Category: Uncategorized

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

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.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

…

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

If I only had one day to stop over in – Madrid – what would I do?

One Day in Madrid? Make It Unforgettable With a Single Stop at The Prado Museum

You’ve just landed in Spain’s bustling capital for a brief, 24‑hour layover. The clock’s ticking, the city’s energy is buzzing, and you want one experience that captures the soul of Madrid without feeling rushed.

Answer: Spend the heart of your day at the Museo Nacional del Prado—the world‑renowned art palace that is, in a nutshell, the cultural heartbeat of the city.

Below is a full‑fledged guide that shows why the Prado is the ideal “one‑place” itinerary, how to squeeze the most out of your visit, and where to refuel before and after your artistic pilgrimage.

1. Why the Prado Beats All Other Options

FactorHow the Prado Excels
Iconic StatusThe Prado houses over 8,600 works, including masterpieces by Velázquez, Goya, El Greco, Bosch, and Titian. It’s the museum that put Madrid on the global art map.
Central LocationSituated on Paseo del Prado, a UNESCO‑listed boulevard, it’s a short 10‑minute walk from Puerta del Sol, Atocha, and the historic centre. Perfect for quick transit.
Time‑EfficientYou can see the museum’s “highlights route” in ~2‑3 hours—an expertly curated path that ensures you don’t miss the crown jewels.
AtmosphereThe 19th‑century neoclassical building, marble staircases, and tranquil courtyards provide a serene escape from the city’s hustle—a perfect micro‑retreat during a layover.
Culinary BonusRight outside the museum are historic cafés (e.g., Café de Oriente and Café Montalbán) where you can savor a quick bite of Madrid’s famous tapas and café con leche.

In short, the Prado gives you art, architecture, history, and a taste of local life—all in one compact, easily reachable location.

2. Practicalities: Getting There & Getting In

ItemDetails
Nearest MetroLine 2 (Red) – Banco de España (2‑minute walk) or Line 1 (Light Blue) – Atocha (5‑minute walk).
Entrance Ticket€15 (adult) – includes free entry to the Royal Botanical Garden (a bonus if you have extra minutes).
Free entry on Monday‑Thursday evenings (19:00‑21:00) and on the last Saturday of each month (09:00‑14:00).
Skip‑the‑Line OptionsBuy tickets online in advance (PDF or QR code). The “Fast‑Track” ticket (€18) gives you a dedicated entry line—worth it if you land during peak tourist hours (10:00‑12:00).
Opening Hours10:00‑20:00 (Tue‑Sat), 10:00‑19:00 (Sun, Mon). Closed on Tuesdays.
Time Needed2‑3 hours for the “Highlights Route.” Add a 30‑minute coffee break if you wish.

Pro tip: If your layover lands early in the morning, head straight to the museum as soon as you clear customs. The first hour (10:00‑11:00) is usually the quietest.

3. The “Highlights Route” – A 2‑Hour Guided Walkthrough

  1. “Las Meninas” – Diego Velázquez (1656)
    Why: The quintessential Spanish masterpiece; a study in perspective and courtly intrigue.
  2. “The Garden of Earthly Delights” – Hieronymus Bosch (c. 1490‑1510)
    Why: A surreal trip through heaven, earth, and hell that sparks conversation.
  3. “The Third of May 1808” – Francisco Goya (1814)
    Why: Goya’s powerful anti‑war statement—emotionally resonant and instantly recognisable.
  4. “The Annunciation” – Fra Angelico (c. 1435)
    Why: A glimpse of early Renaissance serenity amidst the Baroque grandeur.
  5. “The Adoration of the Magi” – Titian (c. 1518)
    Why: Shows the museum’s breadth—Italian Renaissance at its vibrant best.

How to navigate: Pick up a free Map of “Highlights” at the information desk, or download the official Prado app (offline mode works with Wi‑Fi). The route is clearly signposted and takes you clockwise through the main halls, minimizing back‑track.

4. Lunch (or “Tapas‑break”) – Eat Like a Madrileño

SpotWhat to TryWhy It Fits
Café Montalbán (inside the museum’s foyer)Tortilla de Patatas + Café con lecheQuick, high‑quality Spanish staple, just steps from your next gallery.
Mercado de San Miguel (5‑minute walk)Jamón ibérico, croquetas, pimientos de padrónA foodie market with a lively atmosphere—perfect for a post‑museum stroll.
Casa Lucio (near Plaza Mayor, 10‑minute walk)Huevos rotos (broken eggs over ham)A classic Madrid dish if you have a little extra time and want to feel truly local.

If you’re watching the clock, a tapas platter at the market paired with a glass of vermut (a favourite Madrileño apéritif) will keep you under an hour.

5. Making the Most of Your Remaining Hours

Time SlotSuggested Activity
After the Prado (≈14:00‑15:30)Take a leisurely 15‑minute walk through the Retiro Park—pop into the Crystal Palace or rent a rowboat on the pond.
Early Evening (≈16:00‑18:00)Wander the Puerta del Sol and Plaza Mayor for a quick photo op and a final espresso.
If your flight is late (≥20:00)Return to the museum for the free evening session (19:00‑21:00) for a quieter, candle‑lit experience.

6. Insider Hacks – Avoid the “Layover Stress”

  1. Pack Light, Travel Smart – Use a small, anti‑theft day‑bag; large luggage can’t go inside the museum.
  2. Carry a Portable Charger – You’ll likely rely on the Prado app and digital tickets.
  3. Mind the “Siesta” – Some smaller cafés close around 14:30‑15:30; plan your main meal before then.
  4. Reserve a Taxi or ride-share in advance for the airport ride back—Madrid’s traffic can surge during rush hour (17:00‑19:00).
  5. Check Flight‑Status Alerts – Keep an eye on any gate changes; the museum is only a 20‑minute metro ride from both Barajas (T4) and Atocha stations.

7. The Takeaway: One Place, Endless Memories

A one‑day stopover in Madrid can feel like a sprint through a bustling metropolis. By centring your adventure around the Museo Nacional del Prado, you:

  • Absorb a micro‑history of Spain (from the Golden Age to modernism) in a single, inspiring venue.
  • Stay centrally located, allowing easy transitions to Madrid’s other iconic sites if time permits.
  • Enjoy a seamless blend of culture, cuisine, and convenience—the three pillars of any perfect travel day.

So, when the aeroplane doors open and the city’s pulse beckons, head straight for the Prado. Walk the halls where centuries of genius converse, sip a café in a historic courtyard, and leave Madrid with a story you’ll retell for years—all in a single unforgettable day.

Happy travels, and may your Madrid layover be as vibrant as a Velázquez brushstroke!

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

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.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

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365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 243

Day 243 – Mistakes are part of the territory

…

 Why You Need to Fail to Innovate: Unpacking John Cleese’s Masterclass on Creativity

“If you are not prepared to make a mistake, you’ll never come up with a new idea.” — John Cleese

We’ve all been there staring at a blank screen, a white whiteboard, or a daunting project brief, paralysed by the need to get it right on the first try. In a culture that worships overnight success and flawless execution, making a mistake feels like a professional sin.

But according to legendary comedian, actor, and writer John Cleese—co-founder of Monty Python and creator of Fawlty Towers—this fear of failure is the single greatest enemy of creativity.

If you want to innovate, invent, or simply think outside the box, you have to give yourself permission to be wrong. A lot.

Let’s dive deep into Cleese’s philosophy on creativity, why mistakes are the bedrock of original thought, and how you can cultivate a “mistake-friendly” mindset in your work and life.

The Myth of the “Lightbulb Moment”

When we think of creative breakthroughs, we often imagine a eureka moment—a lightning bolt of inspiration striking a genius out of nowhere.

Cleese, who gave a famous lecture on the mechanics of creativity, argues that this is entirely a myth. Creativity is not a talent you are simply born with; it is a mode of operation. It is a state of mind that you can enter, provided you create the right psychological conditions.

The biggest roadblock to entering this creative state? Anxiety.

When you are stressed, pressured to perform, or terrified of looking foolish, your brain goes into survival mode. You rely on tried-and-true, risk-free solutions. You stick to what you know works. Unfortunately, “what works” is the exact opposite of a new idea.

Why Fear Kills Innovation

To understand why fear is the kryptonite of creativity, we have to look at how the brain works.

  1. The “Closed” Mindset: When you are afraid of making a mistake, your cognitive focus narrows. You become hyper-critical, editing your thoughts as they happen. This is the “inner critic” working overtime.
  2. The Death of Play: Creativity requires playfulness. It requires asking “What if?” without worrying about whether the answer is stupid. Fear replaces play with pressure.
  3. The Comfort Zone: Safe ideas rarely change the world. By definition, a new idea is untested, unproven, and a little bit ridiculous until it isn’t. If you refuse to take the risk of being wrong, you anchor yourself to mediocrity.

As Cleese points out, the most creative people aren’t necessarily smarter than everyone else; they are simply more willing to tolerate ambiguity, confusion, and error.

Redefining the “Mistake” in the Creative Process

Thomas Edison famously said, “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.”

In the realm of innovation, a mistake is not a moral failing or a sign of incompetence. It is a data point.

Think of the creative process like an archaeological dig. You have to sift through tons of dirt, rubble, and broken pottery before you unearth something valuable. If you refuse to dig up the dirt because you’re afraid it’s worthless, you’ll never find the artifact.

When you accept that your first ideas are likely going to be terrible, a massive weight lifts off your shoulders. In fact, lowering the bar intentionally is one of the best brainstorming hacks available. Give yourself permission to write the worst possible version of an essay, design the ugliest logo, or pitch the most absurd business concept. Once the bad ideas are out on the table, the good ones finally have room to breathe.

How to Apply John Cleese’s Wisdom to Your Work

If you want to harness Cleese’s philosophy and become a more fearless, innovative thinker, try implementing these four strategies:

1. Create a “Tortoise Space” for Play

Cleese emphasises the importance of setting boundaries for creativity. He suggests creating a physical or temporal space where you can retreat from the pressures of the “open” (operational, stressed) mode. Give yourself a dedicated hour where nothing is precious, failure has zero consequences, and you are entirely free to play.

2. Separate Creation from Editing

The cardinal sin of brainstorming is trying to judge your ideas at the same time you are generating them. This is like trying to drive with one foot on the gas and the other on the brakes.

  • Phase 1: Generate without judgment. Write down every crazy, stupid, or unpolished thought.
  • Phase 2: Put on your analytical hat and evaluate what’s actually useful.

3. Reframe “Failure” as “Exploration”

Language matters. Instead of telling yourself, “If this doesn’t work, I’m a failure,” try telling yourself, “Let’s see what happens if we try X.” Cultivating scientific curiosity removes the emotional sting of a mistake and turns it into an interesting experiment.

4. Reward the Attempt, Not Just the Outcome

If you manage a team, you cannot demand innovation while punishing missteps. Foster a culture where bold, well-reasoned risks are celebrated—even when they fail. When employees know their jobs aren’t on the line for trying something new, they will surprise you with breakthrough solutions.

Final Thoughts: Embrace the Mess

Innovation is inherently messy. It is a journey of trial, error, backtracking, and accidental discoveries.

John Cleese’s timeless insight reminds us that perfectionism is the enemy of progress. If you wait until you have a guaranteed, foolproof, mistake-proof plan, you will be waiting forever.

So, lower the stakes. Embrace the absurd. Make the mistake. It just might be the starting point of your best idea yet.

What is the best “mistake” that led to a breakthrough in your career or creative projects? Let’s discuss in the comments below!

…

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed, came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first time they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration honouring one of the Embassy officials’ service in Moscow, soon to be returning home after 10 years.  She had been there one and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked; Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and, of course, what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this were a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man interested in her, and Vladimir was.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy, and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a platonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally, for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance, it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he would remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed that he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, as always, in separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution: keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, the people, and the conversations she overheard were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But on this visit, the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully on the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the minibar and took out the bottle of champagne left there for them, a treat Vladimir arranged for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought about how Eve must have felt in the Garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was, if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2026

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 32

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

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

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

Chasing leads, maybe

 

I ordered breakfast to be brought to my room, then sat back and read the paper, culminating in a second cup of coffee and a half-hearted attempt at the crossword.

My mind was not sufficiently clear of all the implications of what I’d seen last night, and before that.

The first task was to go back to the office and get onto the computer to track down the address the car was registered to.  It was not the flat.  My guess that it was a sort of safe house.  He may not have had reservations about Jan, or who she worked for, not until he became the prey.

Then it occurred to me that if Jan didn’t know where the USB was, then she had to realize he might have rumbled her perfidy.  Maybe he was not as easily fooled as I first thought.

But it didn’t explain why Nobbin was in the dark over the USB’s whereabouts, as he had told me to give Nobbin a message.  Perhaps there’s been a secret message behind that message.

Now, my mind was spinning out of control.

Like O’Connell/Quinley, and in accordance with more lessons on tradecraft, I too, had what I would like to have called a safe house, a small flat on the outskirts of Wimbledon.  

I also had an off-site parking space that was a reasonable distance from the flat, so that if I was being hunted, the car would not lead them to my hiding spot.

There I had a shower, changed, and headed for the underground.

I took the train to Charing Cross, getting there around nine, to take the short walk to the hotel.

Not expecting to find her in the room, I used my key to let myself in.

I was wrong.

She was in bed, still asleep.  Or was until I let the door slam shut.

She didn’t exactly come out from under the covers with a gun pointing at me, but I would be willing to be there was one under her pillow and her hand was on it.

“Sam?”  It was uttered sleepily, the sort that would normally send a shiver down my spine.  Not now.

“I hope you’re not intending to shoot me?”

“No.”

I could see her hand moving slowly withdrawing, and then watched her sit up and swing her legs over the side.

Still in basic clothes.  Obviously, no time to go and get some pyjamas then.

“What happened to you?”

“Got side-tracked on what I thought might be a lead, and it wasn’t.  Just a waste of time and a long night.  Thought I’d come here and get some shuteye.  Perhaps not.  Are you going to order breakfast?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have a pot of coffee and a paper, preferably one with a crossword.”

She rang down a breakfast order, full English, then said she was having a quick shower.  I heard the water running and wondered if she was giving Severin a short report.  Old trick, running water hides conversations.

Breakfast arrived at the same time as she came out of the bathroom, hair up in a towel, and in one of the hotel dressing gowns.  My imagination got a five-second workout before I grabbed the paper and the coffee and sat in the corner.

She could have the desk.

“Do we know where Maury is?” I asked suddenly.

“Who?”

She hesitated before answering, a moment to give herself time to process the question, and if there were any hidden meanings.

“You know?  You dropped a tracker on him.”

“Oh, him.  He must have found and dumped it.  It was pinging about 100 yards from the flat.”

Of course.  There probably wasn’t one in the first place.

“Pity.  I’d like to turn up unannounced, give him a bit of a scare.”

I went back to the crossword, keeping an eye on her, noticing every now and then giving me a sideways glance.

“Did you go anywhere after the flat?”  Again sudden, out of left field.

“No.  Just come straight back here.  Do you want to keep the room for a few days?  See what happens.”

“Sounds like a good idea.  Look, I have to run an errand this morning, unfortunately, it’s not a work matter, so I’ll give you a call on my way back.  You must want to talk to your people and let them know what’s happening if you haven’t already.”

I finished the coffee, folded the paper, and stood.

“At the very least,” I added, “I have to go back into the office and report to Nobbin.  I’m sure he’ll be impressed with the lack of progress.”

“Won’t you run into that other fellow, what’s his name?”

“Severin?”

“Him, yes.”

“I don’t think so.  His name will probably be very high on the ‘we’d like to talk to you’ list if he shows his face.  Anyway, I’ve got your number.”

I deliberately waved the phone where she could see it, and the implication she could probably use it to track my movements.  That might have been the case if there was a sim card in it, and it was similar to the phone she last saw me with.

It was not.

Where I was going, no one was going to follow me or find me.

© Charles Heath 2020

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

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.

…

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 88

Here’s the thing…

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.

…

We have a situation

…

Home wasn’t home anymore.

I stood inside the front door, as I had many times in the past, but this time it was different.

Maybe it was the near-death experience, maybe I hadn’t been there for a few days, maybe I had irrevocably changed in those few short days.

It seemed that I was someone else, that the old Sam had gone away, and a new version had replaced him.  Had I finally grown up, or was I still reeling from the ordeal and, more likely, mourning the loss of what had been my one true friend.

Right then, it felt like Boggs had never existed, and that Nadia had invaded that space.

Nadia.

Until now, right this moment, I hadn’t really thought about what I was about to do.  Since being in the hospital, every movement I’d made felt mechanical, and someone else was manipulating the controls.

Wanting to leave was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that failed to recognize others may have a role in what happened, like my mother.  I gad completely discounted her because of her association with Benderby, but what if that was no longer the case.

With Alex off the hook, they no longer had to worry about Nadia or what I might say or do, not that there was anything we could do.  I felt for Charlene who literally was between a rock and a hard place, having to compromise her principles to uphold justice and her disappointment in her father.

To be honest, his actions came as a surprise, despite the rumors of corruption.  It didn’t occur to me that it might have been the lesser of the evils, getting Vince off the streets, nobbling the Cossatinos, and to a lesser extent, using the situation as a bargaining chip with the Benderby’s.

But all of that was moot.  Another rumor circulating, according to the newspaper I’d seen at the hotel, was that a third term for the current sheriff was looking unlikely.  It was joined by an interview with Benderby on the construction of a new resort on the mall site.  Noticeably absent were any reports on Boggs, the treasure, or Cossatino.

I considered briefly whether I should go to the newspaper and tell them the whole story.  If he considered it had any element of truth, he’d publish it and be damned, but the thought of how his wife, an Ormiston, would take the news of finding her father, only for the body to disappear, would serve no purpose.  If there was a body, I would not hesitate.

But, now, it was enough to make a decision on what I would do next.  Pack a bag, tell my mother I was leaving, and call Nadia.

It was impossible to fit a lifetime into a bag.  It was fortunate, perhaps, that my situation had not afforded me the luxury of too many possessions, or anything of value.

Even so, what fitted wasn’t much.  I wanted to believe it was going to be a new start, but it seemed like I was just running away, that the problems I was running from would just come with me. 

And, then, there was Nadia.  I was today’s flavor of the month, but would I be in a month, or two? 

That thought was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.  I stepped onto the passage just as my mother closed the door.

“Sam.  Where have you been?  I’ve been calling, and leaving messages.”

She wasn’t angry, but there was an edge to her tone.  I should have at the very least sent a message to say I was OK.  It didn’t help my phone battery had died.  I’d put it in the recharge, and minutes later continually dinged with missed messages

“I had to get away.  Either that or I would have done something I regretted.  I thought you’d moved in with Benderby.”

“You thought wrong.  This business with Alex.  I remember you told me he was responsible for what happened to you and Nadia, and when I overheard him arguing with his father, I realised you were telling me the truth, and neither of them could be trusted.  I just told him I needed some time to sort out some issues.”

“You’re not going back?”

“No.  What are you going to do?”

“There’s nothing for me here.  I’m not going back to the warehouse, nor do I want to be here anymore.  Not while Alex is put and about.  It’s only a matter of time before he comes after Nadia and I.”

“Then you’re still going to Italy with her.”

“For a while, see how it works out.  You should come too, at least for a holiday, think about what you’re going to do.  Personally, I think you should also leave, start fresh somewhere else.”

“Maybe you’re…”

We both heard the screeching tires of a car coming to a sudden stop outside, followed by the slamming of doors.

Alex not waiting to clean up his mess?

A sudden pounding on the door revised that assessment, if anyone was here to do us harm they would have kicked the door down.

I moved my mother behind me, and the protection of the door as I opened it.

The sheriff.

“We have a situation,” he said in his most serious tone

Warning us the Benderby’s were coming for us?

When neither of us responded, he added, “Elsie Boggs has the Benderby’s at gunpoint at the Blue Circle, and she will only talk to you.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The 2am Rant: I think the asylum is beckoning

I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by any number of scraps of paper with more storylines, written excerpts, parts of stories, and a number of chapters of a work in progress.

Does this happen to anyone else?

The business of writing requires a talent to keep focused on the one project and silence all the other screaming voices in your head, pouring out their side of the story.

But it’s not working.

I try to be determined in my efforts to edit my current completed novel, after letting it ‘rest’ in my head for a few months.

I planned to have some time off, but all of those prisoners in my head started clamouring for my attention.  A story I started some time ago needs revising, another story I wrote last year of NANOWRIMO has come back to haunt me, and characters, well, they’re out in the waiting room, pacing up and down, ready to tell me their life stories.

Is the temporary cure coffee or wine?

Now I think I really do need a holiday

Or a trip to the asylum.  Thank God this is not the early 20th century, or I might never return.  And if it’s named Bellview, it would be just another story to be written.

The Author that went Bonkers!

Does it ever end?

What I learned about writing – You need to manage your time

It’s something that I have never been able to get a handle on, and I seem to stagger from one day to the next without getting anything done.

Over the years many people tried, some with limited success, others completely failing.  I had a boss who once sent me to time management classes and then expected me to manage my time better.  Alas, I can still see her shrugging at the impossibility of it.

The thing is, I’m one of those freeform sorts of people and I guess it goes with the star sign, Gemini.

Yes, I’ve been to quite a few of those time management courses over time, with the books and diaries seeming to want you to time manage your life.  I considered it a bit like micromanagement where your supervisor had access to the diary and put in the work, the estimated time and when it was expected to be finished.  Their idea of managing their expectations in your space.

I didn’t work well with deadlines.

But oddly enough most of the jobs I’ve had over the years have involved time management of one sort or another and I have survived, mostly due to the fact most of my managers had given up.  Stuff got done, more or less on time, so all was well.

Now, in semi-retirement, I really need something to organize my days so something gets done.  As a writer allocating 12 midnight to 2am for writing doesn’t seem to be a good idea.

Unfortunately, it is the best time for me to write.

Is anyone else out there with the same problem, and if so what was your answer to the time management problem?