In a word: Minor

It’s, on the one hand, the opposite of major, and not the military rank, but the lesser of two evils.

It was a minor misdemeanor, so you won’t be going to jail for life, just 20 years, maybe.

Or perhaps you’re referring to a child who is also known as a minor.

And, once upon a time, there was a car called a Morris Minor. I know, my father owned one.

And one of my uncles owned a Morris Major, yea, the Morris car company didn’t have much imagination.

Music-wise it is having intervals of a semitone between the second and third degrees, and others.

It is also qualifying in a subsidiary subject in college in America.

And while we’re still in America, there are the minors, a rather interesting description for the minor baseball league.

Something I remember when reading books about children in British private schools, was where there were two boys in different grades, one would have minor attached to his name, e.g. Smith minor.

The Billy Bunter books spring to mind, but the discrimination police would have them banned these days.

Of course, there’s another word that sounds somewhat similar, miner.

We all know that a miner digs ore out of the ground, a name given to a single man, or a huge corporation.

A computer program could be called a data miner.

A miner is a South American bird, and it’s also an Australian bird.

It also describes a person who obtains units of cryptocurrency using a specific computer program.

There is another variation, mynah, but that used to describe a bird.

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 31

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 with 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…

I woke to the sound of a cracking sound behind me, and, when I rolled over, I found myself staring up the barrel of a gun.

The number one rule broken, don’t fall asleep in enemy territory.

But something else bothered me in those few seconds as I struggle to wake up and comprehend what was happening. Where was Jack? If he’d been here this would not have happened.

But still bleary-eyed from just waking up and in that initial confused state of not knowing where and when, all I could see was a uniformed shape holding the gun standing over me, and feel, in those few seconds that I was not going to survive this.

I braced myself for a bullet, wondering if death was going to be instantaneous. I had hoped I might die in a less inglorious manner.

“Sam? Is that you?”

It was a rather dumb question to be asking an enemy soldier because my mind hadn’t adjusted to the fact the soldier was not in a German uniform, nor in work clothes, but quite possibly the uniform of a soldier from the castle, and if it was, why be asking the question and not just shooting me?

Then, finally, my eyes focussed and I could see clearly who it was, and breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever it was, knew me but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. But in the next second, I saw the gun retract and the man behind it come closer and crouch down beside me.

He was not a soldier from the castle, but a soldier in the familiar British uniform. From somewhere else entirely. An Army Captain if I was not mistaken, which, for another second, I also thought was odd.

And then recognition of a face I hadn’t seen in years.

“Blinky?”

OK, so it was a strange nickname, but it was apt, William O’Reilly blinked a lot, hence the nickname. And Will had been on the same training course as I had three years before, only he had ended up in administration. Bad eyesight.

“It is you, Sam.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I dragged myself up from the ground to sit up. I did a quick scan around me, but Jack was nowhere to be found. It was not like him to desert me when trouble arrived.

“Apparently rescuing your sorry ass. Now that I’m here, I can see why the Colonel said you needed help.” He held out his hand and pulled me up.

“Forster? You work for him?”

“No, but he asked for someone who knew you by sight, and I was the only one available. Besides, I was getting sick of sitting behind a desk while the rest of you were out in the field doing heroic shit.”

I brushed the undergrowth off my uniform and straightened my clothes. It didn’t make me feel any more comfortable.

“I don’t think falling asleep is very heroic. When did the orders come through?”

“Yesterday. A message was sent and received, a rendezvous at an old church. I came with three others, including a very serious sergeant major who had absolutely no sense of humor. I saw this farm; thought I’d check it out.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t get your head shot off.”

“By the man-mountain. Nearly, yes, until I told him who I was. Said you were up here. Waiting for something?”

“Then enemy. We were hoping they turn up so we could deal with them.”

“That would be the traitors up at the castle, or the turncoat resistance members working with them? Carlo, he told me his name, he reckons it’s not happening. Said once I found you to come down and we’ll catch up with the others at this church.”

I picked up the weapon and then we headed towards Carlo’s position.

I could see the Colonel’s reasoning. Send someone I knew who couldn’t be working for the other side. It worried me that the message from Thompson hadn’t been received, because if it had, Martina would have got someone to tell us.

That she hadn’t concerned me.

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 4

Four

I’d been to London before, mot with Cecile but my parents on an end of school graduation present. My father had called it a mission to see how the other half live, and why, in his opinion our country didn’t need a Queen to be our head of state.

A Republican, not a royalist. But it had done little to change my opinion, simply because it didn’t matter to me who ran the country, all positions of any colour were equally as useless.

But I remembered the trek over London, seeing the horse guards, number 10 downing street, the houses of parliament, Westminster Abbey and Buckingham palace. A whirlwind of ancient buildings that had been in existence long before our country had been discovered.

A little of that sense of awe I had then came back when passing by Trafalgar square and heading down Whitehall as far as Whitehall place.

If we were not on a mission, I would have liked to spend more time exploring because the last time had been so quick and disjointed. My father had not been one for being a tourist. Neither, apparently, was Emily.

In sight of the hotel, I felt a shiver go down my spine, either a sign of the cold weather or there was something wrong.

I stopped suddenly and turned. Emily nearly crashed into me, eliciting a grunt between disapproval and annoyance. “What is the matter with you?”

She turned also to see what had caught my interest. She was too late, but I hadn’t. Two people, what looked to be a man and a woman, had almost managed to blend into the background, but not before I caught a glimpse of them.

They were familiar in the sense that I could swear I’d already seen them before, way back at Trafalgar square trying to act like tourists, which was what caught my attention.

“There’s nothing there, you’re jumping at shadows.”

I still kept an eye on that direction, waiting to see if they showed themselves. They didn’t, but that didn’t mean they were not there. And if they were following is, I was leading them to the hotel where if we discovered nothing, they no doubt had the resources that could.

Better I didn’t lead them there.

“Believe it or not, there’s two people following us and I’m not going to lead them to the hotel. We are going past it and onto the gardens, then along the riverside to the Houses of Parliament if we have to, to lose them.”.

It took a combination of the cold weather and luck to shake off the people following us.

In fact, by the time I realized they were no longer there, I had begun to believe it was just a case of nerves and imagination.

We’d walked quite a distance up the Embankment, almost to Westminster Abbey before coming back down Whitehall. Even with snow lightly falling, there were the intrepid tourists vying to get their photos taken with the Horseguards standing in guard duty.

It was not a job I could do in all sorts of weather, but standing still on a day that is cold, snowing, or worse raining, would be debilitating, if not impossible.

Emily had not said very much while we dodged and weaved, and, to her, it must have seemed comical. And after I said I thought we were in the clear she said, “Are you sure you’re not suffering from an overactive imagination?”

At that moment, in the middle of Whitehall with the snow coming down, her comment seemed valid. “That’s quite likely, but I honestly thought I saw someone, possibly two people more than once.”

“There’s a lot of people out and about, so seeing them more than once doesn’t necessarily mean they’re following us.”

True, but it was better to be safe than sorry. And I had a very bad feeling we were going to run into them again. Whatever Cecile had done, it had to be serious if she was trying this hard not to be found.

It didn’t take long, after walking a brisk pace in the cold, spurred on by the fact the snow was falling more densely, and it was getting harder to see anything through the white shroud before we reached the hotel again. I checked again, waiting a minute or two, just to make sure we’d got away from them before escorting Emily through the door.

Once inside, after shaking off the snow, it was considerably warmer. I notice then my hands had begun to freeze, and stepping back into warmth cause a tingling sensation through them. Another hour and they’d be iceblocks.

We took off our coats and went over to the reception counter.

The check-in clerk with the name tag ‘Wendy’, hung up the phone, the call she was on completed, then turned her attention to us.

“How may I help you?”

“I’m hoping you have a guest here named Cecile Robinson. She would have checked in four days ago. My name is James Bentley and she was expecting me.”

Wendy typed the name into the computer. It took about a minute before her expression changed, possibly indicating she’d found something.

“I’ll be just a moment.”

Without waiting for my response as she went through a door almost behind her, onto an office of sorts. I could see two people in there just before the door closed.

The reception desk manager, or security.

I just hoped she wasn’t calling the police.

…

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 14

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Was I working for a ghost?

Training sometimes was one of those things that went in one ear and came out the other. That accounted for the boring bits, but our instructors called it tradecraft.

I guess I should have taken more notice at the time.

Home was a bedsit in Bloomsbury, Not far from the Russell Square underground station, on the ground floor overlooking the small park. Sometimes, in summer I would sit there and watch the world go by, thinking there had to be more to life than waiting for an opportunity.

To do what, at the time, I didn’t know. But, when this opportunity presented itself, oddly as a rather strange ad in the help wanted pages of the newspaper, I guess the people who put it there were looking for the curious sort, with a sense of adventure.

My first impression of the job was that of a courier who would be required to travel a lot. It said, in part, “must be prepared to travel to different locations worldwide, understand the requirement of confidentiality, and must be able to respond to emergencies that might occur in the carrying out of your duties.”

To me, it spelled courier, though I rather hoped it wasn’t the briefcase handcuffed to a wrist sort and no guns.

After the first interview, I think I had guessed correctly, though, in subsequent training, the word tradecraft put a slightly different slant to the job. That, and the surveillance module, sold to us as “you need to know if you are being followed, recognise hostiles, and be able to deal with them.”

But, it was the notion that we should get out of any habits we had, those that made us predictable to an enemy, yes, they actually used the word, enemy. Like for instance, if we caught the same train, or bus, into the city. If we went to the same cafe for coffee, restaurant for lunch or dinner, met people in a pub on the same day, same time, each week.

Before all this, I found comfort in a regular schedule. I hated being late, except when the transport system let me down. I had a regular stop off on the way to the office for coffee, and usually went to the same cafe for lunch at the same time.

Inevitably I would leave home at the same time and quite often return home at the same time. OK, I was boring and predictable. Now it was a little different, with some variation in departure and arrival times, as well as the places I stopped for coffee, and lunch or dinner.

This day I was very late, after dark in fact, getting back to the flat.

I went in after checking for mail, not that anyone ever sent letters these days, unlocked my door, went in and switched on the light.

The whole of the living space had been trashed. Well, more to the point, someone had checked everywhere it was possible to hide anything, which I didn’t, and hadn’t bothered cleaning up after them.

Had they been interrupted?

If that had happened the landlady would be down in a flash the moment I walked in the door, not to commiserate on my bad luck, but to issue me with an eviction notice. Very little was tolerated in her establishment.

That she hadn’t told me that whoever did this had done it very quietly, and without anyone knowing. We had been taught the same procedures which is why I recognised the signs. This had to be done by my previous employers. The only question I had was why?

I had nothing they could possibly want.

I took a few minutes to clean up the mess so that instead of a thorough trashing, it just looked like the aftermath of a wild party, then went out to get a coffee and think about why this had happened.

Not far up the road was a cafe I went to for dinner if I wasn’t doing something else, and, lo and behold, the minute I walked in the door, there was Severin, sitting at the back half disguised by the evening newspaper.

Obviously, he’d been waiting for me.

Yes, now I understood the implications of being someone who did the same thing over and over.

There was no mistaking the invitation, and, after briefly considering ignoring him, realised that was not going to work. After seeing what happened to O’Connor at their hand, I didn’t want to join him.

I sat down. “I have to say this is an unexpected surprise.”

He put the paper down. “For both of us, I can assure you. I’ll get straight to the point. I want the USB.”

“What USB?”

“That your target was carrying, it wasn’t on him, so by elimination, not being anywhere at the crime scene, you must have it. He either gave it to you, or you took it from him. Where is it?”

I took a minute to process what he was saying. I had not seen a USB, not had he given me one, not was there one nearby. I would have seen it. No need to pretend to be surprised. I was.

“I haven’t got it.”

“He didn’t give you anything?”

“How could he, you were there just about the same time as I was. And after you shot him, he had nothing on him. Whatever you’re looking for, it must still be in the alley, or he hid it somewhere else. And since you shot him, I doubt whether you’ll ever find out.”

He shook his head and folded his paper. “If you’ve got it we’ll find out. and it will not bode well for you. And if you accidentally find it, here’s my card. Call me.”

He dropped a card on the table as he got up.

I picked it up just as he stopped and turned to give me a last look before walking out the door. There was no mistaking the intent, if they thought I had it, I’d be dead now.”

And it meant that the evidence O’Conner was referring to was on a USB. All I had to do was find it. Or Nobbin did.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 8

Day 8 – How to improve your vocabulary

…

No Textbooks, No Timetables: 5 Ways to Improve Your Vocabulary on the Fly

We’ve all been there. You’re in the middle of an important email, a compelling conversation, or a presentation, and suddenly, the perfect word is… just out of reach. It’s like a mental shimmer, a ghost on the tip of your tongue. You settle for a lesser word, and the moment passes.

In a busy world, who has time for flashcards, vocabulary lists, and scheduled study sessions? The good news is you don’t need them. Building a more powerful, precise, and impressive vocabulary isn’t about a massive time commitment. It’s about building smarter, faster habits into the life you’re already living.

Here are the five best ways to improve your vocabulary on the fly, turning everyday moments into learning opportunities.

1. Become a Context Detective

This is your number one, tool-free, anytime-anywhere superpower. When you stumble upon an unfamiliar word while reading an article, a report, or even a social media post, don’t skip over it. Pause and become a detective.

What it is: Using the surrounding words, phrases, and sentences to deduce the meaning of an unknown word.

Why it works: The brain is a pattern-matching machine. By analysing the context, you’re actively engaging with the new word rather than passively receiving it. This active effort forges a much stronger memory link than simply looking it up.

How to do it on the fly: Read the sentence before and after the word. Ask yourself: What’s the topic? Is the word being used to describe something positive, negative, large, or small? For example: “The politician’s speech was so turgid that most of the audience started checking their phones.”

Even if you’ve never seen “turgid,” you can infer it’s negative and probably means something like bloated, boring, or overly complex. Make a mental guess. This act of guessing primes your brain to remember the real meaning later.

2. Master the “Tap-and-Lookup” Rule

Being a context detective is great, but sometimes you need confirmation. This is where your smartphone becomes your best friend, not a distraction.

What it is: The immediate, reflexive action of looking up an unknown word the moment you encounter it.

Why it works: Momentum is everything. If you wait, you’ll forget. By looking it up within seconds, you connect the word directly to its context and your initial guess. This creates a complete learning package in under ten seconds.

How to do it on the fly: Keep a dictionary app (like Merriam-Webster or Dictionary.com) on your phone’s home screen. When you read a word you don’t know—whether in an email, an ebook, or a news article—literally tap and look it up right then. Read the definition, and then go back and reread the sentence with your new understanding. The “aha!” moment is instant.

3. Eavesdrop Like a Writer (or an Active Listener)

Your ears are vocabulary-building goldmines, especially in our world of podcasts, audiobooks, and YouTube videos. But you have to listen with intent.

What it is: Tuning into the language used in podcasts, interviews, and conversations to actively identify and absorb new words.

Why it works: Hearing a word used correctly—with its proper pronunciation and emotional tone—teaches you how to wield it yourself. It’s a more dynamic and memorable way to learn than just seeing it on a page.

How to do it on the fly: On your commute, during a workout, or while doing chores, replace mindless scrolling with a high-quality podcast or an audiobook on a topic you enjoy. When you hear a word that piques your interest, make a mental note (or use a voice memo to say, “Look up ‘ubiquitous'”). Later, when you can, do a quick lookup. You’ll be amazed at how often that word will pop up again now that you’re aware of it.

4. Play the Synonym Game

Improving your vocabulary isn’t just about learning new words; it’s about finding better ones for the words you already use. This is a quick exercise you can do while writing or even speaking.

What it is: Actively swapping a simple, common word for a more precise or powerful alternative.

Why it works: This method directly applies new knowledge to your communication, making it instantly practical. It trains your brain to reach for more descriptive language, moving your vocabulary from passive knowledge to an active skill.

How to do it on the fly: As you write an email or a message, identify the most basic verbs or adjectives. “We need a good plan.” Now, open a thesaurus (most word processors have one built-in, or you can use a site like Thesaurus.com). Is the plan robust, strategic, comprehensive, or ingenious? Swapping “good” for a more specific word elevates your entire sentence. Do this for just one word per email, and it’ll soon become second nature.

5. The “Use It or Lose It” Challenge

This final tip is the glue that holds everything together. A word you learn but never use is a guest who never leaves the lobby—it doesn’t become part of the family.

What it is: Making a conscious effort to use a new word within 24 hours of learning it.

Why it works: The act of retrieval—pulling a word out of your memory and using it in context—is the single most effective way to commit it to long-term memory. It builds the neural pathway that makes the word accessible in the future.

How to do it on the fly: Let’s say you looked up “turgid” during your morning reading. Your challenge for the day is to use it. It can be in a work email (“Let’s avoid turgid explanations in the client deck”), a text to a friend (“That movie was so turgid”), or even just spoken aloud to yourself. It might feel a little forced at first, but that awkwardness is your brain working hard to integrate its new tool.

Your Brain’s New Toolkit

Improving your vocabulary doesn’t require a life overhaul. It’s about shifting from passive consumption to active engagement. By combining these five “on-the-fly” habits, you create a virtuous cycle:

You listen for a new word, use context to guess its meaning, look it up to confirm, swap it into your writing, and then use it in a conversation to seal the deal.

These are small actions, but taken consistently, they transform the way you communicate and think. So, which one will you try first? The next time you’re reading, give it a go. Your future, more articulate self will thank you for it.

What I learned about writing – Writing great dialogue is hard

Crafting Believable Dialogue: Tips and Pitfalls to Avoid for Writers

Dialogue is both a writer’s strongest tool and their greatest temptation. When done right, it breathes life into characters, propels the plot, and immerses readers in a story’s world. But when it’s forced, lifeless, or overwrought, it can derail even the best plots. So how do writers create conversations that feel natural, engaging, and unforgettable? Let’s break down the art of dialogue and uncover how to avoid its most common pitfalls.

Why Dialogue is Tricky (And Why It Matters)

Dialogue isn’t just people talking—it’s a dance between realism and intention. Real conversations are often meandering, sprinkled with “umms,” small talk, and redundancy. But in a story, every line must earn its place. The challenge lies in balancing naturalism (making the exchange feel authentic) with necessity (ensuring the dialogue serves the story). If your characters’ words aren’t advancing the plot, revealing character, or adding emotional depth, they risk becoming filler.

How to Write Great, Unstilted Dialogue

Let Personality Speak
Each character should have a distinct voice shaped by their background, education, and temperament. A teenager’s slang, a professor’s erudite turns of phrase, or a mechanic’s blunt jargon all help readers visualise who they’re listening to.
Embrace Subtext
Rarely does anyone say exactly what they mean. Subtext—the unspoken tension beneath the words—adds layers of meaning. For example:
Stilted: “I’m angry that you broke the vase.”
Subtext-rich: “I see your footwork skills are as clumsy as ever.”
Trim the Fat
Real life includes greetings and awkward pauses (“Uh, hello, how are you—?”). In fiction, they often slow the pace. Cut small talk unless it serves a purpose (e.g., hiding tension). Instead of:
Overwrought: “How’s your mother? The weather is lovely today, isn’t it? I heard about the party…”, go for:
Pithy: “You’d better explain why you missed Mom’s birthday.”
Use Conflict to Spur Motion
Healthy dialogue has stakes. If two characters want the same thing (or want different things), their exchange becomes dynamic. Even a simple disagreement can crackle with energy if it reveals hidden desires or fears.
Interrupt, Don’t Monologue
Long speeches often feel unnatural. Break up dialogue with interruptions, actions, or interjections to maintain rhythm. Think of it like a tennis match—short, sharp, with momentum.
Read It Aloud
Stilted dialogue often reveals itself when spoken aloud. If a sentence trips off the tongue awkwardly, it likely will for readers too.

What to Avoid: Common Dialogue Mistakes

Overly Formal Speech: If your characters sound like Shakespearean scholars in a modern setting, readers will notice. Keep their language natural unless it’s part of their personality.
Identical Voices: If every character speaks the same way, they’re not characters—they’re clones. Vary sentence structures, vocabulary, and cadence.
Exposition Dumps: Avoid monologues that feel like a lecture (e.g., “As you know, the Kingdom of Orlandia fell to Zoltar in 1223…”). Weave backstory into the narrative or drop hints organically.
Unnecessarily Polite Exchanges: In real life, people get to the point. Unless a specific context demands formality (e.g., royal court intrigue!), cut the pleasantries.
Telling, Not Showing: Dialogue should reveal, not explain. Instead of “She was furious,” let her say, “You’ve got a nerve showing up here after what you did!”

Final Thoughts: Practice Makes Believable

Writing great dialogue is less about following rigid rules and more about observation. Eavesdrop on conversations (in public, of course—discreetly), study scripts of your favourite films, and read authors known for sharp dialogues (e.g., Oscar Wilde, Nora Ephron, or Neil Gaiman). Then, practice. Rewrite. Let your characters talk themselves into life.

Remember: The goal isn’t to replicate real speech perfectly—it’s to create an illusion of reality that feels true, even in a fantasy world. After all, the best dialogue doesn’t just move the story forward; it makes us feel like we’re sitting in the room, eavesdropping on something unforgettable.

Now go make your characters talk—and don’t let the struggle silence them.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

lovecoverfinal1

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 8

Day 8 – How to improve your vocabulary

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