50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And the story:
…
It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.
The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.
He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.
The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discreet distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.
There was nowhere for him to go.
The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road we were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.
Where was he going?
“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.
“What?”
“I think he’s made us.”
“How?”
“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”
“How far away?”
“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”
It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”
“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”
Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places, just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three-thousand-foot fall down the mountainside.
Good thing then, I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.
Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.
Or so we thought.
Coming quickly around another corner, we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.
“What the hell…” Aland muttered.
I was out of the car and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication of where he had gone.
Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.
I looked up. Nothing.
Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”
Then where did he go?
Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.
“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”
I’d lost him.
It was as simple as that.
I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.
I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.
It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.
Never trust anyone else to do the job you should have done yourself in the first place.
It’s an interesting premise, but somehow encapsulates the ethos of this story.
Who is Romanov? Zoe, Irina, whatever you want to call her, he’s her father.
But…
The notion that anonymously putting out a finder’s fee on his daughter’s head, coupled with the ire of Olga over the death of her son, sent everyone from the Minister in the Kremlin down into a tailspin.
The first effort, had the kidnappers just followed the rules, would have got an enormous payday, and everything would have been resolved there and then, in Marseilles.
No, people got greedy.
So did all the others, getting wind of what was at stake, enough to retire, or continue to retire in style.
Dominica, Yuri, and even Olga had she been smart.
She was not.
People didn’t have to die. Zoe could have been spared a killing spree, and John, maybe some quality time with Olga. It’s a mistake Olga won’t make again.
And John, now with a father-in-law, well, it’s just another surprise in a long list of surprises.
Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right
Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.
It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.
…
John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence after being so indifferent for so long.
They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable and calls on an old friend for help in finding her.
After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.
But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.
What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.
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 world 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…
…
The new leader of the resistance was the woman, Martina, best if I didn’t know her last name. Fair enough. There had been a necessary restructure after the infiltration, and untimely deaths of over half their number.
When I asked what happened to the former leader, I learned that he, and all but five other members were captured and taken to the castle. They were now, for all intents and purposes, double agents, working for the Thompson at the castle.
The remaining five, of which Giuseppe and Martina belonged, had been forced to hide, dodging the men sent from the castle to hunt them down and kill them.
It was both the lack of reporting from the castle, followed by a message received regarding a possible traitor inside the resistance we had received in London, that set everything in motion, including my arrival to ascertain what was happening within the resistance group, and also at the castle. Until that information reached us, there had been no reason to suspect that anything was wrong, and that the plans set in place to facilitate the defection of useful German scientists and, in some cases, high ranking officers, or that it had been infiltrated and to put it bluntly, original members had been killed and replaced.
I hadn’t realised who was in charge until the paratroopers had arrived and I’d become a prisoner. Part of my brief had also been to verify the layout of the castle in accordance with old plans we had found using my archaeology background as a front, and Id managed to explore certain areas before Thompson had become suspicious and basically stopped me. I’d searched part of the lower levels of the castle, but hadn’t got as far as the dungeons, where I eventually discovered becoming one myself, they were keeping many more prisoners.
I hadn’t long enough in the dungeons to discover whether any of the prisoners were part of the original team sent, whether there were any defectors being still held there, except for two that I’d seen, and definitely one I talked to, but there had to be more.
And, now that I’d found the remaining members of the resistance, it was my intention to return to rescue then, and retake the castle. What was going to make it difficult, if not impossible, was the fact there were only five, and they were all busy trying not to get caught. Still, I had to try, and I asked Martina if it was possible to get everyone together for a meeting.
Martina just laughed. Whether it was my request or my plan to retake the castle was the cause of her mirth.
“With what?” she said incredulously, “there are only five of us left, and we spend most of our time keeping one step ahead of the turncoats.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Too many, led by that bastard Francesco. He didn’t like taking orders from a woman, thought we’d picked the wrong side, especially when the Germans killed about fifty of the villagers when we refused to give ourselves up. They killed his wife and mother after he refused to send them away.”
That didn’t seem right to me, to align yourself with that sort of enemy, not after what they had done. Except there was no telling what anyone might do in the face of such an adversary, or circumstances. But I had to ask, “Why would they?”
“They’ve got hostages from the village up there, in the dungeons. That’s how they turned them.”
Damn. I was not going to be able to turn them back, not when the lives of their friends, even family, was being threatened.
“Is that the case for those who didn’t surrender?”
“No. Our relatives left when we could see what was going to happen.”
“So, the problem we have is, freeing the hostages, freeing the soldiers if there are any of the original group, retake the castle, and get the pipeline working again.” And, I thought to myself, pull off seven miracles in fifteen minutes.
I was putting forward what was for all intents and purposes impossible.
“There’s more,” she said. “There is a high-value scientist coming, last advice was that he was in transit from Germany to here. We know, and they know, courtesy of Francesco. They want him captured; we want him safely delivered to the submarine waiting to take him to England. He’s due in three days, and he doesn’t know the castle’s allegiances have changed.”
“Then we’ll have to intercept him.”
“Yes, but we don’t know what he looks like, but we do have a code name. Francesco and the castle don’t have that, only his real name.”
A name I saw on a highly confidential document on Forster’s desk the day he briefed me on my current mission. Blackfoot. I thought it was an operation. I think that was the code name for the defector.
“Blackfoot?”
“How did you know?”
“A lucky guess.”
The question I had was, why didn’t he tell me about it? Did he think I was going to get captured and tortured?
“Well, you’re right. But it means Francesco and his men are going to be looking extra hard for us, because without that codename, as soon as they fail to confirm their identity to him, he will kill himself rather than go back, which I’m guessing will be their least preferred option. And to make matters worse, London’s orders are quite specific, this man must be delivered alive. He has critical information they need, and which will hasten the end of the war”
“Then I think we should tell London the nature of our situation and see what they come up with.”
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots, and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today, my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
Rather tired and bleary eyes, I made it to the fishing store five minutes late. I had a lot on my mind, woken late, and then had to battle traffic. I longed for the day I could afford a car, though riding the bike kept me fit.
It also took my mind of the encounter last night, the one that had kept me away, my imagination almost getting the better of me.
Boggs was there, and he didn’t look happy.
“Where were you last night? I tried to get you, but you weren’t answering.”
I had the phone on silent. Ringing phones had a way of bringing unwanted attention.
“I had something I had to do.”
“You went to the Lantern without me.”
What? Does he have a network of spies I knew nothing about? “So, I heard it went respectable and had to check it out.” And hoping Boggs didn’t know who was in attendance, other than me.
“We said we would go there together.”
“You apparently had something else on last night.”
“It’s not what you think. I had to go with my mother to the hospital for her 6 monthly checks.”
It was easy to forget. She’d had a cancer scare a few years back, and had undergone chemo for a few months, sending it into remission. But it came with 6 monthly checks, and both Boggs and his mother were constantly worried it might come back. It seemed it always did when you least expected it.
“And what was the verdict.”
He relented a little. “Good.”
“Then, I assure you that was more important.” No point in telling Boggs what I was doing, just in case it backfired, or he disagreed. “And I can assure you the place is not worth it anymore. Boring as shit.”
He shook his head. Not pleased, but at least not angry.
“Has Rico shown his face?” I asked.
“Yes, about an hour back, some of those people he associates with came and they went off together.”
Perhaps he was annoyed that I hadn’t been there because I’m sure Boggs would follow him.
“You’ve been here all this time?”
“He came to our place last night. I’m sure it was him who searched in my room. Not much of a professional thief, he left a mess behind. Went through the outhouse as well.”
“Looking for the map?”
“Seems so. He didn’t find it.”
No, he wouldn’t, because Boggs had it with him. At least that was what I thought he intimated a day or two ago.
“Copies?”
He reached for his back pocket and pulled out some folded paper. “Thought you might like to keep a copy for yourself.”
I tried hard to keep the excitement out of my manner. It saved me having to make up an excuse as to why I wanted a copy of the map, and I didn’t want to tell him about the plan involving Nadia, not unless I had to.
The next day we try a different fish and chips vendor. It was a good idea to go back to Mures and have the flathead, but I was foolish and wanted a different experience
And not be disappointed.
In the end, we selected Fishy Business
This order comprised battered flake, battered flathead, hoping that it would be similar to yesterday, sea scallops in batter, chips, two potato cakes, and tartar sauce.
The battered flake was excellent.
The battered flathead was scraps, three small pieces which were probably imported from Vietnam, definitely not fresh or local and, sadly, terrible.
The scallops were delicious.
The potato cakes were alright, but not strictly potato cakes, but the sort you get from a supplier. The real potato cakes have batter around a thin slice of potato. They had mashed potatoes, and the batter was not very nice.
For the price we paid, it was enough to say I’d never go back there again. You’d think, as a place on the sea they could get it right, making the food themselves, but it gets a mega fail. Only the flake was definitely local.
Maybe next time we’ll try Flippers.
Maybe.
There were other sights, and on the obligatory walk after eating, we came across a sailing ship
This ship is called the Windeward Bound, a two-masted brigantine-rigged vessel, and for the sailing buffs, Windeward Bound is rigged with four square sails, three headsails, three staysails between the masts, a gaff mainsail and a gaff topsail, totalling 12 sails in all. The total sail area is 402 m2 (4,330 sq ft)
Later, we visited the Mawson Hut Replica Museum, and it is authentic in almost every detail. And amazing that 17 men could actually stay together in it and not feel claustrophobic.
It was an eerie experience and extremely interesting. I could not imagine myself staying in it down in Antarctica, in the freezing conditions.
Not Done Yet: Why I Won’t Put the Pen Down (Unless You Pry It Loose)
There are moments in life that hit you like a carefully aimed brick. The day you realise you’re paying full price for admission instead of the student rate. The first time a colleague suggests you mentor them because they “remember reading your work when they were in college.”
But nothing compares to the quiet horror of the Mirror Shock.
You wake up, perhaps a little stiffly, wander into the bathroom, and catch a truly unguarded reflection. And there it is: concrete evidence that the passage of time is not just an abstract concept discussed by philosophers—it’s etched onto your face. Suddenly, you realise old age hasn’t approached politely; it has just snuck up on you, giggling maniacally from the periphery.
And with that physical realisation comes the societal whisper, amplified by well-meaning friends and persistent internal voices: The notion of putting the pen away, hanging up the computer, finally taking a step back has come.
It’s time to retire.
And yet, for some of us, that suggestion feels less like liberation and more like an existential threat.
The Conflict: Passion vs. The Sabbatical Police
Retirement, in its classic definition, is a beautiful idea: the well-deserved pause. Years of hard work traded for limitless travel, afternoon naps, and the blissful freedom from deadlines.
For most folks, the idea of having their primary tool—a calculator, a hammer, a briefcase—confiscated sounds glorious.
But for those of us whose professional lives are intrinsically tied to creation, communication, and connectivity—the writers, the consultants, the artists, the lifelong learners—the pen and the keyboard aren’t just tools. They are conduits. They are how we process the world, how we contribute, and often, who we fundamentally are.
When the world suggests you stop doing the thing that makes you you, the reaction isn’t gratitude; it’s cognitive dissonance.
The mirror may be showing a few new wrinkles, but the internal drive—the wellspring of ideas, the need to connect dots, the urge to capture a thought before it vanishes—is still running at high speed. The engine hasn’t sputtered; it’s just settled into a low, rumbling idle.
The Heresy of the Hard Stop
The assumption that everyone must pivot from 100 mph to 0 mph on their 65th birthday is an outdated construct of a mid-20th-century economy. When work involved significant physical strain or rote, repetitive tasks, the need for a hard break was undeniable.
But in the creative, intellectual, and digital spheres, the opposite is often true. Our knowledge, our networks, and our insight are compounding assets that only increase with time.
Why, then, should we stop when we are finally reaching the peak of our observational powers?
If your professional life has been one long, passionate conversation with the world, cutting off the microphone simply because the calendar dictates it feels absurd. It’s like telling a seasoned musician to stop writing songs because their hair is greying.
For those of us who feel this way, the concept of retirement is not an ending; it’s a necessary (and perhaps slightly aggressive) re-negotiation.
My Mantra: Cold, Dead Hands and the Keyboard
If you are facing the societal pressure to step away, and feel an absolute, visceral refusal blooming in your chest, congratulations—you are likely one of the few who understands the true meaning of the rebellious mantra:
The computer/pen has to be confiscated out of my cold, dead hands.
This isn’t stubbornness; it’s the ultimate expression of professional identity. It’s the declaration that my purpose is not dependent on my age, but on my ability to contribute.
If you share this fierce dedication, the answer isn’t to quit. The answer is to adapt the way you work, without surrendering the work itself.
How to Defy Retirement Without Burning Out
If you’ve decided you’re not hanging up your boots, you need a strategy to prove that your value increases with age, proving that the Mirror Shock was an alarm clock, not a finish line.
1. Shift from Production to Curation
You don’t need to write five articles a week, but you can distil a lifetime of experience into one powerful annual essay or a keynote speech. Instead of being the primary producer, become the ultimate curator, mentor, and editor. Your job moves from generating volume to providing invaluable context.
2. Embrace the Scalpel, Ditch the Sledgehammer
Scale back without cutting off. If your schedule was fifty hours, trim it to twenty of the most impactful hours. Eliminate the administrative drudgery and focus solely on the projects that truly engage your intellect and creativity. Preserve your energy for the soul work.
3. Redefine “Success”
Success is no longer measured in promotions or quarterly earnings. It’s measured in impact, legacy, and genuine enjoyment. If a project stops being fun, drop it. Your experience has earned you the right to be highly selective.
4. The Laptop is the Travel Companion
One of the great promises of retirement is travel. Why separate the two? If your work is digital, your office is portable. The pen doesn’t need to be put away; it simply needs a passport. Continue writing, designing, or consulting from places that inspire you.
The Final Word
The sudden realisation of age is a profound moment. It forces you to confront mortality, but more importantly, it forces you to confront the passion that still burns within.
They say you spend your lifetime building a career so you can eventually stop. But for the dedicated writer, creator, or thinker, the career is the life. We don’t want to stop doing it; we just want the freedom to keep doing it better, smarter, and with fewer corporate meetings.
I’ve looked in the mirror, acknowledged the lines, and heard the societal call to step aside. But the pen is still in my hand, the laptop is still charged, and there are far too many thoughts left unwritten.
Tell the Sabbatical Police they’ll need to bring heavy equipment. Because until the very end, this keyboard is mine.
Beyond the Overused: How to Breathe New Life into Your Descriptive Writing
We’ve all been there. You’re deep into a draft, the prose is flowing, and suddenly, your brain hits a wall. You need a phrase to describe something permanent, a moment of hesitation, or a sense of spotless purity.
Your fingers type out: carved in stone, test the water, pure as the driven snow.
Stop. Take your hands off the keyboard.
Clichés are the comfort food of writing—easy to digest, familiar, and everywhere. But they are also the fastest way to turn your reader’s brain to static. When we use a cliché, we aren’t describing a specific vision; we’re using a shorthand that has lost all its impact through sheer repetition.
If you want your writing to stand out, you have to do the hard work of observation. Here is how to swap those tired metaphors for something that actually sticks.
1. Ditch “Carved in Stone” (Focus on the Stakes)
Instead of telling us a decision is permanent, show us the weight of it.
The Problem: “Our agreement was carved in stone.”
The Fix: Focus on the consequence. “The contract sat on the desk, a heavy, irreversible anchor that would drag us into the next decade.” or “We had burnt the bridge; there was no walking back to the shore we’d left.”
2. Swap “Test the Water” (Focus on the Sensation)
“Testing the water” is a passive, vague way to describe hesitation. Get specific about the anxiety or the risk involved.
The Problem: “Before committing, he wanted to test the water.”
The Fix: Focus on the physical feeling of uncertainty. “He circled the perimeter of the room, gauging the temperature of the conversation before offering his own.” or “He stood at the edge of the decision, toeing the line, waiting for the first sign of cracking ice.”
3. Retire “Pure as the Driven Snow” (Focus on the Texture)
Clichés about purity are often lazy because they rely on abstraction. Instead, describe the quality of the image using sensory details.
The Problem: “She was as pure as the driven snow.”
The Fix: Think about how the object is clean. Is it sterile? Bright? Unblemished? “Her conscience was a blank, uninked page.” or “The kitchen was so immaculate it felt surgical; even the dust seemed afraid to settle there.”
The “Senses & Specificity” Strategy
If you find yourself reaching for a cliché, ask yourself these three questions:
What does it look like? Don’t just say a room is “as quiet as a mouse.” Describe the sound of the quiet—is it a heavy silence, a buzzing, vibrating silence, or a thin, sharp silence?
What is the stakes-based emotion? If someone is “cool as a cucumber,” why are they cool? Is it because they are practised, dismissive, or genuinely detached? Use a verb that describes that specific emotion.
Can I use a “wrong” metaphor? Sometimes, the best way to avoid a cliché is to pair two things that don’t usually go together. Instead of “hard as a rock,” maybe it’s “as stubborn as a rusted bolt” or “as impenetrable as a vault of secrets.”
The Golden Rule: The First Choice is Almost Always the Worst Choice
When your brain offers you a cliché, acknowledge it, throw it in the trash, and force yourself to write three alternatives. They don’t even have to be good ones—just different ones. In that process of straining for a new image, you’ll eventually stumble upon something that feels fresh, sharp, and uniquely yours.
Your readers don’t want the same old metaphors they’ve heard a thousand times. Give them something they can see, hear, and feel for the very first time.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 