Started to write a post, get so far, and another theme or idea slips in, and demands to be written first?
I’m on this nostalgia kick, simply because when I turned on the TV to catch up with the latest news, it was on a channel that shows old movies.
In case you don’t realize it, I love old movies, not just those from Hollywood, but also from Britain.
What was on?
An American in Paris.
Well, it had to be one of my favourites, even though I’m not a great fan of Gene Kelly, the sheer majesty of the music more than makes up for the story in between.
Could it be said, then, this was from the golden years of Hollywood? Such bright and cheerful movies such as Singing in the Rain, and An American in Paris, perhaps exemplify the Hollywood musical.
Years before, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were the quintessential musical stars, followed by the likes of Judy Garland and Deanna Durbin, and later Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra. A couple of musicals, in particular, comes to mind, firstly the Wizard of Oz and then High Society.
Moving forward to more modern times, several stand out in the 1960s, My Fair Lady and Sound of Music. By this time theatregoers were dining on the superb talents of Rogers and Hammerstein, and Learner and Lowe. Of the former, musicals such as Carousel, South Pacific, and The King and I were on my list of favourites.
Even later still in the 1970s, there is Funny Girl, and Hello Dolly, which have a connection to the past with its director, none other than, yes, Gene Kelly.
But it seems once the 60s had passed the notion of the Hollywood blockbuster musical had gone, and we were left with clip shows like That’s Entertainment, put together while Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire were still alive. We still had the film versions of the stage plays, but the lustre had, somehow, gone.
Perhaps it will return, who knows, after all, everything old is usually new again, it just takes time to go full circle.
Anthony Burgess, the renowned English writer and critic, once said, “Language exists less to record the actual than to liberate the imagination.” These profound words highlight the dual nature of language, which not only serves as a tool for communication but also as a catalyst for creativity and imagination. In this blog post, we will delve into the concept of language as a liberator of the imagination, exploring its implications and significance in our daily lives.
The Limitations of Recording the Actual
Language is often seen as a means of recording and conveying information about the world around us. We use words to describe people, places, objects, and events, attempting to capture their essence and characteristics. However, as Burgess notes, language is not merely a passive recorder of reality. If it were, it would be limited to simply documenting facts and figures, without any room for interpretation, creativity, or innovation.
Liberating the Imagination
The true power of language lies in its ability to transcend the mundane and ordinary, to tap into our imagination and creativity. Through language, we can conjure up worlds, characters, and scenarios that are entirely fictional, yet eerily relatable. We can use words to evoke emotions, to paint vivid pictures, and to convey complex ideas and concepts. Language becomes a tool for self-expression, allowing us to channel our thoughts, feelings, and experiences into something tangible and meaningful.
The Role of Metaphor and Symbolism
One of the key ways in which language liberates the imagination is through the use of metaphor and symbolism. By comparing two seemingly unrelated things, we can create new meanings and associations, revealing hidden connections and patterns. Metaphors and symbols can transport us to new realms of understanding, enabling us to see the world from fresh perspectives. For example, when we describe a person as a “ray of sunshine,” we are not merely recording a fact, but rather using language to evoke a sense of warmth, happiness, and optimism.
The Importance of Imagination in Human Experience
Imagination is a fundamental aspect of the human experience, enabling us to dream, to innovate, and to create. It is through imagination that we can envision new possibilities, challenge existing norms, and push the boundaries of what is thought possible. Language, as a liberator of the imagination, plays a vital role in this process, providing us with the tools to express ourselves, to communicate our ideas, and to bring our visions to life.
Conclusion
Anthony Burgess’s statement reminds us that language is not just a utilitarian tool but a powerful catalyst for creativity and imagination. By recognising the dual nature of language, we can harness its potential to liberate our imagination, to express ourselves authentically, and to create new worlds, characters, and scenarios. As we continue to navigate the complexities of the human experience, we must prioritise the imagination, using language as a tool to inspire, innovate, and bring our most fantastical ideas to life. In doing so, we can unlock the full potential of language and unleash the imagination that lies within us all.
Where Do Ideas Actually Come From? The Hidden Mechanics of Inspiration
We’ve all been there. You’re staring at a blank document, a pristine canvas, or a lump of clay, waiting for the lightning bolt. You want that magical Aha! moment—that sudden flash of brilliance where an entirely original concept materialises out of thin air.
We romanticise creativity as something ethereal. We talk about waiting for inspiration to strike, as if ideas are floating spirits looking for a host body.
Here is the truth, and it might sting a little: Ideas just don’t appear out of nowhere. They come from somewhere, even if you don’t know where.
You saw something. You heard something. You did something. Sometime, somewhere, somehow.
Understanding this invisible assembly line of thought is the key to unlocking consistent creativity. Let’s dive into the fascinating mechanics of where ideas actually come from and how you can harness the unseen forces shaping your mind.
The Myth of the Immaculate Conception of Ideas
In the creative world, the “Immaculate Conception” is the belief that a truly original idea is born in a vacuum, untouched by outside influence.
It simply doesn’t happen.
Human beings are not creators in the sense of making something out of absolute nothingness; we are combiners. As the late, great writer and podcaster Maria Popova often highlights, creativity is simply connecting things that haven’t been connected before.
Steve Jobs famously said, “Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while.”
Those “obvious” connections are built on a foundation of subconscious data collection.
The Subconscious Sponge: You Saw, You Heard, You Did
Every second of every day, your brain acts as a voracious sponge. Even when you aren’t actively working on a problem, your senses are recording the world around you:
What you saw: A peculiar shadow cast by a fire escape, a striking colour combination on a stranger’s jacket, the way light hits water in a puddle.
What you heard: A snippet of an overheard conversation on the subway, the rhythmic clicking of a train track, the cadence of a stranger’s laughter.
What you did: Tripped over a curb, burned your toast, took a different route home because of roadwork, read a biography on a 19th-century pirate.
You store these fragments in the vast archives of your subconscious. You forget about them. They get buried under grocery lists, work deadlines, and yesterday’s scrolling session on social media.
Then, weeks later, you sit down to write a story, design a logo, or solve a business problem, and boom—an idea appears. You think it’s magic. In reality, your brain quietly cross-referenced that peculiar shadow you saw three weeks ago with the rhythm of the train you heard yesterday, mashing them together into a brand-new concept.
The “Sometime, Somewhere, Somehow” Factor
Because the genesis of an idea is a delayed reaction, we rarely trace the breadcrumbs back to the source.
Sometime: The input might have happened ten minutes ago or ten years ago. A childhood memory can trigger a breakthrough in an adult’s architectural design.
Somewhere: It might not have happened at your desk. It probably happened in the shower, on a walk, while doing the dishes, or drifting off to sleep. (Ever wonder why the best ideas happen in the shower? It’s because your brain is finally relaxed enough to let the subconscious data bubble to the surface).
Somehow: The neural handshake—the moment two unrelated concepts lock together—happens entirely beneath the threshold of your conscious awareness.
How to Feed the Machine (Actionable Creativity)
If ideas are merely the byproduct of what you feed your brain, then the quality of your output depends entirely on the quality of your input. If you want better ideas, you have to upgrade your raw materials.
Here is how you can weaponise this psychological phenomenon to become a more creative thinker:
1. Expand Your Input Diet
If you only consume content from your specific industry, your ideas will look like everyone else’s in your industry. To get truly novel ideas, read outside your niche. Watch foreign films, visit art museums, study botany, listen to genres of music you hate. Fill your subconscious with diverse, unusual ingredients.
2. Carry a Capture Tool Everywhere
Because ideas are slippery and often stem from fleeting moments (“you saw something, you heard something”), you need to catch them before they sink back into the mud of your subconscious. Whether it’s a Moleskine notebook, the notes app on your phone, or a voice recorder, build a habit of capturing fragments.
3. Give Your Brain Empty Space
Your subconscious cannot connect the dots if you never stop talking long enough for the dots to touch. Constant stimulation—scrolling, podcasts, background TV—chokes creativity. Boredom is not the enemy of productivity; it is the incubator of genius. Go for walks without your headphones. Stare out the window. Let your mind wander.
Conclusion: Respect the Process
The next time an incredible idea hits you, don’t just pat yourself on the back for being a genius. Appreciate the invisible machinery at work. Thank the stranger whose unusual coat you saw last Tuesday, the podcast you half-listened to on a road trip last year, and the quiet walk that gave your brain the space to connect the dots.
Ideas don’t just appear out of thin air. They are the echoes of your lived experience, waiting for the right moment to transform into something new.
So, go out there, pay attention, and feed your mind well. You never know what you’ll make with it later.
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 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 her down for the last three months, and if she 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 that 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 that 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 was 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 who, where, 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 just shrugging and asking 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 the intimacy we used to have, where 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 was instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position, he had not taken advantage of the situation like some might. 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. At 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, followed 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 out of the final turn, and we were braking so that it would stop 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 the new job, the last thing she’d want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends, new life.
We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a free trip to the op shop with stuff 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 had been 6 different types of planes departing, 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 to 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.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you?
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters, cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times, taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice, where, in those back streets, I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all, a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Where Do Ideas Actually Come From? The Hidden Mechanics of Inspiration
We’ve all been there. You’re staring at a blank document, a pristine canvas, or a lump of clay, waiting for the lightning bolt. You want that magical Aha! moment—that sudden flash of brilliance where an entirely original concept materialises out of thin air.
We romanticise creativity as something ethereal. We talk about waiting for inspiration to strike, as if ideas are floating spirits looking for a host body.
Here is the truth, and it might sting a little: Ideas just don’t appear out of nowhere. They come from somewhere, even if you don’t know where.
You saw something. You heard something. You did something. Sometime, somewhere, somehow.
Understanding this invisible assembly line of thought is the key to unlocking consistent creativity. Let’s dive into the fascinating mechanics of where ideas actually come from and how you can harness the unseen forces shaping your mind.
The Myth of the Immaculate Conception of Ideas
In the creative world, the “Immaculate Conception” is the belief that a truly original idea is born in a vacuum, untouched by outside influence.
It simply doesn’t happen.
Human beings are not creators in the sense of making something out of absolute nothingness; we are combiners. As the late, great writer and podcaster Maria Popova often highlights, creativity is simply connecting things that haven’t been connected before.
Steve Jobs famously said, “Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while.”
Those “obvious” connections are built on a foundation of subconscious data collection.
The Subconscious Sponge: You Saw, You Heard, You Did
Every second of every day, your brain acts as a voracious sponge. Even when you aren’t actively working on a problem, your senses are recording the world around you:
What you saw: A peculiar shadow cast by a fire escape, a striking colour combination on a stranger’s jacket, the way light hits water in a puddle.
What you heard: A snippet of an overheard conversation on the subway, the rhythmic clicking of a train track, the cadence of a stranger’s laughter.
What you did: Tripped over a curb, burned your toast, took a different route home because of roadwork, read a biography on a 19th-century pirate.
You store these fragments in the vast archives of your subconscious. You forget about them. They get buried under grocery lists, work deadlines, and yesterday’s scrolling session on social media.
Then, weeks later, you sit down to write a story, design a logo, or solve a business problem, and boom—an idea appears. You think it’s magic. In reality, your brain quietly cross-referenced that peculiar shadow you saw three weeks ago with the rhythm of the train you heard yesterday, mashing them together into a brand-new concept.
The “Sometime, Somewhere, Somehow” Factor
Because the genesis of an idea is a delayed reaction, we rarely trace the breadcrumbs back to the source.
Sometime: The input might have happened ten minutes ago or ten years ago. A childhood memory can trigger a breakthrough in an adult’s architectural design.
Somewhere: It might not have happened at your desk. It probably happened in the shower, on a walk, while doing the dishes, or drifting off to sleep. (Ever wonder why the best ideas happen in the shower? It’s because your brain is finally relaxed enough to let the subconscious data bubble to the surface).
Somehow: The neural handshake—the moment two unrelated concepts lock together—happens entirely beneath the threshold of your conscious awareness.
How to Feed the Machine (Actionable Creativity)
If ideas are merely the byproduct of what you feed your brain, then the quality of your output depends entirely on the quality of your input. If you want better ideas, you have to upgrade your raw materials.
Here is how you can weaponise this psychological phenomenon to become a more creative thinker:
1. Expand Your Input Diet
If you only consume content from your specific industry, your ideas will look like everyone else’s in your industry. To get truly novel ideas, read outside your niche. Watch foreign films, visit art museums, study botany, listen to genres of music you hate. Fill your subconscious with diverse, unusual ingredients.
2. Carry a Capture Tool Everywhere
Because ideas are slippery and often stem from fleeting moments (“you saw something, you heard something”), you need to catch them before they sink back into the mud of your subconscious. Whether it’s a Moleskine notebook, the notes app on your phone, or a voice recorder, build a habit of capturing fragments.
3. Give Your Brain Empty Space
Your subconscious cannot connect the dots if you never stop talking long enough for the dots to touch. Constant stimulation—scrolling, podcasts, background TV—chokes creativity. Boredom is not the enemy of productivity; it is the incubator of genius. Go for walks without your headphones. Stare out the window. Let your mind wander.
Conclusion: Respect the Process
The next time an incredible idea hits you, don’t just pat yourself on the back for being a genius. Appreciate the invisible machinery at work. Thank the stranger whose unusual coat you saw last Tuesday, the podcast you half-listened to on a road trip last year, and the quiet walk that gave your brain the space to connect the dots.
Ideas don’t just appear out of thin air. They are the echoes of your lived experience, waiting for the right moment to transform into something new.
So, go out there, pay attention, and feed your mind well. You never know what you’ll make with it later.
For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.
Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.
And, so, it continues…
…
When Carlo stopped, I was out of breath and gasping. We all were. The smoke was getting more intense. At times it had made navigation almost impossible.
In front of us were more trees, but these looked different to those we had passed through. I watched Carlo walk back and forth a few yards each way, then disappear into the bushes. A minute later he put his head out and said, “This way.”
We followed him. It was a hidden entrance down to a drain that was quite deep and headed back towards the castle one way and into the forest the other.
If the fire kept up by tomorrow the cover would be gone.
It was still a hard walk through the bushes, but we made it to a wireframeand door with a lock on it. It looked ancient as if it hadn’t been used in decades, even longer.
Carlo produced a rather odd looking key and unlocked it. I would have thought it was rusted shut, but appearances were deceptive. The lock was almost new.
But the gate had not been used for a long time and it took Carlo a few minutes to force it to open. It had rusted shut. When it did finally move, it was with a very loud screeching sound.
We filed in and he relocked it. Anyone thinking they heard something and came to investigate; it would end up on the other side of the gate.
So far so good.
For a moment I was back in my element, the archaeologist exploring caves, a wooden fire torch lighting the way, dampness underfoot, and the trickling of water down the walls. All around the dankness from continual dampness.
It was easy the pretend if only for a few minutes I had not been caught up in the war, that I was on a quest for lost treasure, hidden away at the end of a labyrinth.
The reality was we were quite literally in an ancient sewer and the original builders of the castle had used an underground waterway to tap into to remove waste. It was far more effective than modern systems and used the earth’s own ecology.
Inside the castle, the places where the waste used to drop down into the waterway had been covered over by trapdoors that were still there, and that was how we were going to gain access, through rooms that were no longer used.
We were going in via four access points, two men at each door, and mine with one of Blinkys men would be going into the area where the soldiers were camping to mop up whatever the bombs left behind, before closing off an exit.
Carlo had reserved the last one for himself and the boy, where he hoped to find Wallace and the new German commander.
Our cue to move: the bombs going off.
We just had time to get to the point and lower the trapdoors. Then climb up onto the floor and wait by the door. From the other side, Carlo said, anyone in the castle would only see a continuation of the wall panelling.
We made it with seconds to spare.
We were closest to the bombs and the percussive effect was disorientating for a few seconds before we pushed through the door and into the smoke and dust raised by the explosions.
As the dust settled, we could see dead soldiers, and mess everywhere. If a soldier was still alive, we shot them, systematically picking our way through the debris. I counted thirty-one dead by the time we reached the other side, the other exit from the space.
In the distance, we could hear sporadic gunfire coming from other parts of the castle, and then, after taking up our position, near the tank, we waited.
Three soldiers came bursting out of the exit and we shot them too..
Ten minutes later Carlo yelled out, “It’s me, don’t shoot.” Then he stepped out the door. “It is done.”
The castle was ours.
“You wish to speak to your old commander before I execute him?
“Wallace?”
He nodded.
“Sure”
I followed him into the castle and walked through familiar passageways and rooms, much had not changed in a long time.
Wallace and the new commander were tied up in the dining room. The remnants of a meal and several empty bottles of wine were on the table.
Wallace watched me from the doorway until I stood before him.
“I knew it was a mistake letting you go. Jackerby was convinced you were a stupid fool who would unwittingly lead us directly to the resistance. I told him you were cleverer than you looked.”
“And yet…”
“Perhaps I was tired of people like you being killed needlessly. What just happened, that was a waste of human life.”
“I didn’t start the war, and for the record, I didn’t want any part of it. Unfortunately, higher authorities deemed otherwise, and here I am. This is not a victory to savour.”
“A victory nonetheless.”
I shrugged. “It didn’t have to be like this, but at least we’ve weeded out a few more traitors.”
This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.
Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.
Why, you might ask.
Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne
At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.
I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.
Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them
Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.
I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.
Damn!
So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years
I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.
It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey. Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.
Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.
So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.
Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.
It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there. She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.
And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions. Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.
Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.
But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.
As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life
If only I’d come from such a background!
And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.
I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.
One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.
Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.
It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife. Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
After a night with Nadia
…
Was it a revelation to discover there was a side to Nadia that I would never have suspected? All those years of being terrified of her, and her brother, had hidden it, from me and probably a lot of others.
Perhaps she hadn’t known any better, and that time away from her parents and family had opened her eyes to another world, one where you didn’t have to be the scariest person in the room.
I was going to wait until she went to sleep, but she asked me to join her on the top of the bed and then snuggled into my back. At first, I was terrified, of what, I was not sure, but after a while, realizing I was not going to get away at a reasonable hour, I relaxed, and overcome with tiredness, fell asleep.
When I woke, she was on the other side of the bed, changed out of her clothes and into demure pajamas. Had she been waiting for me to wake?
“You have a contented look about you when you’re asleep,” she said. She was facing me, awake but a certain weariness had come over her.
“My father used to call it the sleep of the just. I never quite knew what that meant. I try not to have dreams or nightmares. Please tell me you haven’t lain there watching me. That would be far too creepy.”
“Just for a bit. I’m not used to being with a man, even if there’s nothing happening. Which is good, by the way. I want us to remain friends, and soon as something else starts, that’s where it all ends..”
Obviously, she had been thinking about stuff, like all girls seem to do, making a simple friendship into something a lot more complicated, and the last thing I needed was complicated. Or Vince knocking on my door.
“I’ve got a few hours before I have to go to work, and I was going to visit a few churches.”
“Why?”
“It might help to track down the Ormiston relations and see what they’ve got to say about the treasure.”
She sat up, a more serious expression taking over. “You think there’s more to the story.”
“What story?”
“Well, it’s obvious you know about Boggs’s grandfather and old man Ormiston, the chap who owned all the land from the mountains to the sea, at one point in time. It’s where we bought our property at Patterson’s Reach. It’s a dump of a place that smells because of oil shale and gas leaks. There’s a fault line through the middle of it and makes all the land near it unsellable. The people who negotiated the deal with Ormiston were cheated, or so it goes, so there’s no love lost between the families.”
Interesting, and probably why Patterson’s Reach was an undeveloped backwater. No residential or commercial zoning.
“Good to know, and definitely a reason to stay away.”
“You want coffee?” She asked, changing the subject. “I had some sent up earlier.”
Which sent an alarm bell off in my head. What if the room service person saw me in her room? It wouldn’t take much for him to tell her father, or worse, Vince.
“He didn’t see you if that’s what you’re thinking.”
My mother said I had an expressive face.
“We have to keep this thing, whatever we have, under wraps, otherwise Bogg’s might get upset, and at the moment he’s not very happy with me.”
“Because of me?”
“Partly, but more because I have to work, and I’m no longer at his beck and call.”
“Then you’d better get up so we can trawl the churches. I could do with a religious refresher. We’re Roman Catholic by the way, and my father doesn’t believe in mixed marriages.”
“I’m not converting, nor are we getting married.”
“Pity. I reckon I’d make a good wife.” And then she laughed. “You should see your face.”
Right. Sometimes it was hard to know when she was joking. But just the same, it would never work.
I shrugged. “You could do a little better than a warehouse clerk.”
“Sometimes it’s not what you are, but how you make a person feel, and right now, I feel happy. But, as you say, I could do a lot better.”
Oddly, after hearing that, I felt a little disappointed.
Oh, that’s right, at the time we were in Canada, and the ice hockey channel was running in the background while I was trying to work.
It brought to mind, then, the interesting concept of movement through time zones, and how it was possible to live the same day for nearly two days, which is as close as I was going to get the ‘Groundhog Day’.
It’s not something that I’ve considered when writing stories because usually we are grounded in one particular time zone, or if we’re travelling, we just go from one chapter to the next, each a different location, and the reader is no wiser.
Except the editor is and pulls me up when it appears I think it’s during the day, when in reality it’s really 3am.
But, just to illustrate my point, the following is what I wrote two Christmases ago, and boy was it confusing at times.
Alright, we’ve arrived in Lake Louise from Kamloops, and there’s been a time change. Being from Australia, we lost or gained so many hours I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.
Yes, I left on the 26th of December, travelled around half the planet, and it’s still the 26th, after a stopover in Shanghai where it was the 27th.
Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?
On another day in Canada, it was the 30th. The day before, back home, it was my wife’s birthday in Australia and we got a number of calls on the 29th, which was amusing, to say the least.
Now, we’ve gone from Kamloops to Lake Louise, and apparently now that we are in Alberta, it’s an hour later.
The rental car we’re driving didn’t get it, and we’re still an hour behind.
My phone didn’t get it, but it is understandable because I didn’t connect it to the Canadian network to give us an internet connection because it was going to cost money.
It did on my wife’s phone which is connected to the network and it’s the only device we have that tells the correct time.
And why do we really need to know what time it is?
So we make the plane the day after tomorrow, from Calgary to Toronto.
I never realized that time was so important, and I wonder how people who travel the world remain sane with all the changes to the time zones.
