The course of plane travel can run like clockwork, or rapidly come apart at the seams.
Every time you go to the airport, it can become an adventure. Checking in, battling the airline’s kiosk, printing and attaching bag labels, going to the bag drop, remembering that every airline does it differently.
Today, we are arriving at Hong Kong airport, which is huge, with endless boarding gates. Being dropped off in the zone that belongs to the airline you’re flying might lead you to think finding the check-in for your flights is going to be easy, but it’s not. The next step is to find the aisle letter where your flight is checking in, and then do the automated boarding pass and baggage label.
If it’s international travel, which it is today, there’s the added stress of negotiating immigration and the duty-free stores. We followed the rules, arrived early, had the usual problems at the kiosk that required assistance from two Cathay Pacific staff members, and finally made it to the initial departure concourse.
Next, there’s the temptation of overpriced airport food if you’re hungry, which we are not. But we have a McCafe coffee to satisfy a caffeine fix before the flight.
The shops are all expensive at the initial departure concourse, so we decide to see if there are other shops near our departure gate. To get to it, we descend to the train and get off at 40-80. It’s a short journey, and then when we arrive, there is a collection of more affordable shops where we proceed to buy, along with every man and his dog, a selection of sweets with our remaining Hong Kong dollars.
From there it’s a couple of travellators, which sounds ridiculously short, but are, in reality, very, very long, to our gate, and we get there ten minutes before boarding is supposed to commence.
Today we are travelling on an Airbus A350-900, a relatively new plane so you would think there could not be anything wrong with it. We had the same plane coming to Hong Kong, and no trouble with it.
We find a seat in the gate lounge and wait, along with everyone else. I’m still surprised at the number of able-bodied people who take the disabled seats for the sake of being closer to the start of the line, and worse, the woman who not only took up one of the seats but also another seat for her cabin baggage, which was extensive.
Boarding starts late, and routinely for the first, business, and disabled passengers. The rest now start to line up in the economy line. Some people haven’t moved; perhaps they know something we don’t.
We eventually join the line and go through the initial formalities while waiting. And waiting. As the minutes tick by and nothing is happening, other than what appears to be growing consternation by the gate staff. The tipping point for immediate concern is when the previously boarded passengers begin to come back through the boarding gate into the departure gate lounge.
One of those who had been on board came our way and said there was a problem with the plane. They were told it was due to technical difficulties; the official non-scary description for your plane is broken. In the face of growing consternation among the queued economy passengers, there was an official announcement that advised of the technical difficulties, and boarding would be delayed.
We all sat back down, but this time, there were several disabled and elderly people who needed seats, and our able-bodied lady and her baggage did not move. Shame on her. We are lucky that where we were in the waiting line was adjacent to nearby seats
Now we were able to watch the other passengers jockeying for position to race to be first in the economy class boarding queue, the second time around. I think they don’t realise they have the same seat if they are at the front of the line or the back. Because we were all asked to sit down, those at the front of the queue would now find themselves at the end.
After a delay of about an hour and a half, we are finally boarding. The worst aspect of this delay is losing our slot in the departures, and I’m guessing this was going to have an effect on our actual takeoff time. It appears to be the case. Boarding does not take very long, and shortly after the doors are closed, we’re pushing back from the gate.
From there, it becomes a chess game when we get a slot. We are in a queue of planes waiting our turn, and on the taxi ramp before the main runway, planes are separated into two queues, and we are in the second. Since we are the only ones, I suspect we’re in the delayed take-off queue, and sit watching four or so other planes take off before we finally get on the runway.
On the plane, we discovered one of the toilets was out of action, so perhaps that was the technical difficulty with our plane. It’s not full, so one toilet down will have little effect. Leaving in the early afternoon will get us into Brisbane late at night. It was meant to be around 11 pm, but with the delays, and possibly making up time in flight, it will now be after midnight when we arrive. Fortunately, we have a 24-hour airport in Brisbane.
The flight from Hong Kong to Brisbane is without incident. Lunch after takeoff, then a few hours later, an hour or so before landing, we have dinner. Neither of us is hungry. As expected, we landed after midnight, tired but glad to be home.
I can’t say at this moment in time that I miss travelling.
There’s a specific kind of alchemy that happens when you’re truly in the writing zone. Words flow, ideas connect, and the world outside the screen (or notebook) fades into a hazy, unimportant blur. It’s a magical, almost spiritual state where the story dictates the pace and you’re merely its conduit.
But let’s be honest, that magic often comes at a cost, doesn’t it?
The Sustenance Struggle
For many of us, the quest for sustained creative output inevitably clashes with the very human need for sustenance. The ubiquitous cup of coffee, the endless mug of tea – these become less a beverage and more a life support system. We sip, we type, we chase the next sentence, convinced that stopping for something as mundane as a meal will shatter the fragile spell.
The thought of breaking that momentum, of stepping away from a scene that’s finally unravelling just right, for a sandwich or a proper dinner, feels like artistic treason. We tell ourselves we don’t have time. We can’t interrupt the process. The words are right there.
The Inevitable Crash
This fierce dedication, while admirable in its intensity, is a double-edged sword. Our brains, despite their boundless capacity for imagination, are still physical organs. They run on glucose, not just caffeine and sheer willpower. Our bodies, too, require fuel and rest.
So, what happens? We push through. We ignore the growling stomach, the flickering headache, the creeping brain fog. We power through on adrenaline and the rapidly diminishing returns of our stimulant of choice. Until, of course, the well dries up.
The words blur. The plot holes yawn. The characters suddenly feel flat. That vibrant spring of inspiration suddenly looks suspiciously like a dry puddle. We drop from exhaustion, or are forced to stop because the mental engine has finally sputtered out. The creative fire is banked, not because the ideas are gone, but because the vessel carrying them is depleted.
Refuelling for the Long Haul
It’s in this forced pause that the deeper sustenance often arrives. Sleep isn’t just downtime; it’s vital processing time. It’s where your subconscious untangles plot knots, brews new ideas from disparate elements, and recharges the very batteries you’ve drained. Perhaps dreams, those wild, untamed narratives of our minds, become fertile ground for unexpected inspiration, offering a fresh perspective when you finally return to the page.
The lesson? Nurturing your body isn’t a distraction from your craft; it’s an integral part of it. Think of fueling yourself not as an interruption, but as an investment into longer, more productive, and ultimately more enjoyable writing sessions.
Pre-emptive Power: Before you dive deep, have a proper meal or at least a substantial snack. Think protein and complex carbs to avoid that precipitous sugar crash.
Hydrate Smarter: Water is your brain’s best friend. Keep a bottle within reach and sip regularly.
Strategic Breaks: A five-minute stretch, a quick walk to the kitchen for that piece of fruit, genuinely stepping away for a meal – these aren’t breaks from writing, they’re part of a sustainable writing practice. They allow your subconscious to work, your eyes to rest, and your body to refuel.
Listen to Your Body: Learn to recognise the early signs of fatigue and hunger. Don’t wait until you’re crashing to address them.
So, next time you feel that familiar pull into the writing vortex, pause for a moment. Ask yourself: Is my body fueled? Is my mind sustained? Because the most brilliant stories are often born not just from passion, but from the well-being that allows that passion to truly flourish.
How do you navigate the delicate dance between creative flow and basic needs? Share your tips for staying nourished and inspired in the comments below!
The Writer’s Paradox: Why Consumption Isn’t Creation
We live in a culture that loves to romanticise the “writer’s life.” We imagine it involves a worn leather notebook, a steaming cup of artisan coffee, and someone hunched over a desk, reading the classics until the prose is so deeply ingrained in their psyche that they eventually exhale a masterpiece.
But there is a dangerous misconception hidden in that romantic ideal. It is the belief that if you read enough, if you consume enough “good” writing, you will eventually wake up one morning and find that the words have seeped into your marrow, ready to flow out of you onto the page.
Here is the cold, hard truth: If reading is your pleasure, then simply read. Enjoy the stories. Let them move you. But do not mistake the act of consumption for the act of creation.
The Illusion of Osmosis
Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of “productive procrastination.” They justify spending six hours a day reading literary journals, studying sentence structures, and analysing plot devices, telling themselves, “I’m doing research. I’m filling my well.”
While reading is vital fuel for any writer, it is not the engine. You can read every shelf in the library, but your shelves will never write a paragraph for you. There is no biological osmosis in writing. The words you consume do not undergo a mystical transformation inside your bones and emerge as your own voice.
Reading is a passive experience. It is a dialogue between you and the author. Writing, however, is a monologue—a messy, uncomfortable, and often lonely exertion of will.
The Anatomy of a Writer
If you want to be a writer, you must stop waiting for the inspiration of others to do the heavy lifting for you.
When you read, you are a spectator. When you write, you are an athlete. You can watch the Olympics every single day for ten years, but that won’t make you a runner. To run, you have to strap on the shoes and hit the pavement when your lungs are burning, and your legs are heavy.
To write, you have to:
Face the blank cursor: It is the most terrifying and honest thing in the world.
Write badly: You have to produce “bone marrow” that isn’t quite ready yet. You have to write the rough, ugly, incoherent drafts before you can ever arrive at the polished prose you admire in others.
Commit to the output: A writer is defined by what they produce, not what they consume.
Stop Waiting, Start Doing
If you love books, keep reading. Let them be your sanctuary, your education, and your joy. But if you call yourself a writer, you must accept that your primary job is to create.
The words won’t flow out of your marrow until you force them out. They come from the friction of your own thoughts, your own experiences, and the sheer discipline of showing up to the page—even when you have nothing to say.
Don’t wait for the osmosis. Don’t wait for the “right time” or for your brain to be “full enough.”
If reading is your pleasure, read. But if you want to be a writer, write.
Escape the Crowds: Dublin’s Top 5 Hidden Gem Attractions
Dublin is a city of undeniable charm, buzzing with energy, history, and a legendary pub scene. While iconic spots like the Guinness Storehouse, Trinity College, and Dublin Castle are must-sees, they often come with lengthy queues and shoulder-to-shoulder crowds.
But what if you long for a taste of authentic Dublin culture and history without the tourist rush?
Luckily, the Irish capital is brimming with distinctive features tucked away in quieter corners. We’ve compiled a list of the top five visitor attractions in Dublin that offer unique experiences, fascinating stories, and, best of all, a peaceful respite from the throngs.
1. The Chester Beatty Library
Nestled within the walls of Dublin Castle (but often overlooked by those rushing to the main courtyard), the Chester Beatty is a true global treasure. This museum and library holds the collected works of Sir Alfred Chester Beatty, one of the greatest collectors of the 20th century.
Why it’s distinctive: This isn’t just a collection of old books. You’ll find exquisite manuscripts, rare books, miniature paintings, and decorative arts from across Asia, the Middle East, North Africa, and Europe. It houses some of the world’s most important holdings of Islamic, East Asian, and Western printed materials.
The Quiet Factor: While the Dublin Castle grounds can be busy, the library itself offers a tranquil, dimly lit haven perfect for quiet reflection. Best of all? Admission is free. Don’t forget to visit the rooftop garden café for stunning views over the city.
2. The Dublin Writers Museum (Temporarily Closed – See Alternative Below)
Note: While the original Dublin Writers Museum building is currently closed for relocation, the spirit of literary Dublin is still alive and accessible in less-crowded formats.
The Alternative: The Museum of Literature Ireland (MoLI)
Located in UCD’s stately Newman House on St. Stephen’s Green, MoLI is a beautiful, modern museum dedicated to the rich tapestry of Irish writing, from James Joyce to contemporary voices.
Why it’s distinctive: Set in the beautiful historic home where literary giants like Gerard Manley Hopkins and James Joyce once studied, MoLI offers interactive displays, beautiful exhibitions (including the original ‘Copy No. 1’ of Joyce’s Ulysses), and stunning period rooms.
The Quiet Factor: While popular with writers and literature lovers, MoLI rarely reaches the peak capacity of the larger city museums. It offers spacious exhibition rooms and one of the finest cultural gift shops in the city. The tranquil, hidden courtyard garden is a perfect spot to enjoy a coffee and escape the city noise.
3. Richmond Barracks, Inchicore
Stepping slightly outside the immediate city centre opens up historical venues of immense importance. Richmond Barracks, located in the Inchicore area, offers a deep dive into pivotal moments of Irish history, particularly the 1916 Easter Rising.
Why it’s distinctive: This site served as the primary holding place for over 3,000 men arrested after the 1916 Rising. It was here that Pádraig Pearse and the other executed leaders were court-martialed. Today, it operates as a heritage centre and a community hub, offering moving and highly informative tours detailing the barracks’ role through the centuries, including its post-independence use as housing for local families.
The Quiet Factor: Because it requires a short tram ride (the Luas Red Line to Suir Road), it naturally filters out the casual tourist crowd. You’ll likely enjoy a small, intimate guided tour that allows for detailed questions and reflection.
4. The Marsh’s Library
For those who crave the smell of old paper and the feeling of stepping back in time, Marsh’s Library is an essential visit. Dating back to 1707, it is one of the oldest public libraries in Ireland.
Why it’s distinctive: This library remains virtually unchanged since it opened its doors in the early 18th century. It features beautiful dark oak bookcases, wire cages (used to prevent the theft of valuable texts), and over 25,000 rare and fascinating books. You can walk the very aisles where writers like Bram Stoker and James Joyce once studied.
The Quiet Factor: Tucked away behind St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Marsh’s charges a small entrance fee, which helps keep visitor numbers manageable. The atmosphere is hushed and reverential—it’s an ideal place to spend an hour truly absorbing Dublin’s intellectual history without jostling for space.
5. The Botanic Gardens (National Botanic Gardens of Ireland)
While not entirely undiscovered, Dublin’s National Botanic Gardens in Glasnevin offers such a vast, sprawling space that crowds simply melt away amongst the lush greenery.
Why it’s distinctive: Spread across nearly 50 acres, the gardens feature stunning Victorian glasshouses (including the curvilinear range designed by Richard Turner), extensive plant collections, a tranquil arboretum, and historically significant grounds. It’s an essential centre for conservation and research.
The Quiet Factor: Located a short bus ride north of the city centre (near the Glasnevin Cemetery, another excellent, quiet spot), the gardens provide endless walking paths, hidden benches, and quiet corners. You can easily spend an entire afternoon wandering the grounds and enjoying the peace, particularly once you move past the main entrance and glasshouses.
Trade the Noise for Narrative
Dublin’s biggest attractions tell a powerful story, but sometimes the best narratives are found off the beaten path. By seeking out these quieter, distinctive attractions, you can enjoy a more personal, profound, and peaceful encounter with the heart and history of the Irish capital. Happy Exploring!
This is sometimes how we must feel when overlooked or ignored, like a nobody.
And some people will treat you like a nobody, i.e. someone who is just not important.
That’s just one use of the word.
Another might be…
Who did that to your room?
‘Nobody’ is the plaintiff’s reply. The infamous Mr Nobody. We’ve never met him, but he’s always there. And, what’s more, he seems to be able to be in more than one place at a time.
Then there’s that time when there’s nobody in the room, nobody agreed with me, hell, that happens all the time, and when I rang your phone nobody answered.
Nobody? Was I expecting Mr Nobody to answer? Surely the response should have been, ‘and you didn’t answer’.
Of course, let’s not delve too deep here, lest we might find out something we didn’t want to know.
I went to your house last night, but nobody was home.
How is it we refer to the people whom we know live in that house as ‘nobody’. Shouldn’t we be saying, ‘none of you was at home’?
It seems nobody is one of those words we often use in vain.
Beyond Red Square: 5 Unique Moscow Adventures on the Road Less Travelled
Moscow. The name alone conjures images of gilded domes, grand kremlins, and vast, historic squares. It’s a city of epic scale and monumental beauty, drawing millions to its iconic sights. But what if you’ve done the Red Square selfie, marvelled at St. Basil’s, and wandered the halls of the Kremlin? What if you crave a deeper, more authentic peek into the soul of this sprawling metropolis?
Fear not, intrepid traveller! Moscow is a city of endless layers, brimming with unexpected delights lurking just beyond the well-trodden tourist paths. If you’re ready to scratch beneath the gilded surface and uncover some truly unique experiences, here are five unforgettable adventures that promise a richer, more intimate understanding of Russia’s vibrant capital.
1. Step Back in Time at the Museum of Soviet Arcade Machines (Музей советских игровых автоматов)
Forget modern gaming consoles; this place is a nostalgic wonderland! Tucked away in a charming underground space, this museum is a playful pilgrimage to the Soviet era, featuring dozens of fully functional arcade machines from the 1970s and 80s. Think clunky joysticks, pixelated graphics, and wonderfully bizarre names like “Sea Battle,” “Safari,” and “Winter Hunt.”
Why it’s off the beaten path: While well-known among locals and a niche group of enthusiasts, it’s rarely on the itinerary of first-time visitors who stick to grander museums. It offers a unique cultural insight into Soviet-era leisure and technology.
What makes it special: Not only do you get to admire these relics, but your entry ticket often includes a handful of authentic 15-kopeck coins, allowing you to actually play the games! It’s a hands-on, interactive experience that’s both fun and surprisingly educational about a bygone era.
Pro-tip: Go with friends for some competitive fun. The staff are usually happy to explain the games and their history, even if your Russian is limited.
2. Wander the Fairytale Grounds of Tsaritsyno Museum-Reserve (Царицыно)
While Kolomenskoye often gets the nod for its royal history and wooden architecture, Tsaritsyno offers a completely different, equally stunning experience. This sprawling estate, once intended as Catherine the Great’s summer residence, features unique pseudo-Gothic palaces, picturesque ponds, and meticulously landscaped parks.
Why it’s off the beaten path: Located a bit further south of the city center, it requires a short metro journey, which deters many tourists. Its specific architectural style (a Russian take on Gothic Revival) is also a fascinating departure from the more common classical Russian styles.
What makes it special: The Grand Palace and the intricate bridges evoke a fantastical, almost theatrical atmosphere. The park itself is massive, perfect for a leisurely stroll, a boat ride on the ponds, or simply finding a quiet bench to soak in the beauty. Don’t miss the Singing Fountain, especially mesmerizing in the evenings (seasonal).
Pro-tip: Dedicate at least half a day. Wear comfortable shoes, as there’s a lot of ground to cover. Check their schedule for classical music concerts or light shows, which often take place in the warmer months.
3. Find Serenity at the Aptekarsky Ogorod (Botanical Garden of Moscow State University – “The Pharmacy Garden”)
Amidst Moscow’s urban hustle, this historical botanical garden is a true hidden oasis of calm. Founded by Peter the Great in 1706 as a garden for medicinal plants (hence “pharmacy garden”), it’s Moscow’s oldest botanical garden and a living museum of flora.
Why it’s off the beaten path: Despite its central location near Prospekt Mira, it’s a quiet retreat often overlooked by tourists rushing between major landmarks. It’s more of a local favourite for a peaceful escape.
What makes it special: Each season brings new beauty, from vibrant spring blooms and lush summer greenery to fiery autumn colours and serene winter landscapes. It features various themed sections, including extensive greenhouses with tropical plants, a vast collection of conifers, and charming ponds. It also hosts open-air exhibitions, concerts, and offers a lovely on-site cafe.
Pro-tip: Ideal for a relaxed afternoon. If you’re visiting in spring or early summer, you’ll be treated to an explosion of colours and fragrances. It’s perfect for photography enthusiasts seeking natural beauty away from the crowds.
4. Savor Global Flavors at Danilovsky Market (Даниловский рынок)
Forget the sterile supermarkets; Danilovsky Market is a gastronomic marvel and a vibrant hub of local life. Housed in a striking circular building with a domed roof, this renovated market seamlessly blends traditional Russian produce stalls with trendy international food vendors.
Why it’s off the beaten path: While gaining popularity, it’s still primarily a local hotspot rather than a primary tourist destination. It offers a more authentic taste of Moscow’s burgeoning food scene than many city-centre restaurants.
What makes it special: This isn’t just a place to buy groceries; it’s a culinary adventure. You can sample Georgian khachapuri, Vietnamese pho, Israeli falafel, Dagestani delicacies, and of course, classic Russian pelmeni and blini – all under one roof. The atmosphere is buzzing, friendly, and incredibly diverse.
Pro-tip: Go hungry! It’s an excellent spot for lunch or an early dinner, allowing you to graze from different stalls. It’s also a great place to pick up unique local treats and spices as souvenirs.
5. Explore the Ancient Streets of Zamoskvorechye (Замоскворечье)
Step across the Moscow River from the Kremlin, and you enter a different era. Zamoskvorechye (literally “beyond the Moskva River”) is one of Moscow’s oldest and most charming districts, known for its quiet, winding streets, traditional merchant houses, and numerous historic churches.
Why it’s off the beaten path: While home to the Tretyakov Gallery (a major draw), the neighbourhood itself is often overlooked by tourists who rush straight to the gallery and then leave. Exploring its backstreets offers a glimpse into a quieter, more preserved Moscow.
What makes it special: You’ll discover hidden courtyards, beautiful onion-domed churches (like the Church of St. Clement, Papa, a stunning example of Baroque architecture), and charming wooden houses nestled between more stately mansions. It feels like stepping into a 19th-century novel, with a tangible sense of history around every corner.
Pro-tip: Put away your map and simply wander. Get lost in its labyrinthine alleys. Pop into a small local café for a coffee. This district is best explored on foot, allowing you to soak in its unique atmosphere at your own pace.
Moscow is a city that constantly reinvents itself, yet always cherishes its past. By venturing beyond the well-worn tourist trails, you’ll discover a more nuanced, intimate, and often surprising side of this magnificent capital. So, pack your adventurous spirit, a sense of curiosity, and get ready to uncover Moscow’s hidden gems!
What hidden gems have you uncovered in Moscow? Share your discoveries in the comments below!
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
The Writer’s Paradox: Why Consumption Isn’t Creation
We live in a culture that loves to romanticise the “writer’s life.” We imagine it involves a worn leather notebook, a steaming cup of artisan coffee, and someone hunched over a desk, reading the classics until the prose is so deeply ingrained in their psyche that they eventually exhale a masterpiece.
But there is a dangerous misconception hidden in that romantic ideal. It is the belief that if you read enough, if you consume enough “good” writing, you will eventually wake up one morning and find that the words have seeped into your marrow, ready to flow out of you onto the page.
Here is the cold, hard truth: If reading is your pleasure, then simply read. Enjoy the stories. Let them move you. But do not mistake the act of consumption for the act of creation.
The Illusion of Osmosis
Many aspiring writers fall into the trap of “productive procrastination.” They justify spending six hours a day reading literary journals, studying sentence structures, and analysing plot devices, telling themselves, “I’m doing research. I’m filling my well.”
While reading is vital fuel for any writer, it is not the engine. You can read every shelf in the library, but your shelves will never write a paragraph for you. There is no biological osmosis in writing. The words you consume do not undergo a mystical transformation inside your bones and emerge as your own voice.
Reading is a passive experience. It is a dialogue between you and the author. Writing, however, is a monologue—a messy, uncomfortable, and often lonely exertion of will.
The Anatomy of a Writer
If you want to be a writer, you must stop waiting for the inspiration of others to do the heavy lifting for you.
When you read, you are a spectator. When you write, you are an athlete. You can watch the Olympics every single day for ten years, but that won’t make you a runner. To run, you have to strap on the shoes and hit the pavement when your lungs are burning, and your legs are heavy.
To write, you have to:
Face the blank cursor: It is the most terrifying and honest thing in the world.
Write badly: You have to produce “bone marrow” that isn’t quite ready yet. You have to write the rough, ugly, incoherent drafts before you can ever arrive at the polished prose you admire in others.
Commit to the output: A writer is defined by what they produce, not what they consume.
Stop Waiting, Start Doing
If you love books, keep reading. Let them be your sanctuary, your education, and your joy. But if you call yourself a writer, you must accept that your primary job is to create.
The words won’t flow out of your marrow until you force them out. They come from the friction of your own thoughts, your own experiences, and the sheer discipline of showing up to the page—even when you have nothing to say.
Don’t wait for the osmosis. Don’t wait for the “right time” or for your brain to be “full enough.”
If reading is your pleasure, read. But if you want to be a writer, write.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
This is a story inspired by a visit to an old castle in Italy. It was, of course, written while travelling on a plane, though I’m not sure if it was from Calgary to Toronto, or New York to Vancouver.
But there’s more to come. Those were long flights…
And sadly, when I read what I’d written, off the plane and in the cold hard light of dawn, there were problems, which now, in the second draft, should provide the proper start.
…
There were eleven stormtroopers and Wallace, eighteen in Johansson and Jackerby’s group. One of those would be in the communications centre, leaving, at worst, twenty-nine men out looking for me.
I also assumed that Jackerby would approach the search in much the same manner as I would, the men in pairs, as singly, he knew that I would have an advantage.
Eight pairs would be inside, doing a room-to-room search, from the top down.
Five pairs would be outside, one group in the centre, one group at each of the corners, all working the perimeter, all in constant communication with each other.
In normal circumstances, I would be caught.
These were not normal circumstances.
Jack padded his way just ahead of me, stopping every few yards and both sniffing and listening. At a junction he would stop, wait, and then make a decision about which way to go.
I had to trust his instincts.
Just ahead of me there was a cracking sound followed by falling rocks and a shaft of light.
An opening in the roof where it was too close to the surface.
Jack went quite still. Voices.
“Be careful.” German.
Followed immediately by “Speak in English you fool. You were saying,”
The man switched to careful English, “Be careful, or you’ll fall down that hole. They should have told us the ground around here is on top of an old mineshaft.”
“Better, Corporal. Remember. English at all times.”
“Could be where they buried the bodies hastily before they left.”
The man was referring to the story the previous custodians of the castle had killed about a hundred of the nearby villagers and buried them in a mass grave near the castle. No one had been able to verify the account, nor had anyone found any skeletal evidence.
Yet.
“Let’s get out of here. The last thing I want to see is a ghost.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 