Is it possible to mix the two up? I don’t think so.
Great usually means: everything is great, or good, or excellent, whatever degree of goodness you want to put to it.
It could also mean something else, like: Well, you were a great help! when in fact you want to say how useless they were.
Large or little.
Like all creatures great and small, Why not say big or small. Big doesn’t quite have the same effect.
Of course, you could be a great person, well, what I really mean is distinguished. Besides, great could mean way above average, too. Or grand, or impressive, the list goes on.
And haven’t we all, at some time had a great-aunt. No not the good one, the ‘great’ one, denoting her seniority, not necessarily how nice she is.
As for the other grate, we can build a fire in it.
Or add an ‘un’ in front and ‘ful’ at the end, to denote what parents sometimes think of their children
Or get a block of cheese and ‘grate’ it into small shreds.
Or speak in a voice that grates on your nerves, possibly by that great-aunt.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And the story:
It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.
The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.
He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.
The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.
There was nowhere for him to go.
The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.
Where was he going?
“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.
“What?”
“I think he’s made us.”
“How?”
“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”
“How far away?”
“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”
It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”
“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”
Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.
Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.
Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.
Or so we thought.
Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.
“What the hell…” Aland muttered.
I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication where he went.
Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.
I looked up. Nothing.
Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”
Then where did he go?
Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.
“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”
I’d lost him.
It was as simple as that.
I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.
I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.
It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.
Opera was one of those events most people could take or leave. Violetta loved it and we went often. I went because it was more interesting to observe the people who went.
This time was no different.
Rodby was bored, his long-suffering wife, as I came to believe she was, loved it, and used it as a form of torture, and the countess, well, it was difficult to say. She had other matters on her mind.
I spent the first half wondering what the connection was between Mrs Rodby and the countess, the half-time interval listening to their friendly banter about the old days, discovering they had got up to all sorts of high jinks in a boarding school for elegant ladies of which they were decidedly most not, and then the second half thinking that life was so much easier for the wealthy and powerful fifty years ago than it was today.
In the end, where an opinion had to be professed, I said that had I not been an expert in languages, all of it would have been lost on me. Even so, as a love story with tragedy, wouldn’t it be better to be more upbeat?
Obviously, I didn’t get it. Other than that, it was an opportunity to dress up and meet people you’d never normally get to see.
There was a brief debate in the lobby about where we would finish the night and it ended up being at the hotel where the countess was staying. She made a call, and a room was set aside, with catering.
The countess and I took the chauffeur-driven car, the Rodby’s by their own transport. I was expecting, after the car moved out into the traffic, our exit from the Opera House far more anonymous than our arrival, she would give me an indication of what I was there for.
And then remembered that she was as surprised to see me as I was to see her, and then to be referred to as a potential suitor, not a troubleshooter. That label had been attached later by Mrs Rodby.
But I had to ask, in a roundabout way.
“Have you known Mrs Rodby a long time? I gather it started at school?”
“Boarding school. We were both daughters of diplomats, though my father was a Lord, hers what the English quaintly referred to as a Gentleman. My mother was Italian, very feisty but with no maternal instincts. We used to spend holidays in the South of France at a chateau in Antibes. We lost touch for a while, living in different worlds.”
“She mentioned to me you might need some help. Perhaps a relief for you to know that she was not matchmaking but asked me along for a different reason.”
I watched her expression change several times. Whatever the problem was, it was one she was reluctant to share. Was it an embarrassment, or an errant child in trouble, or something worse? I could not imagine her asking me to ‘retire’ an adversary, an over ardent lover, or a business rival.
“She did say you used to take your wife to the opera.”
“Rather the other way around. She loved it. I tried.”
“I must confess, it was my husband’s thing, not so much for the spectacle, but the hobnobbing, if it could be called that. It was all about ‘being seen’. That, the races, balls, galas, and everything in between. Do you dance?”
“Before Violetta, I used to pretend I didn’t. I had a mother who made it mandatory because you never knew when it would be useful. I fancy she had high hopes I would marry a princess. She didn’t live to find out I did. Not a royal princess, by to me everything but having royal blood. And., yes, I would not have got that second glance if I could not do the tango.”
“Your favourite?”
“After I met her, it was all I needed to know she was the one.”
“It’s curious, is it not, that it takes just one. My moment was the quick step, and I hated it. For a long time, I could never quite get it right, but then the Count turns up, spies me trying to hide on the other side of the ballroom, and picks me out of a gaggle of girls vying for his attention.”
“You were not?”
“I was barely out of school, and totally out of my depth. My mother decided he was going to be the one, and unbeknownst to me had talked up my attributes to the point where I could never fulfil her lofty expectations, or his. I thought, then, one dance and I could go. Damn and blast it was the quick step, and his reputation as a demanding, fussy, easily annoyed with those who fumbled, stumbled, and grumbled, of much renown, I just wanted the floor to open up and suck me it.”
“Up till that moment was it like a fairytale?”
“Odd you should say that, but yes. Up to that moment.”
“Obviously you pulled off the challenge.”
“Somehow, I managed, but in the process, I made a lifelong enemy. Perhaps it is this that your friend alludes to. I mentioned it in passing, but it is of no consequence. The Count’s family will deal with it, as they always have. You need not concern yourself, simply enjoy the evening, and tomorrow life will be as it should be.”
Perhaps she should have told Mrs Rodby that, because I had a feeling my life was not going to be ‘as it should be’.
I’ve often said, when espying an injustice that was so outrageously displayed that no one could miss it, as being beyond the pale.
The pale within a fence became an area of land within a boundary such as a county, and then to areas within Ireland that were held by the British. As these became smaller, those areas were deemed to be uncivilized.
This, in modern parlance, beyond the pale refers to someone’s behavior being outside the accepted norm.
There’s also…
In a word: Pale
Which is the color of the face of a person who is usually desperately unwell?
As distinct from a pale face, a white man is described by the American Indians. This, sadly, was learned from American westerns, motion pictures that told a rather interesting version of events between the Indians and the new settlers.
Paleface was in one movie, in particular, Bob Hope.
A pale can also be a single upright piece of wood in a fence.
Something could pale into significance, or be a pale imitation of a better quality article.
Not to be confused with a pail, which is a bucket, wooden or otherwise, that holds liquids.
The most famous of which is that which Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water, and, well, you know how that ended.
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.
Am I working for anyone now?
So, there I was, walking along the street, hands in pockets, trying to look like my whole world hadn’t come crashing down on me when a car pulled over to the side of the road.
I may have been down in the dumps but not that far that I wasn’t still aware of what was going on around me, the training had been that good, so I hung back a little from the curb and waited to see if was me they were after, or just some lucky rich person being dropped off.
And ready to disappear into the crowd, not that there was one, but there were three exits available and within momentary reach if necessary.
I watched the rear window go down slowly then saw a familiar face.
Nobbin.
“Get in Mr Jackson. We have more to talk about.”
I hesitated like anyone with the training I had would, as any person with common sense would too, I guess.
“It’s perfectly safe, I assure you.” He sounded reassuring.
A glance into the car showed only him and the driver, who was getting out of the car. I watched him come around to the curbside and put his hand on the door handle.
“Sir,” he said.
He opened the door. Nobbin had moved to the other side.
I shrugged, then got in. A thought: how many people had got into cars such as this, and were never seen again?”
It was not a statistic that reached any of the newspapers. Only the end result, a body washed down the Thames, with no indication of who it was, or where they came from, and no identification, or means of identification available.
The door closed, the driver went back to the front of the car, and then gently eased the car out into the traffic.
“I’m sorry for the theatrics surrounding this meeting, but it is necessary. I’m sure you were told of the need for secrecy in this matter, and I’m just reinforcing that.”
“Just who are you? And, for that matter, those people back in that building? Or, if it’s not too hard to wrap your head around, who the hell have I been working for?”
“Good questions, all. At least now I can speak freely. As you can, Mr Jackson.”
“Except I have no idea who’s side you’re on, I’m on, or anyone for that matter. This is not what I signed up for.”
“Well, to put some perspective on your situation, Mr Jackson, you were not supposed to live to tell about it. It was an operation that was created with one purpose in mind, to find an agent named
William O’Connor, and kill him. And everyone in the team assigned to the task.”
“By Severin and Maury? If so, why didn’t they kill me in the alley along with this O’Connor?”
“That is a mystery to all of us.”
“And those people back in the room. Who the hell were they?”
“Operations. Trying to find out how a sub-section could be created and function within their purview and not be detected. That’s what it was, run by two agents who had been expelled a few months back, but who were clever enough to work around all of the safeguards, recruit four agents, and then go after the man who caused the end of their careers.”
“Simple, it seems.”
“Very. And, if it had not been for you, we would never have known who or why.”
“Perhaps we should be thankful there was an explosion then, otherwise we’d all be dead.”
“Or not, because as far as I know, that was part of the operation, designed to take the target, you and the surveillance member behind you. It only did a third the job. It didn’t go off at the critical moment. No one was seriously hurt, by the way.”
“The policeman?”
“Critical but stable. He’ll survive.”
“The police who were accusing me of being the bomber?”
“Our people trying to delay you, so our man could get away. Seems they trained you better than we expected. Did O’Connor say anything to you?”
“There wasn’t much time before I found him, and Severin shot him.”
“Anything at all?”
“He knew who I was.”
“Then he knew the whole team, and who was running it.”
“He killed two of them.”
“In self-defence. They were not only surveillance but also assassins. Different training before they joined your group.”
I had thought there was something odd about them.
“Anything else,” he asked again.
“Yes. He said to tell you he found something he should, and that the evidence is… And that’s when he was shot. He didn’t tell me where it was.”
“He didn’t have to. We had set up three prearranged drop sites, so it must be in one of those. Here’s my card.”
He handed me a white card with a name and a phone number. The name was not Nobbin.
“If this Severin contacts you again, call me. I am available any hour of the day or night on that number.”
“If he doesn’t?”
“Then you will hear from me in the not too distant future. The fact you’re a survivor tells me you are resourceful and have the makings of a good agent, one I can use in my department.”
“And those others back at the office?”
“You won’t hear from them again.”
The car stopped outside an underground staircase.
“This is your stop, Mr Jackson. Thank you for your co-operation.”
Perhaps my career wasn’t in tatters. I got out of the car, and watched it leave before heading for the underground, his card safely tucked away in my pocket.
Nearly every city has a high building, a tower, or a large Ferris wheel.
London had the London eye Paris has the Eiffel tower The Galata in Istanbul The CN Tower in Toronto The towers of San Gimignano Pisa has a leaning tower
We’ve managed to see all of the above bar the Galata in Istanbul. One day we might get there.
But, on this side of the world, there are two, the Sydney Tower, and the Sky Tower in Auckland, which we just visited recently.
It’s not a tall tower, but it definitely gives great vies of Auckland, particularly to the north
The mountain in the background at the top of the photo is of a volcano on Rangitoto Island. When we were visiting, there were reports that it might become active again.
To give a height perspective, it didn’t seem all that far down to the apartment building and gardens nearby.
A relatively unassuming lane leads to what could be described as a grand hotel, called Waitomo Caves Hotel.
The original hotel was built in 1908, and it was later extended in 1928. Part of it is ‘Victorian’, based on an eastern Europe mountain chalet, and part of it is ‘Art Deco’, the concrete wing, and a feature, if it could be called that, is none of the four corners are the same.
Views from the balcony show part of the surrounding gardens
and the town of Waitomo in the distance.
In gloomy weather, it does look rather spooky, and I suspect there may be a ghost or two lurking somewhere in the buildings.
But…
This a a very interesting, and the words of one of my younger grand daughters, a very creepy place. It would make an excellent base for paranormal activity, and there could very well be ghosts walking the corridors of this hotel.
It has the long darkish passageways that lead in all directions and to almost hidden rooms, a creepy nighttime aspect, and the creaky woodwork.
I know when we were exploring, it was easy to lose your bearings, if not get lost, trying to find certain places, and once found, hard to find your way back.
All in all, it was one of the best stays in a very old place going through the throes of modernisation.
And looking at it from the outside at night, I’ll leave you with that thought…
Every year I come back to revisit this, and each year it becomes a harder issue to deal with. All that’s recently changed is the number of characters you can use
I’ve been trawling the endless collection of twitter descriptions provided by their users, noting that there is a restriction of 280 characters.
How do you sum yourself up in 280 characters?
I don’t think I can, so we tend to put down a few catchphrases, something that will draw followers. I’m thinking the word ‘aspiring’ will be my catchword.
I’m aspiring to be a writer, or is that author? Is there a difference, like for instance, one publishes ebooks on Amazon, one publishes hard copies in the traditional manner?
Is there a guide to what I can call myself?
Quite simply put, but in more than 140 characters, married happily, two wonderful children, three amazing grandchildren, and a wealth of experience acquired over the years.
Actually, that sounds rather boring, doesn’t it?
Perhaps it would be better if I was a retired policeman, a retired lawyer, a retired sheriff, a retired private investigator, a retired doctor, someone who had an occupation that was a rich mine of information from which to draw upon.
Retired computer programmers, supermarket shelf stackers, night cleaners, accounts clerks and general dogsbody s don’t quite cut the mustard.
I have also become fascinated with the expression ‘killer biography’. Does it mean that I have to be a ‘killer’?
Better than the self-confession above. Should we try to embellish our personal history in order to make it more appealing?
It’s much the same as writing about daily life. No one wants to read about it, people want to be taken out of the humdrum of normalcy and be taken into a world where they can become the character in the book.
And there you have it, in a nutshell, why I write.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
