micro‑environment” (café, subway, market). Spend 2‑3 hours there each day, notebook in hand.Immersion
4‑6Sensory drills (see/hear/smell/taste/touch) – 10 min each, using the same environment.Sensorial acuity
7Write a 300‑word scene using only sensory details; no dialogue or exposition.Pure observation
8‑10“Five Ws + H” exercise on a mundane event.Reporter mindset
11‑13Record a conversation; note contradictions.Critical listening
14Edit the 300‑word scene: cut every adjective that isn’t strictly necessary.Precision
15‑17Read a passage from Down and Out; deconstruct it. Write a “shadow” version.Reverse engineering
18‑20Empathy shift: rewrite yesterday’s scene from the viewpoint of a peripheral character.Emotional depth
21‑23“Idle observation” walks—no phone, notebook only for quick sketches.Spontaneous detail
24‑26Write a full 800‑word vignette that combines all senses and an undercurrent of social commentary.Integration
27‑30Peer review (or self‑review) focusing on: clarity of detail, emotional resonance, and concision. Refine.Mastery

At the end of the month you’ll have a short piece that could sit comfortably alongside Orwell’s early work—and a set of habits that will keep your gimlet eye honed for life.

Why It Matters

In an era of endless scrolling and algorithmic echo chambers, a writer who can pierce the surface and expose the hidden mechanics of everyday life offers something rare and valuable. Orwell’s legacy endures not because he was merely a chronicler of poverty, but because he made the invisible visible—and did so with a clarity that still rattles readers today.

By intentionally placing yourself at the edge of comfort, training every sense, asking relentless questions, and injecting empathy into each observation, you’ll develop that same gimlet eye Orwell wielded. The result isn’t just a richer description; it’s a deeper connection between your words and the world they intend to illuminate.

Takeaway: Observation is a muscle. The more you flex it—through immersion, sensory drills, and empathetic storytelling—the sharper it becomes. In the words of Orwell himself, “If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.” Let your keen eye be the tool that uncovers the truth you didn’t even know was there.

Ready to start? Grab a pocket notebook, step outside your comfort zone, and let the streets of your own city become the laboratory for your next great story. Your gimlet eye awaits. 🌍✍️

Searching for locations: The Mary Valley Rattler, Gympie, Queensland, Australia

I have a passion for visiting transport museums, to see old trains, planes, buses, cars, even ships if it’s possible.

This has led to taking a number of voyages on the TSS Earnslaw in Queenstown, New Zealand.

Many, many, many years ago on Puffing Billy, a steam train in the Dandenongs, Victoria, Australia.

The steam train in Kingston, New Zealand, before it was closed down, but hopefully it will reopen sometime in the future.

The London Transport Museum in London England, which had a lot of buses.

The Workshops Railway Museum in Ipswich, Queensland, where once the many steam engines were built and maintained, and now had only a handful of engines remaining.

However, in the quest for finding and experiencing old transportation methods, we came across the Mary Valley Rattler, which runs out of Gympie, Queensland, Australia.

The ride begins in Gympie at the old Gympie Railway station, and as can be seen below, is one of the relics of the past, and, nothing like the new more modern stations.  Thankfully.

If you’re going to have a vintage train, then you have to have a vintage station.

The Class of engine, seen below, is the C17, a superheated upgrade to the C16 it was based on, and first run in 1903.  This particular engine was built in 1951, although the first of its type was seen in  1920 and the last of 227 made in 1953.  It was the most popular of the steam engines used by Queensland Railways.

The C designation meant it had four driving axels and 17 was the diameter of the cylinder, 17 inches.  It is also known as a 4-8-0 steam locomotive
 and nicknamed one of the “Brown Bombers” because of its livery, brown with green and red trimming.

Also, this engine was built in Maryborough, not far from Gympie by Walkers Limited, one of 138.

This photo was taken as the train returned from Amamoor, a trip that takes up to an hour.

The locomotive is detached from the carriages, then driven to the huge turntable to turn around for the return journey to Amamoor.

This is the locomotive heading down to the water station, and then taking on water.  After that, it will switch lines, and reverse back to reconnect the carriages for the trip to Amamoor.

The carriages are completely restored and are extremely comfortable.  It brings back, for me, many memories of riding in older trains in Melbourne when I was a child.

The trains, then, were called Red Rattlers.

This is the locomotive climbing one of the hilly parts of the line before crossing over the Mary River on a trestle bridge.

This is the engine at Amamoor near the picnic area where young children and excited parents and grandparents can get on the locomotive itself and look inside where the driver sits.

And, no, I didn’t volunteer to shovel coal.

This particular locomotive spent most of its working life between Townsville and Mount Isa and was based in Cloncurry, Charters Towers, and Townsville, before being sent, at the end of its useful days in the late 1960s, to the Ipswich Railway Workshops.