The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 42

Meeting the Rodby’s

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I picked a safe place to meet Rodby.

I called him directly, which is what none of his agents did, ever. That was because no one knew his private number. No one except perhaps Mrs Rodby and, now, myself.

It didn’t elicit kind words.

When he answered with a tentative yes, I started with, “One day you are going to tell me just a little more than you think I need to know.”

“Evan?”

“Who else would have the audacity to talk to you in such a manner?”

“Someone with either suicidal tendencies or one with a death wish. I don’t see you as having the former, so I’ll run with the second. You are aware I could have you arrested and worse?”

The thought had occurred to me. There were certain people in the organisation that were untouchable, and he was one of them.

“You can do that if you like, but there will be consequences. It might be an idea to wait until after we’ve met.”

“Come into the office. I’ll be here all morning.”

“Not this morning. Somewhere else, today. Trafalgar Square, fifteen minutes. I won’t bother asking you to come alone but be aware I’m not pleased with you.”

I hung up before he could ask why.

I did several circuits of the perimeter, then observed the tourists from the stairs of the gallery behind, then waited until I saw Rodby, with Mrs Rodby as I hoped, coming towards the square from Haymarket.

The fact it concerned the countess almost ensured that Mrs Rodby would be along to find out what happened to her friend. But, to me, she could do that just as easily by being on the end of the telephone. Rodby himself had laid down the law about bringing civilians into organisational matters, and Mrs Rodby was a civilian.

There was not one law for the boss and one law for everyone else. Rodby was not like that, so there had to be a compelling reason why she was being included.

I watched them walking slowly and thought what an unconventional sight they made. All the time I knew Rodby, he never walked anywhere. And he definitely would never be seen with Martha. His enemies if they were out and about would have leverage being dangled in front of them, which is why we seemed to live such monastic lives or quit so we could have a normal one.

Once again, I thought this very unconventional.

Though at this very minute, I could snatch her off the street.

It was incentive enough to maintain vigilance and note where every unsavoury character was. And there were a lot of them judging by appearances.

As I followed from behind, I sent a text message to Cecelia to tell the countess she would be able to talk to Mrs Rodby in about fifteen minutes. I had managed to clone Mrs Rodby’s phone and get the number.

I timed my arrival to close to them as they crossed the road in front of the gallery coming up behind them, and as they stepped onto the footpath on the other side I said, “Nice to see you both out and about together. Is this a prelude to retirement?”

Both stopped and turned around.

OK, there was a mental note about to be stored. Mrs Rodby was the same height and wearing heels. What relevance was that she didn’t wear heels for one very specific reason, it made her taller than her husband and that was one part of his ego you didn’t mess with.

Mrs Rodby had got shorter. Of course, I hadn’t seen her for a while and there didn’t seem to be a height difference the night of the opera, so perhaps it was just my view from where I was standing.

“Are you trying to give us heart attacks, Evan?” Martha spoke, while Rodby was looking around. Fifteen minutes was too short a time to get a team of agents on the ground, but there would be one. He would have people observing via the CCTV camera.

“It was not my intention.”

Standing on the path was blocking the foot traffic and we moved towards one of the fountains. I kept an eye on the direction from where they came, but they were not being followed. We were not far from the fountain when we stopped.

Rodby looked annoyed. “Enough with the theatrics. Where is the countess? From what Alf told me, she should be with you, the reason why you summoned us here.”

“Toy told me to find her, not bring her to you.”

“You’re not one to interpret orders, Evan, although I should have factored in your unorthodox method of doing the job.”

“I was thinking that was why you asked me, and not one of the other dozen or so people you could have.”

That was another thought that just popped into my head. Why me? I was not his first choice for this type of mission, and I had long discounted the original contrived reason for meeting the countess, that Martha might be matchmaking, a suggestion dropped by the countess herself.

I knew Mrs Rodby, and she was not a matchmaker or the sort who would interfere in anyone’s life. Granted she knew about Violetta, but that was only after she was diagnosed, and Rodby let us into a small part of his life, and that was only because I had retired and there was no conflict of interest. Which flicked my attention back to Martha.

She had aged a lot since I saw her last when it seemed she could not be perturbed by anything. Violetta, in fact, had said she was as close to an angel as she would ever get to see.

Now that angel was not looking happy. “You met and talked to her?” Mrs Rodby asked.

“Yes, and she insists that she left the hotel as a precautionary measure, unsure of Alesandro’s intentions. She seemed to believe he was being manipulated by his mother, who I think might be a problem. I spoke to Alessandro, and he assured me he had nothing to do with her departure.”

Rodby had maintained continuous surveillance of the square and then brought his eyes back to me. It wasn’t exactly a look of daggers, but close. “Do you think she might harm the countess?”

“I have no idea where she fits into the equation though on the surface it seems she wants to be in control of the family business, if indeed she hasn’t been all along.”

“It could just be a family feud, fuelled by the fact that it’s possible the running of the business might fall to the countess, who is for all intents and purposes, an outsider. Everything was fine while he was alive, it’s only since he died, that she has been having difficulties.”

Could that be a subtle hint that she might have killed the count herself to get control of everything? Would the countess do that? Not the woman that I met at the opera, and then later on, whether she was brandishing a gun at me or not.

“So, it’s possible the family might be trying to stop her from inheriting. That’s a bit hard under Italian law isn’t it?”

“Not if she’s dead.”

“And if there’s a daughter?”

“Same problem arises, needing a similar solution.”

With mafia connections that wouldn’t be too much of a difficulty to arrange. Not surprising then that Mrs Rodby was worried about her friend.

“Then given Anthony told us that we were, yes, to find her, but also to make the problems go away, though not exactly in those words, what exactly was I supposed to do. I didn’t interpret that as going in and taking out the family. He didn’t mention any extraction team, nor did he say I had to tell you where she was, only to provide an update. I am, here.”

“What about that daughter you mentioned, Juliet Ambrose. Don’t you find it coincidental she pops up as a key player, the daughter of a maid, Vittoria Romano, who by all accounts is trying to eliminate the countess?”

“It’s a small world. What can I say? It was a surprise to learn of her involvement, and no doubt Alfie told you I met up with her and also told that I saved her from being killed?”

“By whom?”

“It could be anybody. She had dealt with one too many bad people of the years, but it’s possible it might be the Burkehardt’s. The count did tell the countess that she existed, as he did to Alessandro, but he would not have disclosed her actual identity.”

“Then the countess doesn’t know who she is?” Martha seemed surprised.

“She does now. that’s where I found the countess, in Juliet’s flat.”

“And they’re together still?”

“Last I heard.”

“Would that be a very bad idea, especially if the mother found them? You can be sure this Juliet and her mother are not plotting…”

“…to kill the countess and step in as another legitimate heir? I don’t think so.”

I found it surprising that Martha was so well-read into the case, perhaps better than I was.

“Have you met her mother?”

“Cecelia has. And that’s another question. Why did you reassign me to her, that’s not usual practice.”

“She’s used to your maverick ways, and last assignment you two worked well together.”

“It might also mean she’s become a maverick too?”

“I told her to learn only the good aspects of being an agent from you, though I’m beginning to question that decision. Where is she?”

“In Italy watch over the countess, and keep an eye on the mother.”

Mrs Rodby had been watching us. “Are you two like this all the time? How did anything get done?”

“Slowly,” I said. “It’s a bit hard to do anything when you don’t get the whole story. But, for now, the countess is safe. Cecelia is investigating Vittoria and I know where Juliet is, and what her involvement is. None. For now. But that might change when her mother appears.”

A few seconds of silence, and then Mrs Rodby’s phone rang.

She pulled the phone out of her bag, looked at the screen, and then answered it with a tentative ‘Yes?”

She then turned to Rodby, “It’s the countess.” She put it on speakerphone, and I moved away so I couldn’t hear her, but within reach of them if anything happened.

Nothing did.

Five minutes later, Rodby stepped away and came over to me. “Get over to Italy and find the lawyer handling her side of the inheritance. You need to get her to him before they meet with the family lawyers. Whatever you do, ensure you keep her safe.”

“What about the matriarch?”

“Ignore her. Your priority is the countess.”

I watched them walk away thinking I’d got out of that way too easily. And wondering if I should have remained within earshot of the conversation. Something about this whole affair suddenly wasn’t adding up.

What I learned about writing – Poetry – or my thoughts on it

I have often wondered what the interest in poetry is because I have read those same poems that people wax lyrical about, and they just don’t have the same effect.

But…

Then I did some digging…

Poetry requires words written in lines for a specified number of lines about almost anything.

Two, three, four, five lines, and more.

Words that rhyme, words that do not, there are rules and types, and then there is not.

It encompasses anything and everything. It can read at a fast or slow pace, professing undying love or utter hatred, and can describe something familiarly or make the familiar sound like something else.

Objects become feelings, and feelings become objects.

Some poets are famous; there are poets we like and poets we hate. Some poets are just there. There are poets we should read and poets we shouldn’t, though why is anyone’s guess.

There are poets we know, not because we have read them but because they are in the collective consciousness, poets like Burns, W B Yeats, Walter Whitman, Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson.

I even know them because people who are in the TV shows and movies are always reciting them.

Perhaps I appreciate poetry more than I care to admit.

In writing this and taking a deep dive into the world of poems and what it is all about, I have come across some rather meaningful poetry.

Perhaps I might find one that encapsulates my life and ask for it to be read at my funeral. At the very least, the attendees will be utterly surprised.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 128

Day 128 – A Thousand words a day

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Beyond the Grind: Why Writing 1,000 Words a Day is Your Greatest Asset

In the modern world of “hustle culture,” we are constantly bombarded with advice on how to optimise every second of our lives. It’s easy to get cynical about productivity. We’re told to wake up at 4:00 a.m., take ice baths, and track our output down to the millisecond.

Let’s be clear: productivity isn’t everything. Your worth as a human being is not tied to your daily tax output or the number of rows in your spreadsheet. If you neglect your health, your relationships, and your peace of mind in the name of output, you’ve missed the point of living.

However, productivity is important. It is the bridge between having a dream and holding a finished product. For writers, designers, and creators, the gap between “I have an idea” and “I have a career” is filled with consistent, disciplined work.

If you want to sharpen your craft, there is one rule of thumb that stands above the rest: write a thousand words a day.

The Arithmetic of Ambition

A thousand words might sound like a lot, especially when you’re staring at a blinking cursor on a blank screen. But let’s look at the numbers. If you write 1,000 words a day, you are producing 7,000 words a week. By the end of a month, you have a 30,000-word manuscript. In three months, you have a book.

The math is undeniable, but it isn’t just about the volume. It’s about the compounding interest of skill.

Writing is a Muscle

There is a common misconception that writing is a magical act of inspiration that strikes only when the muses are aligned. Professional writers know better: writing is a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets.

When you commit to writing 1,000 words daily, you aren’t just filling pages; you are refining your voice. You learn how to cut the fluff. You learn how to structure an argument, how to build suspense, and how to transition between thoughts.

The more you write, the better you get. But there is a secondary benefit that is arguably even more practical: the more you write, the more you have to publish.

The “Publishing Paradox”

Many aspiring writers spend years—or even decades—polishing the same fifty pages. They are terrified of hitting “publish” because they feel their work isn’t “perfect” yet.

Here is the secret: perfection is the enemy of progress. If you are writing 1,000 words a day, you stop obsessing over every single syllable because you have another 1,000 words to write tomorrow. You become comfortable with the idea of a “first draft.” By creating a high volume of work, you give yourself the freedom to experiment. You’ll find that your best ideas often come from the quantity, not the agonising deliberation of a single sentence.

Furthermore, having a backlog of content gives you the leverage to build an audience. In the digital age, visibility is currency. If you have nothing to publish, you have no presence. If you write 1,000 words a day, you have a constant stream of content to share, iterate on, and refine.

Is it Daunting? Maybe.

It is perfectly natural to feel intimidated by the idea of writing a thousand words every single day. Some days, your brain will feel like a dry well. Other days, life will get in the way.

But here is the truth that sets you free: anyone can write a thousand words a day.

It doesn’t have to be a masterpiece. It doesn’t have to be published in The New York Times. Sometimes, those 1,000 words will be trash. Sometimes, they will be the best things you’ve ever written. The magic isn’t in the quality of the words you write today; it’s in the habit of showing up.

How to Start

If you want to make this a reality, stop aiming for “greatness” and start aiming for “completion.”

Set a timer: Give yourself an hour. If you don’t hit 1,000, don’t sweat it—just keep going tomorrow.
Eliminate distractions: Close your email, put your phone in another room, and silence your notifications.
Embrace the “Bad” Draft: Give yourself permission to write poorly. You can’t edit a blank page, but you can always fix a bad paragraph.

Productivity is a tool, not a lifestyle. Use it to build the life you want, one thousand words at a time. Your future self will thank you for the progress you made today.

Searching for locations: The canals of Suzhou, China

This morning is a boat ride that will take us along a small portion of the main canal, and we head through a number of back streets, to a landing where there are a number of boats all vying with each other to get us passengers on boats.

But…

These boats don’t have a wharf to tie up to and then put out a stable gangplank. No. They just more into a concrete step and you take your life in your hands getting on. One wrong step and you’re in the canal. And not a very clean one at that.

That’s if another boat doesn’t come along and bumps you, knocking you off balance. We managed not to lose anyone in boarding the vessel.

This is where we get on the boat

We go along what appears to be downstream towards another larger canal, past tree-lined streets until the canal narrows and we’re looking at the backs of houses, which look very dilapidated.

And the canals? Well, it’s not quite like it is in Venice

Though some parts of the canal look better than others

What doesn’t bear thinking about is the electrical wiring which is a nightmarish spider web of cables going off in all directions. How anyone could troubleshoot problems is beyond me.

We pass under a number of bridges, and then, about 30 minutes after leaving, we reach a larger canal and do a 180-degree turn, and head back to a drop off point the will enable us to walk through a typical everyday Chinese market for food and the other items.

This drop off point is much the same as the starting point, a concrete step which is as hazardous as the first. At least we don’t have to compete with other boats for the landing spot.

We take a leisurely stroll down a small section of Pingjiang Road with small shops on either side, selling all manner of goods

but my interest is in the food and the prices, which at times seem quite expensive for so-called local people, so maybe because the tourists go down this street every day, the prices have been inflated accordingly.

I find it rather disappointing.

We walk to the bridge, go under to the other side crossing the canal and find the coffee shop which is also the meeting place.

So…

When is a coffee shop not a coffee shop, when it takes an eternity to make a cup of coffee, we waited 25 minutes?

We also ordered beef black pepper rice and it took 20 minutes before it arrived, but it was well worth the wait. Strands of perfectly cooked beef with onion, carrot, and capsicum, with a very peppery and spicy sauce, with a side of boiled rice.

A pizza was ordered too but it did not arrive at all before we left.

In a word: Vision

I had one myself once, whether it was a peek into my future, or whether it was just playing out a scene for one of my stories, it was rather intense.

That variation of the word vision is one that uses one’s imagination. I do it quite a lot, and I call it the cinema of my dreams.

But…

Vision, in the simplest sense of the word, is sight, what you see.

People can try to make it better, like movie studios, who have called it rather interesting titles such as VistaVision or Panavision, either of which sounds quite remarkable, and it may have been back in the day, but it’s probably quite ordinary these days.

A vision, in another sense, might be something like a dream as mentioned before, which might happen when we are asleep, but if awake, it might be because we are very bored with our job and we’re imagining what it would be like at Santorini or the Bahamas, or anywhere but where you are now.

It might also describe our particular slant on what else we would like to happen, whether at work or somewhere else, but it’s usually confined to our closest circle of friends. Bosses never invite nor want to hear plebs ideas of improving their lot.

Hence, I have a vision…

But no one will listen. Perhaps if I was Martin Luther King, things might be different.

Then, at the end of it all…

There are visions and then there are visions, like seeing something that no one else can see, whether driven by hallucinogenic drugs or magic mushrooms, or you just happened to be there to see what no one else could.

Dragons, lizard people, or the Virgin Mary.

And no, I have not seen any of the above.

Yet.

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

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The book can be purchased here: http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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Searching for locations: The Silk Factory, Suzhou, China

China is renowned for its exquisite silk, so naturally, a visit to the Silk Spinning Factory is part of today’s tour.

After that, we will be heading downtown to an unspecified location where we’re getting a boat ride, walk through a typical Chinese shopping experience, and coffee at a coffee shop that is doubling as the meeting place, after we soak up the local atmosphere.

The problem with that is that if the entire collective trip a deal tourists take this route then the savvy shopkeepers will jack up their prices tenfold because we’re tourists with money. It’ll be interesting to see how expensive everything is.

So…

Before we reach the silk factory, we are told that Suzhou is the main silk area of China, and we will be visiting a nearly 100 years old, Suzhou No 1 Silk Mill, established in 1926. Suzhou has a 4,700-year history of making silk products. It is located at No. 94, Nanmen Road, Suzhou, Jiangsu, China.

Then we arrive at the Silk Factory, another government-owned establishment with a castiron guarantee of quality and satisfaction.

The look and feel of the doona cover certainly backs up that claim

And the colors and variety is amazing (as is the cost of those exquisite sets)

We get to see the silk cocoon stretched beyond imagination, and see how the silk thread is extracted, then off to the showroom for the sales pitch.

It isn’t a hard sell, and the sheets, doonas, pillows, and pillowcases, are reasonably priced, and come with their own suitcase (for free) so you can take them with you, or free shipping, by slow boat, if you prefer not to take the goods with you.

We opt for the second choice, as there’s no room left in our baggage after packing the Chinese Medicine.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 128

Day 128 – A Thousand words a day

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