The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 37

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

An hour later we were stopped by the side of the road, at a point where another road, or, rather, a track headed to the left into the forest.

A short distance before that I noticed a sign, battered and faded, advertising an airport, a sign I thought had been put there as a joke.

Of course, when I remembered the conversation I had with Monroe back on the plane and the fact we had a specialist pilot in our group, it all began to make sense.

Our exit strategy.

I only wished I had internet coverage so I could check the presence of an airport in what looked to be the middle of nowhere.

Only Davies seemed unperturbed.

I had to ask. “Did you know there was an airport here?”

“Of one, used by fly-ins for the Garamba National Park. Not much of an airstrip though, and we don’t exactly have up to the minute details on its surface, but as recently as a week ago a small plane had landed there.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“All you had to do was ask the right question.”

It seems I didn’t know what the right questions were, what might be called an occupational hazard on a job like this.

Everyone had got out of their cars to stretch their legs and prepare for the next phase of the operation, which was to meet with the kidnappers. I expected Jacobi would be on the sat phone talking to their leader, advising we had arrived.

I went back to Mobley, standing with the Ugandan soldier that had been assigned as his driver, smoking a cigarette. I was surprised he hadn’t joined the others who had gathered ahead of the lead vehicle.

“Nice shooting back there,” I said. It was for a man under pressure to make the shots, and give the rest of us a chance to take care of the others. That no one else got shot was a miracle.

“Just another day at the office.”

“Well, it hasn’t ended yet. I want you to go to the airstrip and get it under surveillance. There is supposed to be an aircraft there, whether for our use or just there so we can steal it I’m not quite sure. But if there’s a plane there, I want you to make sure it doesn’t leave, but as quietly as possible. We should be along later with the packages. I’m going up to tell the Colonel he’ll be joining you. He might not want to, but he’s done enough for us. I don’t want him to make enemies unnecessarily.”

“As you wish. I’ll be along shortly.”

“Good. Make sure your radio is working and on. I need to know if anything goes sideways.”

“It won’t.”

I wish I had his confidence.

A minute later I reached the front of the convoy and saw why there seemed little animation among the group. Monroe had Jacobi on his knees and a gun on the back of his neck.

“This is an interesting development Lieutenant. Is there a problem I should know about?”

“I reckon the weasel sold us out back there. Maybe even called them in to shake us down for one reason or another. Didn’t try too hard to negotiate with the commander.”

No, he hadn’t. And the thought had crossed my mind too. A bit of cash on the side, split with the commander. There didn’t seem to be any intent of the commander’s part to shoot us, so it was a pity we had to kill them all. If they were part of the kidnapper’s operations, things might get a little dangerous.

“Before you kill him,” I said, “Did he tell you how the call to the kidnappers went?”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Mobley picked that moment to drive up alongside Jacobi and the Lieutenant.

“Problem?” he asked through the window.

“No. We’re practicing our run at the kidnappers.”

He shrugged. I looked over at the Colonel. “Time for you to be moving on. You don’t need to be in on the next part, for plausible deniability. I suspect if the leader of this group sees you, and makes any connection back to the Ugandans, it could cause trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Better if you didn’t have to. My man needs help at the airstrip and a man of your authority might just smooth over problems if he needs it.”

“You’re having a plane sent in?”

“I’d like to think so, might even get you home in time for a late supper.” I glared at Jacobi. “How does he get to the airstrip?”

“Normally, through the town, but there’s a track about 200 yards up the road. Go left, follow the road, then turn right at the first fork.”

He stood staring at the ground for a minute, hopefully considering doing as I asked. I was not sure what I was going to do if he didn’t. It was preferable he didn’t come with us.

“OK. You have a point. No need stirring up my Congo friends any more than I already have.”

He went over to Mobley’s car and got in, replacing the Ugandan soldier as a driver.

“See you when we see you,” Mobley said, and the Colonel drove off after a wave.

Back to my other problem.

“You’ve had time to think about your answer, Jacobi, so tell us.”

“An eight-mile drive along the next track, then instead of taking the fork to the airstrip, go left, and drive to you reach the checkpoint.”

“The meeting is on.”

“They’re waiting for us.”

“In more ways than one, I’d say,” Monroe muttered. “He’s outlived his usefulness in my book.”

Ordinarily, I would agree with her, but we still needed him. There might have been an initial negotiation, but it was far from what the end deal would be, and he had to be there to complete it. And if he was leading us into a trap, well, we’d just have to wait and see.

“We still need him, so ease up on the aggression. If he has double-crossed us, you can shoot him. Until then, play nice. But, just as a precaution, you and Stark can bring up the rear, stop about a mile short, and do some recon between there and the checkpoint. If anyone is thinking of sneaking up behind us, I want to know about it.”

Monroe shook her head, then eased the gun away from him. A nod to me.

“He can go with you in the lead car. Davies can come with me and keep driving the car. They’ll be expecting four vehicles.”

“Fair enough.” I turned to Baines, the first time I’d addressed him since getting on the plane at the black site. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a portable rocket launcher among that film equipment, would you?”

“And half a dozen shells. Don’t know how they managed it, but it’s there.”

“Easy to get at?”

“If need be.”

“Good.” I looked around at the rest of the team. “Everyone had time to calm their nerves.”

I’d watched Jacobi drag himself to his feet and try to brush the dust of his clothes. It didn’t help restore what was once quite clean and crisp linen. No one helped him, in fact, if I gave the order to shoot, all of them would. Monroe’s accusation struck a chord with the others.

“We’d better get going,” she said, heading for the last vehicle after being joined by Davies. Out of earshot, she said something to her, and I heard them laughing.

I was not sure what it was about, but as long as it eased the tension in her. She had discovered which car was carrying the diamonds, co-incidentally the car I’d been driving, so we needed a situation so that we could remove the diamonds from the equation when we arrived at the checkpoint. There was no way the kidnappers were going to let us retrieve the package once we got there, and I had no doubt we would be separated from the cars, and the equipment, so that, if possible, the kidnappers could gain the upper hand.

Or that was how I suspected it would go down. It was only a matter of time before I was proved right or wrong.

Everyone else got back into the cars, and with Jacobi sitting in the front with me, I started moving forward.

I wasn’t prepared, not mentally anyway. I never was when going into battle.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

The Cinema of My Dreams – It ended in Sorrento – Episode 59

Aftermath of a kidnapping

…

“You knew what was going to happen?”

“Of course. Did you think you were dealing with rank amateurs?”

“Maybe my boss did. Who are you two really?”

“We’re the sort of people who kill people like you, then go down the pub and have a few pints and laugh about it.” It was almost a treat to see Cecelia acting so cavalier.

I glanced up at her, and her expression told me this was just another role, she was playing the bitch from hell. And so much more dripping venom than Anna would ever muster.

That statement, of course, delivered in the deadpan voice of a deranged killer had the desired effect. Francesca was suitably frightened.

“It was not my idea. I just do as I’m told.”

“That’s what the Germans said at the Nuremberg trials. Didn’t save them from being shot or hung or whatever. Can I shoot her now?” I almost laughed at the sincerity.

Francesca looked at me. “You only told me because you knew what I’d do? I told you who we were working for.”

“Who your boss told you to tell me. Now we’re going to find out the truth. I hope he told you the truth because if he didn’t, he isn’t going to be your boss for much longer.”

“Finally,” Cecelia sighed.

I almost laughed. She was playing the role too well.

Alfie’s voice returned. “What were you expecting?”

“Another party stepping in the rescue the countess.”

“How…”

“She can’t afford to have Anna find out who she really is. Not yet. Not until it is fait accompli.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“At the appropriate time, which is now. Let it go for now. I know who’s got her. And I know where she will go though not the exact location yet. We have more work to do.”

“Who are you talking to?” Francesca asked.

“I have a plethora of friends Francesca, a plethora of friends.”

What happened next was like watching a bad stage play unfold in an unexpected manner.

Vittoria decided to turn up after the party had ended.

Seeing the door half open she blundered in and ended up with Cecelia’s gun in the back of her head, the door closing, and Francesca slowly getting back up off the floor.

Cecelia told Vittoria to walk slowly into the room and not try anything. Vittoria was smart. She did as she was told.

Francesca did the same. She knew she had to humour me. Then her phone rang.

“That will be your boss. Answer it on speaker.”

She pulled it out of her bag and did as she was told.

“Sir.”

“What the hell is going on?”

I decided to answer that question for her. “I might ask the same of you. Had you just simply come and asked me, we could have sorted this out together, but no, you had to do it your way. Now you have nothing.”

“Neither have you.”

“No. What happened was exactly what I wanted to happen. It gave me three valuable pieces of information. Now you get nothing. Go back to Rome and leave the professionals to get this done. I am keeping Francesca with me. She is the one concession I’m granting you.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Then you will have to explain to her family how you got her killed because unless you agree, she will not leave this room alive. Make up your mind. My assistant has no patience and an itchy trigger finger.”

I counted to ten under my breath. Francesca was getting more terrified by the minute.

“This is not acceptable, but I agree, only under extreme duress. If anything happens to her, I will hold you personally responsible.”

“Agreed. She will keep you posted.”

Francesca disconnected the call.

“It was a good job while it lasted,” she muttered.

“You’re a private detective and an art historian. I’m not sure which day job you should not give up, but you can do better. Now, enough retrospection. We have work to do, and more feet on the ground. Alfie, back to our hotel for a meeting.”

I heard him mutter, so I took that to mean he would be there soon.

In all the excitement I had forgotten about Juliet, and when I looked over to where she had been standing, near the countess before they took her, I saw her on the ground, just moving.

I went to her and knelt down to check on her head.

There was a bloody gash on the back of it, and it appeared one of the intruders had hit her. Then I realised that I had seen her try to grab the countess back from one of the intruders and the other hit her with the butt of his gun.

She turned her head and looked at me with glassy eyes. “What happened?”

“You tried to be brave, and as the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished.”

“And a lot of good that did. She’s not here.” That was the result of her quick search.

“Never take on impossible odds. Bad for your health. Stay there and I’ll get a wet cloth. You’re going to have a bad headache for a while.”

Vittoria had taken in the scene, seen her daughter, and yet it was me who got to her first to help. It only reinforced my assumption about her. No one could be that callous towards their daughter.

“Where’s the countess?” she asked, finally realising she was not there.

“Masked gunmen took her away,” I said. “I believe they were taking her to Anna Von Burkehardt. That’s going to be some reunion, don’t you think?”

The look on her face was priceless.

The 2am Rant: Why is writing so hard

In just about every book about how to be a good writer, there seems to be a pile of problems that at some time in a writer’s life will need to be overcome.

Writer’s block

Don’t have it. The ideas pour out of my head like water over a waterfall

Don’t use abstract descriptions in your writing

Damn, I do that all the time

But, back to writer’s block, is that where you write 37 chapters and there the story stops?

Oops.

Plan your book and have an outline so you can write it from start to finish

Plan? What Plan?

That only happens when I’ve written the book and prior to the first edit, I make a precise of each chapter to make sure of continuity.

Plan your characters and give them a timeline

Oh God is that why characters’ names are often changing as the story progresses.

Believe it or not, I’m working on this issue.

Manage your time.

Still can’t get it right.

Write at least a thousand words a day, no matter if it’s rubbish or not.

Does that include writing for social media?

Apparently not.

At least this is one of the requirements I follow religiously. Sometimes it’s a lot more words but a least some writing finished up either on paper in on the word processor.

Now it’s time to write those thousand words.

Look, there, I’ve at least got one part of time management under control.

What I learned about writing – Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?

Unleash Your Inner Poet: The Surprisingly Simple Path to Writing Poetry

For many, the word “poetry” conjures images of dusty tomes, cryptic verses, and the terrifying prospect of iambic pentameter. It feels like a secret club with an impossible initiation. But what if I told you that, at its heart, poetry is actually one of the most accessible and freeing forms of expression?

The question “Is there a simple way to learn and write poetry?” can be answered with a resounding yes. It’s not about memorising rules, it’s about re-learning how to see, feel, and play with words.

Here’s how to demystify the process and start your own poetic journey:

1. Ditch the “Rules” (For Now)

The biggest barrier to writing poetry is the self-imposed pressure to conform to traditional structures. Forget rhyme schemes, meter, and sonnet forms when you’re starting out. Think of them as advanced techniques you can explore later, if you choose.

Your focus should be on free verse. This is poetry without a strict rhythm or rhyme, allowing you to focus purely on imagery, emotion, and word choice. It’s the perfect playground for beginners.

2. Become a Keen Observer

Poetry is born from attention. The most powerful poems often come from everyday moments, seen through a fresh lens.

Engage your senses: What do you see, hear, smell, taste, touch right now?
Notice the details: Not just “a tree,” but “the ancient oak, its bark grooved like an old man’s face, leaves shivering in the morning breeze.”
Capture emotions: How does a situation make you feel? Don’t just name the emotion; describe its physical manifestation. (“My heart thrums like a trapped bird.”)
Carry a notebook (or use your phone): Jot down interesting words, phrases, snippets of conversation, or sensory observations as they strike you. These are your raw materials.

3. Read Poetry (But Don’t Feel Intimidated)

Reading poetry isn’t about understanding every single line or deciphering hidden meanings. It’s about hearing the music of language, seeing how others play with words, and discovering what resonates with you.

Start with contemporary poets: Many modern poems are more accessible and relatable than historical works.
Explore different styles: Read free verse, haikus, spoken word, lyrical pieces.
Read aloud: This helps you hear the rhythm and flow, even without rhyme.
Don’t force it: If a poem doesn’t click, move on. There’s so much out there!

4. Play with Words Like Building Blocks

Think of words as your paint, your clay, your musical notes.

Metaphor & Simile: How is one thing like another? (The moon is a fingernail clipping.) How is one thing another? (The moon is a pearl in the sky.)
Imagery: Use words that create vivid pictures in the reader’s mind.
Sound: Notice alliteration (slippery silver snakes), assonance (the mellow wedding bells), and how different sounds feel in your mouth.
Concision: Poetry often says a lot with a little. Can you trim unnecessary words?

5. Start Small and Simple

Don’t aim for an epic poem on your first try.

Try a Haiku: (5-7-5 syllables, usually about nature) – forces you to be concise.
Write about a single object: A forgotten coffee cup, a wilting flower, a dusty book.
Describe a single moment: The exact second the rain started, the taste of your morning coffee, the sound of a distant train.
Start with a strong image or feeling: Let that lead you.

6. Embrace the First Draft (It’s Supposed to Be Messy!)

Your first attempt won’t be perfect, and that’s okay. Think of it as a brain dump. Get all your ideas and feelings down on paper.

Don’t edit as you go: Just write.
Let it sit: Come back to it later with fresh eyes.
Revise: This is where the magic happens. Trim, expand, rearrange, swap words, sharpen images. Read it aloud to catch awkward phrasing.

7. Share (When You’re Ready)

Sharing your work, even with one trusted friend, can be incredibly empowering. It provides a new perspective and helps you grow. Join a local writing group, an online forum, or just read it to your cat!

Poetry isn’t about being “profound” or “intellectual” from the get-go. It’s about connecting with your own voice, observing the world with fresh eyes, and finding beauty in the ordinary. The simplest way to learn and write poetry is simply to begin. Pick up a pen, open a document, and let your words flow. The world is waiting for your unique song.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 145

Day 145 – Writing isn’t work at all…

…

The Joy of the Page: Why Writing Shouldn’t Feel Like Labour

There is a famous, arguably infamous, sentiment from the poet and novelist Charles Bukowski that often sparks heated debate in writing workshops and literary circles alike:

“Writing isn’t work at all… and when people tell me how painful it is to write, I don’t understand it, because it’s just like rolling down the mountain, you know. It’s freeing. It’s enjoyable. It’s a gift and you get paid for what you want to do.”

If you’ve ever stared at a blinking cursor for three hours, wrestling with a single sentence until your temples throb, Bukowski’s words might sound like a personal insult. How can he call it “rolling down a mountain” when, for the rest of us, it feels more like pushing a boulder up it?

But perhaps it’s time to look past the provocation and see the truth hidden in his perspective.

The Difference Between “Writing” and “Editing”

The friction most writers feel isn’t usually with the act of writing itself—the creative flow, the discovery of a character’s voice, or the thrill of an idea taking shape. The pain comes from the internal critic.

When writers complain about the “pain” of writing, they are often conflating the act of creation with the act of judgment. We stop to edit, we second-guess our word choice, and we worry about the audience before the ink is even dry. Bukowski’s “rolling down the mountain” refers to the act of letting go—the pure, kinetic energy of getting the thought from the brain onto the page without stopping to check if it’s “good enough” yet.

The Gift of Expression

Bukowski’s reminder that writing is a “gift” is a powerful antidote to the burnout that comes with treating writing as a purely transactional industry.

In a world where we spend forty-plus hours a week doing things we have to do—answering emails, attending meetings, navigating logistics—writing is one of the few places where we have total agency. You are the architect, the god, and the witness of your own world. When you view writing as an escape rather than a chore, the “pain” begins to dissipate. You stop trying to force the narrative and start allowing it to move on its own.

How to Find Your Own “Mountain”

If you find yourself stuck in the “painful” phase of writing, it’s worth asking: Are you trying to roll, or are you trying to climb?

To recapture the joy Bukowski describes, try these three shifts:

The “Vomit” Draft: Give yourself permission to write absolute garbage. If you don’t care about the quality of the first draft, you remove the pressure to be perfect. Suddenly, the words start flowing again.
Separate the Hat: Keep the “Writer” and the “Editor” in different rooms. When you write, do not let your inner editor touch the keyboard. Save the critique for a later date.
Find the “Want”: Bukowski mentions being “paid for what you want to do.” Even if you aren’t making a living yet, reconnect with the why. Write about the things that genuinely interest you. If you are writing what you think you should write, it will always feel like work. If you write what you need to write, it becomes a release.

Final Thoughts

Writing will always require discipline, and there are days when the muse is silent. But there is a distinct difference between the healthy exhaustion of a creative sprint and the agonising frustration of a writer at war with themselves.

The next time you sit down to write, don’t try to climb the mountain. Stop trying to control the terrain, stop checking your footing, and just let yourself go. You might be surprised at how much ground you cover when you finally stop fighting the descent.

…

Searching for locations: At large in Paris, France

We have been to Paris a number of times over the years.

The last time we visited Paris we brought the two eldest grandchildren. We took the Eurostar train from St Pancras station direct to Disneyland, then took the free bus from the station to the hotel. The train station was directly outside Disneyland.

We stayed at the Dream Castle Hotel, rather than Disneyland itself as it was a cheaper option and we had a family room that was quite large and breakfast was included every morning. Then it was a matter of getting the free bus to Disneyland.

We spent three days, time which seem to pass far too quickly, and we didn’t get to see everything. They did, however, find the time to buy two princess dresses, and then spent the rest of the time playing dress-ups whenever they could.

In Paris, we stayed at the Crown Plaza at Republique Square.

We took the children to the Eiffel Tower where the fries, and the carousel at the bottom of the tower, seemed to be more memorable than the tower itself. The day we visited, the third level was closed. The day was cold and windy so that probably accounted for the less than memorable visit. To give you some idea of conditions, it was the shortest queue to get in I’ve ever seen.

We traveled on the Metro where it was pointed out to me that the trains actually ran on rubber tires, something I had not noticed before. It was a first for both children to travel on a double-decker train.

The same day, we went to the Louvre.

Here, it was cold, wet and windy while we waited, Once inside we took the girls to the Mona Lisa, and after a walk up and down a considerable numkber of stairs, one said, “and we walked all this way to see this small painting”.

It quickly became obvious their idea of paintings were the much larger ones hanging in other galleries.

We also took them to the Arc de Triomphe.

We passed, and for some reason had to go into, the Disney shop, which I’m still wondering why after spending a small fortune at Disneyland itself.

Next on the tour list was the Opera House.

where one of the children thought she saw the ghost and refused to travel in one of the elevators. At least it was quite amazing inside with the marble, staircases, and paintings on the roof.

Sadly, I don’t think they were all that interested in architecture, but at the Opera House, they did actually get to see some ballet stars from the Russian Bolshoi ballet company practicing. As we were leaving the next day we could not go and see a performance.

Last but not least was Notre Dame with its gargoyles and imp[osing architecture.

All in all, traveling with children and experiencing Paris through their eyes made it a more memorable experience.

The first we visited Paris was at the end of a whirlwind bus tour, seven countries in seven days or something like that. It was a relief to get to Paris and stay two nights if only to catch our breath.

I remember three events from that tour, the visit to the Eiffel Tower, the tour of the night lights, not that we were able to take much in from the inside of the bus, and the farewell dinner in one of the tour guides specially selected restaurants. The food and atmosphere were incredible. It was also notable for introducing us to a crepe restaurant in Montmartre, another of the tour guide’s favorite places.

On that trip to Paris, we also spent an afternoon exploring the Palace of Versailles.

The next time we visited Paris we flew in from London. OK, it was a short flight, but it took all day. From the hotel to the airport, the wait at the airport, departure, flying through time zones, arrival at Charles De Gaulle airport, now there’s an experience, and waiting for a transfer that never arrived, but that’s another story.

I can’t remember where we stayed the first time, it was somewhere out in the suburbs, but the second time we stayed at the Hilton near both the Eiffel Tower and the Australian Embassy, notable only because the concierge was dating an Australian girl working in the Embassy. That was our ticket for special treatment, which at times you need to get around in Paris.

It was the year before 2000 and the Eiffel Tower was covered in lights, and every hour or so it looked like a bubbling bottle of champagne. It was the first time we went to Level 3 of the Tower, and it was well worth it. The previous tour only included Level 2. This time we were acquainted with the fries available on the second level, and down below under the tower.

This time we acquainted ourselves with the Metro, the underground railway system, to navigate our way around to the various tourist spots, such as Notre Dame de Paris, The Louvre, Sacre-Coeur Basilica, and Les Invalides, and, of course, the trip to the crepe restaurant.

We also went to the Louvre for the express purpose of seeing the Mona Lisa, and I came away slightly disappointed. I had thought it to be a much larger painting. We then went to see the statue of Venus de Milo and spent some time trying to get a photo of it without stray visitors walking in front of us. Aside from that, we spent the rest of the day looking at the vast number of paintings, and Egyptian artifacts in the Museum.

We also visited the Opera House which was architecturally magnificent.

The third time we visited Paris we took our daughter, who was on her first international holiday. This time we stayed in a quaint Parisian hotel called Hotel Claude Bernard Saint Germain, (43 Rue Des Ecoles, Paris, 75005, France), recommended to us by a relation who’d stayed there the year before. It was small, and the elevator could only fit two people or one person and a suitcase. Our rooms were on the 4^th floor, so climbing the stairs with luggage was out of the question.

It included breakfast and wifi, and it was quite reasonable for the four days we stayed there.

It was close to everything you could want, down the hill to the railway station, and a square where on some days there was a market, and for those days when we were hungry after a day’s exploring, a baguette shop where rolls and salad were very inexpensive and very delicious.

To our daughter we appeared to be experienced travelers, going on the Metro, visiting the Louvre, going, yes once again, to the crepe restaurant and the Basilica at Montmartre, Notre Dame, and this time by boat to the Eiffel Tower. We were going to do a boat rode on the Seine the last time but ran out of time.

We have some magnificent photos of the Tower from the boat.

Lunch on one of the days was at a restaurant not far from the Arc de Triomphe, where our daughter had a bucket of mussels. I was not as daring and had a hamburger and fries. Then we went to the center of the Arch and watched the traffic.

Our first time in Paris the bus driver got into the roundabout just to show us the dangers of driving in an unpredictable situation where drivers seem to take huge risks to get out at their exit. Needless to say, we survived that experience, though we did make a number of circuits.

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact that his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence are about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

…

Purchase:

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Searching for locations: Toronto, Canada

The touristy things

On the way to the Hall of Fame, we found an ice-skating rink

The Hockey hall of fame

The hockey hall of fame is a very large exhibition which would take a whole day to see everything. We sat through a very informative history of the game and the origins of the NHL, which for people who do not have hockey as a sport in their country, is saying something.

We follow the Maple Leafs, coincidentally Toronto’s franchise in the NHL, and we have been here before for a game, which they lost. It didn’t matter, I was staggered by the energy and enthusiasm both the players and the fans put into making it a memorable experience.

I’m hoping for a repeat experience.

…

St Lawrence Market

We walked 1.8 km to the market and it was closed which is about right for us as we have a knack for turning up and the place is closed, for instance, the Canadian Club Distillery in Windsor, Canada.

Perhaps tomorrow, before or after the game.

…

Red Lobster

Ok, we’ve been here before and it was beyond any expectations anyone could have for a restaurant chain.

This was no different from the last.

What more could you want, scallops, shrimp, and a fried lobster tail all drowned in a superb garlic butter sauce.

Add a side of mash potatoes, and a 20oz glass of beer, and there is the definition of heaven on a plate.

…

St Lawrence Market, again

Snowing, but not heavily

St Lawrence market, everything is very expensive, crab legs $120 per kg, lobster, $50 to $80 per kg. Oddly everything is quoted per pound, and it’s a good thing that we can convert lbs to kg.

It is, to say the least, a disappointment.

…

Ice Hockey at the Scotiabank Arena

There was a definite buzz in the air, and heading towards the stadium was both us, and many other Toronto supporters. Blue Maple Leaf jerseys were in abundance.

We’ve been before, and the last time the Leafs lost.

What else is new?

They have had a very good season so far, and are second on the ladder overall, so it was not without the expectation that they might win this one.

Never have an expectation.

They lost.

But…

It was an incredible game that was none stop action. It seems to me that you require a lot of skill and skating talent to play this game. I certainly couldn’t, and freely admit that I’d probably last about five minutes.

The score didn’t reflect the play, but in the end, the Leafs lost 4 – 3, at the end of the three periods.

…

Souvenir hunting and other stuff

I woke tired and exhausted, not looking forward to walking around Toronto.

Got up early to do the walking.

Oh, did I tell you, this hotel has a laundry and it is the bugbear of staying in major hotels, not being able to wash clothes?

Breakfast is included, but it is the main meal of the day so we feast. The selection is incredible.

We had to go back to the Maple Leafs franchise shop to exchange a Maple Leafs Jersey, which was no trouble.

So near to the CN tower, we go in to shop for souvenirs, of which there were plenty. I liked the stuffed mooses and beavers.

We’ve been up the tower so it’s back to the Union Station and a short stay upstairs, a little bar overlooking the Toronto Pearson train line.

Time for tasting some Canadian ales, the first a Mill Street tank house ale, the second a Mill Street hopped and confused. Seriously, that’s what they were called.

The drinking mood music was old hits like Queen and a little bit of country and western.

We had a good view of the trains, too.

Union Station

Like all main stations very large very tall ceilings and openings that lead to the tracks of which there are about 24, and an underground system

Much the same as all large railway terminals and probably far busier in times gone by.

…

Dining, but not necessarily dinner

Not far from the station, and opposite to clock tower belonging to the old city hall was a restaurant called Bannock.

There I had a Moosehead Cracked Canoe lager, a light ale, and a house special since 1929, a chicken pot pie, and it was very good.

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there

What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved, there are going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

…

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Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words