Category: Book

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

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 continue 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 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 mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, 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 Brother’s 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 went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

Top food unique to Philadelphia

…

A Philly cheesesteak sandwich for one

…

A Philadelphia Culinary Journey: From Iconic Cheesesteaks to Hidden Local Delights

Philadelphia isn’t just the City of Brotherly Love—it’s a food lover’s paradise. From the legendary feud between two cheesesteak titans to the sweet, sticky charm of water ice and soft pretzels, Philly’s culinary scene is as rich in history as its cheesesteaks are in cheese. Whether you’re a first-time visitor or a seasoned Philly fan, this guide will lead you to the must-try spots and dishes that define the city’s iconic food culture.

The Cheesesteak: Philadelphia’s Crown Jewel

No trip to Philly is complete without a slice of cheesesteak, the city’s most famous sandwich. The origin story is as dramatic as any Philly sports rivalry: in the 1930s, a hot dog vendor named Pat Olivieri switched to serving steaks after a meat shortage. Meanwhile, Geno’s opened in 1952, and the two shops sparked a decades-long feud that culminated in a memorable 1980s courtship where both moved to the same block to outcompete each other. Today, their rivalry lives on, with fans passionately defending their favourites.

Top Spots to Satisfy the Craving:

  1. Pat’s King of Steaks
    • Why It’s Iconic: The original “wit everything” (peppers and onions) classic, served with ultra-chunky, melted Cheez Whiz.
    • Pro Tip: Arrive early to skip the lines, but be prepared for the wait—this is part of the Philly cheesesteak pilgrimage.
  2. Geno’s Steaks
    • Why It’s Iconic: Known for a more tender, buttery steak and a slightly sweeter cheese blend.
    • Pro Tip: Ask for a “regular” cut instead of chopped for a denser bite.
  3. Jim’s Steaks
    • Why It’s Iconic: A third contender in the cheesesteak holy war, Jim’s offers a thick slice of ribeye drenched in cheese.
    • Pro Tip: The “Big Cheese” sandwich is legendary—order with a side of soft pretzel sticks to balance the richness.

Beyond the Cheesesteak: Philly’s Secret Food Treasures

While the cheesesteak reigns supreme, Philly’s culinary scene offers more treasures for the adventurous palate.

1. Philly Hoagie

  • A hoagie is not a cheesesteak—Philly purists will clarify this! This footlong hero sandwich is layered with deli meats (like Genoa salami and capicola), provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and olive salad, all smothered in olive oil and oregano.
  • Where to Go: Hoagie Haven in South Philly for a quintessential take.

2. Soft Pretzels

  • Philly’s pretzels are salted, chewy, and served in six-packs for $1. They’re perfect for noshing on the go.
  • Where to Go: DiNic’s on the corner of Broad and Sansom offers a pretzel shaped like a Philly love letter.

3. Water Ice

  • A Philly twist on soft serve, water ice is shaved, layered with syrup, and packed with flavour (strawberry, cherry, and banana pudding are favourites).
  • Where to Go: Frank’s Famous Water Ice at the Italian Market for a burst of nostalgia.

4. Tastykakes

  • These dense, fruit-filled desserts have been a local treat since 1930. Think banana splits, cherry clouds, and chocolate chess pies.
  • Where to Go: Your local corner store—they’re as much a part of Philly as cheesesteaks.

5. The Italian Market

  • A vibrant, family-owned marketplace in South Philly, the Italian Market is a foodie’s playground. Here, you’ll find fresh seafood, handcrafted pastas, and the legendary “Cheesesteak Sauce” to make at home.

Tips for the Ultimate Foodie Experience

  • Brace for Lines: Pat’s and Geno’s can be packed, but the wait is part of the experience.
  • Go Local: Try “wit cheese” (no cheese) for a classic steak, or “wit everything” for a spicy, oozing mess.
  • Walk It Off: Pair your meal with a stroll through the South Street or Society Hill neighbourhoods—perfect for digesting all that cheese and carbs.

Philadelphia’s food scene is a love letter to tradition, bold flavours, and fierce pride. Whether you’re savouring a cheese-drenched steak or savouring a fistful of pretzels at the Italian Market, every bite tells a story. So, grab your appetite, roll up your sleeves, and let Philly’s culinary magic take over. After all, in a city where food is love, you can’t go wrong.

Bon appétit, and Sláinte! 🥬🍖

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

Writing a book in 365 days – 357

Day 357

Writing exercise

He didn’t mind his job; it was all the work that bothered him.

…

The view from the balcony took in a large slice of the Mediterranean, the cloudless sky blue, the near calm ocean blue and the breeze refreshing.

“Your five minutes are up,” the voice from inside the room broke my reverie, that idea that life would be amazing, right here, if I were a multi-millionaire without a care in the world.

The voice belonged to Sonya, one of the undersecretaries of the actual multi-millionaire that we both worked for.

“This event isn’t going to plan itself.”

I shrugged.  She was right.  She flew into Nice the previous afternoon, and I arrived this morning.  The event was in two days on the yacht, which was arriving at Antibes sometime early tomorrow.

Neither of us was going to get any sleep tonight.

I poked my head in the door and looked at her.  Ready to jump into the sea, except that was never going to happen.  The closest either of us would see water was the hotel swimming pool.

If we were lucky.

“How can it possibly be that I have visited this place seven times, and this five minutes is the longest time I’ve had to stare at the water?”

“It’s the job.  We didn’t sign up for Sun and fun, Harry.  It will happen, one day.  Maybe.  Now, where did you say the Benjamins are?”

…

I knew when I took on the role of Events Manager, it was going to be hard work.  Seven months after the boss fired the last manager over a missed detail, he simply pointed at me and said, “Do a better job of it, Masters, or else.”

I didn’t ask what the or else was.

And I hadn’t made a mess of it yet.

That was largely because of Sonya, and the truth was she was better at it than me, and she should have the job. 

Heading to Antibes and the international dock for private yachts, we arrived just as it was tying up and about to lower the gangway.  The yacht had just arrived from Marseilles, where some engine repairs were effected.

God help anyone if the engines failed while the party raged as we slowly moved through the Mediterranean waters, out and back over the course of four hours.

The boss’s daughter was having her 21st birthday party.  It had to be perfect, and would be, if her current so-called boyfriend didn’t turn up.  He was on the list and not expected.  Skiing with his friends was more important.

“What’s the latest on Bozo?”  Sonya refused to call him anything else, not after he tried to schmooze her.  I wanted to hit him.  She said not to make a scene.

It was, she said, just another day in paradise.

“Hopefully, he’ll stay in St Moritz.  Mel extended an invitation, and he didn’t reply.  She’s not happy.”

“That makes one of us.”

“I’ll sort him if you want me to.”

She shook her head.  “He’s not worth it.”

The second officer came down the gangway to greet us. 

“Giles.”

“Harry, Sonya.  Shouldn’t you two be tucked up in bed?”

I’m not sure the inference was that we should be together.  We had made sure at all times our relationship was purely business.

There was no time for anything else.

“We never sleep,” Sonya said.  “I take it we are all shipshape and Bristol fashion, even if I don’t know what that means.”

“Scrubbed from top to bottom.  The house staff have prepared the staterooms and your quarters.  If you’d like a quick inspection…”

Silly question.  If there was a problem, I wanted to know before it became a bigger problem.

…

People look at those super yachts, the yachts that look like small ocean liners and gasp in awesome, thinking how lovely it would be to travel on one.

Sorry, not all it’s cracked up to be, if you’re not the owner or a guest.

After two hours sleep, if it could be called that, I had to front the ship’s staff, dressed in their proper work clothes for an inspection, and then a run down of the program, starting with getting the guests aboard, attending to the selection few who would staying after the party, to the phases of the event, catering, drinks, speeches, dancing, and post party wind down.

Every minute for the 24 hours was planned, with contingencies for every conceivable disaster.

That took four hours.  Then I was off to the airport to greet the boss, his third wife, and two daughters by his first wife on his private jet. 

The same jet Sonya and I, and a half dozen personnel for the yacht arrived three days ago.

They could be called perks if we got to enjoy the moment.  Well, maybe for a minute or two.

Three Rolls-Royce cars were waiting on the dock, having arrived from the mansion in Monaco, overlooking the sea with its own private beach.

Each of the houses in England, France, Austria and Monaco had its own staff and transport.  I was still negotiating with the various governments to build landing strips for the jet.  It wasn’t going well.

“You know that this is going to be like a three-ring circus.”

Jacob, the chauffeur, and a man with a warped sense of humour waited this time until I closed the door before driving off.

“You know something I don’t?”

“Henry said Mel exploded when Bozo said he wasn’t coming.  She asked Daddy to put a fire under him, and he said she could do better and stop wasting her time.”

Henry was the English chauffeur.  It was not secret Daddy was done with Bozo.  He wanted her to make something of herself, she wanted to party and spend her allowance. 

I felt sorry for the new wife, barely older than Mel, and having to put up with both daughters’ contempt for their father’s choice.  And the tabloids that called her a gold digger.

Who would want to be rich and infamous?

“So, we’re expecting the sulks from Mel, sarcasm from Billie, tears from the wife, and bad temper from the boss.”

“And that will be a good day.”  He looked at me with a wry grin.  “Just like herding sheep, boyo.  I’m glad I’m just the chauffeur.”

…

I was standing at the bottom of the steps waiting for the Chief Secretary, who always travelled with the boss.  She would come put first and wait with me.  I was there simply because the boss asked me.

Sometimes he summoned me aboard.  Not today.

The main hostess, yes, he insisted on that title, appeared at the top of the stairs, then the wife, the two daughters, then the boss.

No one spoke.

The boss and the secretary took the first car, the wife and the eldest daughter Billie, took the second, I got Mel.  The seating arrangements hit my cell phone before the jet’s door opened.

It left me wondering why I drew the short straw.

Mel stood by the car, not far from the driver, ready to open the door.  The pilots came down and told me they were to wait until further orders.  It explained the fourth car, which had just arrived.

They would be staying near Nice airport.

Mel was waiting for me, showing no inclination to be on her way or upset that she was stuck with me.  It wasn’t the first time I had to make sure she did as she was told.

“How did you draw the short straw?”

“The age-old trick, all the straws were short.  You are not happy, are you, Melanie?”

“You should be calling me Miss Albright, Harry.”

“Perhaps if you were a stuck-up bitch, Mel, but you’re not.”

“I could have you fired.”

“Please.  Then I might actually get to sleep longer than two hours.”  I nodded to the chauffeur and he opened the door.  “Get in, and whinge away.  I’m all ears.”

She glared at me, and I braced for an incoming salvo.  She shrugged.  “What’s the point, you’re just Daddy’s puppet.”

“Wow.  And here me thinking the strings were invisible.”

A half smile.  Good enough.

We drove for ten minutes.  She stared out the window, reflecting back at me, a furrowed brow.

“Daddy is unreasonable.”

Was I supposed to agree, or say something deep and meaningful?  Like any conversation with a woman, I couldn’t see the land mines I was about to step on.

“How?”

“He expects me to find a nice boy.  There are none.”

“Change where you’re looking.”

She looked at me.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“If you look in a dumpster, all you will find is trash.  Most, but not all, nightclubs are not the places to find a prospective boyfriend.  So, putting that aside for the moment, my mother, whom I always considered the fountain of wisdom, once said that you had to find someone with whom you could be friends first, hang out, talk, do stuff, but no passion or sex, or worst of all, have expectations.”

“That’s impossible.  You know what guys are like?”

“A lot of them, yes, but you’ll know when you find the right one.  That’s all the advice I can give you.”

“Is that how it is with you and Sonya?”

My turn to glare at her.  “No.  We work together.  You know as well as I do that type of relationship between employees is verboten.”

“But you like her.”

“I like everybody.”

“Even my sister?”

Now she was just playing games.  “She is an acquired taste, but even her.  Do you want me to throw Bozo overboard if he comes?”

Another half smile.  It was a calculated risk calling him Bozo. 

“No.  I can do that.  You just arrange for some sharks to be waiting for him when he hits the water.”

“As you wish, Miss Albright.”

…

Sonya was waiting for me in the small conference room, the table covered in paperwork.  It was clear her superior had dumped everything on her and gone up for drinks with the boss.

I had just delivered the prodigal daughter.

“Mel’s onto us.”

“What?”

“She thinks we’re having a fling.”

“When?  We barely have time to breathe.”

“That’s what I told her.  Has anything changed?”  Lots of paper meant trouble.

“A few more guests.  Bozo’s coming.  Wants to be picked up at the airport.  He actually thought we’d send the jet for him.  You want to tell Melanie?”

“Let it be a surprise.  Should I go up, see what’s going on?”

“Not unless you’re a glutton for punishment.”

My cell phone buzzed.  Message from the boss.

“Too late.  I’ve been summoned.  Please tell me everything is in order.”

“Until it isn’t, but as of now, it is.”

I took a deep breath and headed upstairs, through the main lounge and out onto the promenade deck, where a dozen people were gathered, wait staff mingling with drinks and canapes.  Dinner would be served later.

The boss was talking to several friends, their wives ensconced, unwillingly with the new Mrs Albright, perhaps disappointed with his choice but making the best of it. Billie was with her current boyfriend, a tech billionaire, maybe; no one was sure what he did, and Mel was gazing out over the dock at the other, smaller boats.

Or not.

Mrs Albright excused herself and came over.  I did not presume to move from the entrance to the deck until summoned.

“Harry.”

She was softly spoken and well-mannered.  She knew she was in the middle of a minefield, not of her choosing, but always keeping her composure.

I had no idea how she managed.

“Mrs Albright.”

“Cecelia, Harry.  We are past the formal stage now..”

I had given her the spiel on protocol expected from the employees, and such familiarity was frowned upon.

“If only.  What can I do for you?”

“Melanie?  She was upset coming over. Is she alright?”

We both looked at her, staring at nothing in particular.

“Just the usual rich girl blues.  I’m sure she’ll grow out of it, eventually.  How are you faring on the good ship lollipop?”

A frown, then a half smile.  We had an understanding, or maybe that was I had an understanding, she only understood sometimes.

“I want to say it’s all new and exciting, but…”

“The old guard is making noises.”

“Not today mention our old friends in the press gallery.”

“Tomorrow the Royal Family will screw up, and bingo, you are no longer front page news.  They’ll get over it.  And you will too.   The only two people who matter are you and the boss.  Everything else is just while noise.”

“Stay for a drink?” A waiter hovered with a tray of champagne.  The real stuff.

“I’d love to, but I have to solve the mystery of the missing beetroots before tomorrow comes and the salads are ruined.”

“The mystery of the missing beetroot, eh?”

“Never a dull moment down on the ordinary deck, Mrs Albright.  Never a dull moment.”

…

I was wandering the decks at 2am after seeing the guests off the ship and into their cars, and the guests staying aboard safely to their cabins, then got a bite to eat in the crew dining room.

A ca4 pulled up at the end of the gangway, and a figure got out, and all but ran in the gangway, where on deck he came up against the bosun acting as guard.

I arrived just as he asked for ID.  He had a list, and if you were not on the list, you were back on shore.

It was Bozo.

That was the fastest I’d ever seen anyone get from St Moritz to Antibes ever.

“Boris.  You’re early.”

The bosun was still looking at his list.

“Harry.  I assume Melanie is on board?”

“She is.”

The bosun sighed.  Perhaps we were hoping Bozo’s name wasn’t on the list, and he could have the pleasure of throwing him overboard.

I know I wanted to.

“His name is on the list.”

“Good.”  He started to head into the cabin when the bosun grabbed his arm. 

“You ain’t going anywhere without an escort.”

“Good heavens, man, I’m not a spy.  Harry?”

“I’ll take him.”  Scruffy and entitled.  I so wanted to throw him overboard.  “Follow me.”

I took him up to the stateroom deck and to Melanie’s cabin.  When I knocked on the door, I stood back and left Boris on the frame.

When she opened the door, she gasped, the slapped him across the face.  It was hard enough to make me wince.

“What was that for?”

“Being an arse.”  She stepped aside, and he went in and closed the door behind him.

Job done.

…

Of course, if only things ran smoothly.  But the best laid plans of mice and men never did.

5:47 am, I woke to a scream.  It took three minutes to reach the stateroom deck and the origin of the scream.

Mel’s stateroom.

The door was open, and Mel was outside.  She was distraught.

As well as being covered in blood, and a rather nasty knife in one hand.

A glimpse inside her room.  Bozo was equally covered in blood, and at a guess, dead.  Mrs Albright was checking, looking out at us and shaking her head.

I looked at Mel.  It was not the face of a murderer.  She was ashen.

“I didn’t do it.  I didn’t do anything.  He was alive when I went down to the galley to get some more champagne.  When I got back, he was on the floor, the knife sticking out of his chest.  I thought I pulled it out.”

The boss arrived.  “Lawyers and police, in that order.”

I didn’t think it was the right time to ask if the birthday party was off.

Then, suddenly, Melanie fainted.

“Revise that order, Doctor, then lawyers, then police.”  To me, he said, “Rouse everyone.  I want to know where they were during the last half hour.  And where was the guard at the gangway?”

So much for getting to bed.

At least now I would get to run my own murder investigation.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 13

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination in what happened during the second worlds war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 

I remained on the spot, not moving, for at least five minutes before I let out a sigh of relief.  It would be relatively safe because I had heard them walk off, following the river, and Jack, as my eyes and ears, had been out and had come back,. tail wagging slightly.

I was hoping he was not in league with Jackerby.

“So,” I said quietly to him, “you think it is safe out there?”  To be honest, I was not sure why I was asking the dog, or, for that matter, if he understood a word I was saying.

I  took tail wagging as a good sign.

Until, all of a sudden he went quiet and very still again, ears up and listening.

Then, I heard what he had heard.  The cracking sound of a foot on a twig or dry branch.

From behind me.

We both turned slowly.

An Italian man, about mid 30’s with a dated rifle in his hands, aimed at my head, not twenty feet away.  I was not going to take the chance he couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn.

“Who are you?”  He started with schoolboy German, obviously not his first language.

The problem I had was deciding whether he was the traitor, or with the resistance that hadn’t been betrayed.

“Not a German for starters,” I said.

I noticed Jack was standing very still with teeth bared.  He didn’t like this man.  Perhaps he too didn’t like the odds of rushing the man with the gun.

“Englander?”

The way a German would call an Englishman.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Are you from the castle?”

That was a trick question if I say no, he wouldn’t believe me, and if I said yes, I’d be tarred with the German brush.

“I escaped from there, so in a manner of speaking, yes I am from the castle.”

“Name?”

It couldn’t hurt to tell him.  “Sam Atherton.”

He let the gun drop, but it was still in a position to shoot me if I tried anything.

“Are you from the resistance?  I mean the group that hasn’t been compromised by a traitor?”

“I don’t know anything about the resistance if there is one.  I’m a farmer, trying to go about his business in the middle of a war.  What are you doing here?”

It might seem to anyone rather odd to be standing around in the woods.  “Hiding from two men who have come from the castle to follow me.”

He looked around.  “Where are they now?”

“Supposedly following me into the village, in that direction,” I pointed to where I thought the village was, “where I’m supposed to be leading them to the resistance, which, you said, doesn’t exist.”

“I didn’t say it didn’t exist, only that I don’t know anything about it.  What makes you think there is a resistance unit in these parts?”

Good question.  And, depending on what side he was on, still to be determined, I was not going to give them away.  “I’m acting on some sketchy intelligence we got in London, along with the possibility that the men in the castle, who are supposed to be Englanders, as you call them, but who are actually working with the Germans.  Seems they were right on one count, because they caught me and put me in a cell, and possibly wrong, according to you, on the other.”

“How did you manage to get away, if you were in a cell.”

So, here comes the part that sounds totally improbable.  “One of the two men following me broke me out.”

Yes, the look on his face said it all.

I shrugged.  “Ask the dog.  He’ll tell you.  His name is Jack by the way, but I’m not sure if he understands English.”

The dog went still again and turned his head.

Another crack, another person in the undergrowth, coming from the other side of the bushes.  My first thought, my two pursuers, realizing they’d lost me, had circled back to find me.

The man in front didn’t raise his gun, so it was someone he knew.

“Who is he?”

A woman’s voice.  I turned my head slightly.  She was older, perhaps this man’s mother.  She had a pistol in her left hand.

“Claims he escaped from the castle.”

“They all do.”

I heard a soft bang, and then something in my back, like a needle.

Seconds later my heard started spinning, and few more seconds later my legs gave out, and darkness followed.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

After the third attempt, still needs work

I have a stab at improving this starting piece every now and then, a project that started about a year or so ago, and I find myself rewriting the start over and over because I’m not satisfied with the characterization.

It’s not so much the storyline, as it is in trying to create sympathy for the character and not find him as dull as ditchwater.  He’s improving with age.  As writers, we tend to create colourful characters and shy away from those who are dull and boring, because after all, as a reader, you want to become something or someone who is far from ordinary.  Well, Graham is starting out ordinary, but he will be anything but by the time I write those words ‘The End’.

I promise.

…

I am the master of my own destiny.

My father had drummed that into me, as well as my older brother and younger sister, over and over, until it became a mantra.

For them.

I could not say I didn’t have the same advantages afforded to them, afforded to me.  I did.

But somewhere lost in the translation, someone forgot to tell me that it was only advice, not an order, and mistaking it for the latter, I struck out on my own path.

And for the next ten years, it was a long and winding path that led me to this point in time, in a small room that held nothing to tell me where I came from, or who I really was.

My parents were very wealthy with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard, my sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother, he was a politician.

I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.

You see, I was the black sheep of the family.  I dropped out of college when it all became too much and drifted.  Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman. 

At least now I had a uniform, and a gun, and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind.   They might be gone, but I guess I would never forget them.  I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.

It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole.  I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow coming.  A white Christmas?  That’s all I needed.  I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  She was leaning against the front fender, and from what I could see, didn’t look too well.

How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed?  Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”

I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression.  Perhaps I had been a little harsh.  Whatever she felt, it passed, and she said, “Help.”

My help?  Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything.   But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

My first thought, she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.

And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind.  Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.

…

© Charles Heath 2024

Writing a book in 365 days – 356

Day 356

The “Practice Makes Perfect” Myth (and Why It Still Works—for Writing)

“If you do anything seriously long enough, you’ll get better.”

That sentence feels like an old‑school mantra you might have heard from a coach, a music teacher, or a parent. It’s comforting, almost inevitable—just keep at it and the results will follow.

But does the rule hold true for writers? And what does it mean when we say “good writing is contagious”?

In this post I’ll unpack the science behind long‑term practice, show why writing is a uniquely contagious skill, and give you a toolbox of concrete, battle‑tested tips to turn “doing it longer” into real, measurable improvement.

1. The Core Truth: Time + Deliberate Practice = Skill Growth

FactWhat It Means for Writers
Neuroplasticity – The brain rewires itself with repeated activity.The more you write, the stronger the neural pathways that support storytelling, grammar, and voice.
Deliberate Practice – Not just “doing the thing,” but practicing with feedback and specific goals.Writing a 500‑word blog post isn’t enough; you must target weak spots (e.g., pacing, dialogue) and refine them deliberately.
Deliberate Practice – Not just “doing the thing,” but practising with feedback and specific goals.10,000 hours of mindless typing won’t help. Ten hours of focused revision, critique, and study can trump 100 hours of “just writing.”
Plateaus Are Normal – Skill acquisition follows a sigmoid curve: rapid early gains, a plateau, then a second surge after a breakthrough.Expect periods where progress feels stagnant. Use them to experiment, read, or rest—don’t quit.

Bottom line: Time alone isn’t enough. You need deliberate, feedback‑rich practice to convert hours into mastery.

2. Good Writing Is Contagious – Why It Spreads

  1. Social Proof: Readers (and fellow writers) gravitate toward high‑quality prose. When a piece shines, it sets a new benchmark in its community.
  2. Mirror Neurons: We neurologically mimic the style and tone we consume, especially when we admire the source. Reading great sentences trains our own “inner ear.”
  3. Collective Learning: Writing groups, workshops, and online forums create a feedback loop where one person’s improvement lifts the entire cohort.
  4. Cultural Momentum: Think of the “New Journalism” wave of the ’60s or the rise of flash fiction on Twitter—once a few voices cracked the code, the style proliferated.

In short, exposure to excellent writing accelerates your own growth—if you allow it to.

3. The Pitfalls of “Just Writing More”

Common MisconceptionWhy It FailsHow to Fix It
“I write 2,000 words a day, so I’m improving.”Quantity without reflection reinforces bad habits.After each session, flag 1–2 things you’d change (e.g., redundancy, weak verb).
“I’ll get better after I finish my novel.”Long‑term projects can hide small‑scale weaknesses.Break the novel into bite‑size “skill drills” (e.g., one chapter focused on dialogue).
“Feedback is optional; I trust my gut.”Our internal editor is notoriously biased.Schedule regular external reviews—beta readers, editors, or a critique partner.
“I’ll read only what I like.”Comfort zones limit exposure to new structures, vocab, and perspectives.Add a “genre‑stretch” reading slot each week (e.g., poetry if you write nonfiction).

4. Actionable Blueprint: Turn Hours Into Better Writing

Below is a step‑by‑step system you can adopt today. It’s modular—pick what fits your schedule and skill level, then iterate.

A. Build a Structured Writing Routine

ComponentFrequencyTip
Micro‑Write (10–15 min)Daily, first thing in the morningWrite a single sentence, a vivid description, or a quick dialogue exchange. No editing, just raw output.
Focused Session (45–90 min)3–4× per weekChoose a skill goal (e.g., “show, don’t tell”). Work on a specific piece that targets that goal.
Review & Revise (30 min)Immediately after each focused sessionHighlight 2–3 improvement points; rewrite the same passage with those in mind.
Reading Sprint (30 min)Daily or every other dayRead a passage from a writer you admire and take notes on what makes it work (sentence rhythm, word choice, structure).
Feedback Loop (1 hr)WeeklySend your work to a critique partner or post in a writing forum. Write a response to each piece of feedback, outlining what you’ll try next.

Why it works: The routine mixes production, analysis, and external input—the three pillars of deliberate practice.

B. “Contagion” Tactics – Let Good Writing Infect You

  1. Curated Reading Lists
    • Classic craft: “The Elements of Style,” “On Writing” (King).
    • Genre deep‑dive: 5 seminal works from each genre you write.
    • Modern bite‑size: Follow Twitter accounts that tweet micro‑essays or haiku.
  2. Imitation Exercises
    • Pick a paragraph you love. Rewrite it in your own voice while preserving the structure and rhythm.
    • Swap the genre (turn a news article into a short story).
  3. Community Immersion
    • Join a weekly critique circle (online or local).
    • Participate in writing challenges (NaNoWriMo, 30‑day flash fiction).
    • Comment thoughtfully on other writers’ blogs—explaining what you liked forces you to articulate good writing principles.
  4. Mentor‑Mode Writing
    • Write as if you’re teaching a class. Draft a short guide on a writing technique; the act of explaining refines your own understanding.

C. Metric‑Based Progress Tracking

MetricToolHow to Interpret
Word‑per‑hour outputTimer + word countAim for a stable range; spikes may indicate “flow” days, drops may signal fatigue.
Revision Ratio (original words ÷ final words)Drafts in Google DocsA decreasing ratio (e.g., 1.3 → 1.1) often signals tighter prose.
Feedback Score (e.g., 1‑5 rating from beta readers)Survey FormTrend upward? If flat, examine recurring criticism.
Reading Diversity Index (genres read per month)SpreadsheetHigher diversity correlates with more varied sentence structures.

Review these numbers every month and adjust your routine accordingly.

5. Real‑World Case Study: From “Stuck” to “Spitting Fire”

Writer: Maya, 34, freelance tech copywriter.

ProblemInterventionResult (3 months)
Drafts flooded with jargon; readers complained of “dry” tone.1️⃣ Daily 10‑min “show, don’t tell” micro‑write.
2️⃣ Weekly 30‑min reading of narrative non‑fiction (e.g., The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks).
3️⃣ Joined a local critique group focused on voice.		• Reduced average sentence length by 15 %.
• Client satisfaction score rose from 3.2 → 4.6/5.
• Secured a new contract for a storytelling‑heavy whitepaper series.

Maya’s story illustrates that structured, feedback‑rich practice beats sheer volume—and that reading narrative work made her own prose “contagiously” richer.

6. Quick‑Start Checklist (Print & Pin)

  •  Write a 10‑minute “seed” piece every morning (no edits).
  •  Pick one skill goal per week (e.g., stronger verbs).
  •  Read a 5‑minute passage from a master writer daily and annotate.
  •  Submit a draft for critique at least once a week.
  •  Imitate a favourite paragraph once a month, then rewrite it in a new genre.
  •  Log your metrics (output, revision ratio, feedback rating) every Friday.

7. The Bottom Line

Yes—if you do something seriously long enough, you will improve. But the quality of that “serious” effort is what determines how much you improve.

Good writing spreads like a good meme: you absorb it through reading, imitation, and community, and you amplify it by giving feedback and teaching.

By marrying deliberate practice with contagious exposure, you turn the simple mantra “write more” into a powerful, measurable growth engine.

Your next step? Choose one of the tactics above, commit to it for the next 30 days, and watch your prose evolve from “just getting longer” to “getting better.”

Happy writing—and may the contagion be ever in your favour!

If you found this post helpful, share it with fellow writers, and let us know which of the strategies you tried in the comments.

Top food unique to Philadelphia

…

A Philly cheesesteak sandwich for one

…

A Philadelphia Culinary Journey: From Iconic Cheesesteaks to Hidden Local Delights

Philadelphia isn’t just the City of Brotherly Love—it’s a food lover’s paradise. From the legendary feud between two cheesesteak titans to the sweet, sticky charm of water ice and soft pretzels, Philly’s culinary scene is as rich in history as its cheesesteaks are in cheese. Whether you’re a first-time visitor or a seasoned Philly fan, this guide will lead you to the must-try spots and dishes that define the city’s iconic food culture.

The Cheesesteak: Philadelphia’s Crown Jewel

No trip to Philly is complete without a slice of cheesesteak, the city’s most famous sandwich. The origin story is as dramatic as any Philly sports rivalry: in the 1930s, a hot dog vendor named Pat Olivieri switched to serving steaks after a meat shortage. Meanwhile, Geno’s opened in 1952, and the two shops sparked a decades-long feud that culminated in a memorable 1980s courtship where both moved to the same block to outcompete each other. Today, their rivalry lives on, with fans passionately defending their favourites.

Top Spots to Satisfy the Craving:

  1. Pat’s King of Steaks
    • Why It’s Iconic: The original “wit everything” (peppers and onions) classic, served with ultra-chunky, melted Cheez Whiz.
    • Pro Tip: Arrive early to skip the lines, but be prepared for the wait—this is part of the Philly cheesesteak pilgrimage.
  2. Geno’s Steaks
    • Why It’s Iconic: Known for a more tender, buttery steak and a slightly sweeter cheese blend.
    • Pro Tip: Ask for a “regular” cut instead of chopped for a denser bite.
  3. Jim’s Steaks
    • Why It’s Iconic: A third contender in the cheesesteak holy war, Jim’s offers a thick slice of ribeye drenched in cheese.
    • Pro Tip: The “Big Cheese” sandwich is legendary—order with a side of soft pretzel sticks to balance the richness.

Beyond the Cheesesteak: Philly’s Secret Food Treasures

While the cheesesteak reigns supreme, Philly’s culinary scene offers more treasures for the adventurous palate.

1. Philly Hoagie

  • A hoagie is not a cheesesteak—Philly purists will clarify this! This footlong hero sandwich is layered with deli meats (like Genoa salami and capicola), provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and olive salad, all smothered in olive oil and oregano.
  • Where to Go: Hoagie Haven in South Philly for a quintessential take.

2. Soft Pretzels

  • Philly’s pretzels are salted, chewy, and served in six-packs for $1. They’re perfect for noshing on the go.
  • Where to Go: DiNic’s on the corner of Broad and Sansom offers a pretzel shaped like a Philly love letter.

3. Water Ice

  • A Philly twist on soft serve, water ice is shaved, layered with syrup, and packed with flavour (strawberry, cherry, and banana pudding are favourites).
  • Where to Go: Frank’s Famous Water Ice at the Italian Market for a burst of nostalgia.

4. Tastykakes

  • These dense, fruit-filled desserts have been a local treat since 1930. Think banana splits, cherry clouds, and chocolate chess pies.
  • Where to Go: Your local corner store—they’re as much a part of Philly as cheesesteaks.

5. The Italian Market

  • A vibrant, family-owned marketplace in South Philly, the Italian Market is a foodie’s playground. Here, you’ll find fresh seafood, handcrafted pastas, and the legendary “Cheesesteak Sauce” to make at home.

Tips for the Ultimate Foodie Experience

  • Brace for Lines: Pat’s and Geno’s can be packed, but the wait is part of the experience.
  • Go Local: Try “wit cheese” (no cheese) for a classic steak, or “wit everything” for a spicy, oozing mess.
  • Walk It Off: Pair your meal with a stroll through the South Street or Society Hill neighbourhoods—perfect for digesting all that cheese and carbs.

Philadelphia’s food scene is a love letter to tradition, bold flavours, and fierce pride. Whether you’re savouring a cheese-drenched steak or savouring a fistful of pretzels at the Italian Market, every bite tells a story. So, grab your appetite, roll up your sleeves, and let Philly’s culinary magic take over. After all, in a city where food is love, you can’t go wrong.

Bon appétit, and Sláinte! 🥬🍖

What I learned about writing – Seasons can affect your writing

I have to say that I prefer that time a month into Autumn (or as it is called in other parts of the world, Fall) when the temperatures become bearable, and often there is the soft patter of rain and it’s a calming effect.

It suits my mood and it helps me with my writing, those days when you don’t feel like going out, you just stare out the window contemplating nothing in particular.  These are days when it’s possible to write like you feel.

Melancholy, reflective.

Unlike a lot of people, I actually like the rain. The pattering of raindrops on the roof and on the leaves of the foliage outside the window, the droplets running down the glass of the windows.

It has a calming effect, a serenity about it, that with a fire burning in the background (and I mean a real fire with burning logs) and soft music, perhaps some gentle jazz, or a symphony (please, not the Pastoral Symphony, but maybe Vivaldi’s Four Seasons).

Moving closer to winter, it gets colder, but not that bone-chilling cold of minus 29 degrees Fahrenheit that Northern Hemisphere winters have) but the 16 degrees centigrade we have, along with the rain and the wind.

Different seasons have different winds.  Summer, they are strong and warm, Autumn, swirling and cool with that rustle through the leaves, Winter, hard and, well, not very cold as they are down south in places like Tasmania, and Spring, the gentle breeze with a hint of the coming summer.

On rare occasions, it can have the unnerving effect, sort of like the wailing of a banshee.  Or a sort of humming sound as it blows through the electricity lines.

It reminds me of a set of allegories I read about a long time ago,

Winter – sad

Spring – hope

Summer – Happy

Autumn – reflective

Perhaps it is a little early for me to be reflective because where I live, Autumn is just about over and Winter is coming.

But, of course, this year will be different.  Aside from the usual spate of colds and flu, we have a bigger problem, the possibility of never shaking off COVID 19.

We may have won a short-term victory but this is war, and as we all know, wars take years to win.

But in self-isolation, there is a silver lining.  I might get to write that trilogy I’ve always wanted to.