In a word: Bar

There’s more than one way … er, perhaps it’s better to say, there are many ways to use the word bar, which is not bad for a three-letter word.

Bar, the one you associate with drinks, in hotels, restaurants and we’ll, just bars.

Probably the best type of bar you might find me in is a Sports Bar, where you can snack on buffalo wings a tall glass of beer and watch with ice hockey in winter or baseball in summer.

It’s one I use from time to time when asked, what will we do, and the reply is often let’s go to a bar. The best bars are underground, dark and dingy, full of eclectic people, with a band playing almost passable music or better still jazz

Bar, as in the legal variety

There are so many legal references to using bar, that the one that I am most familiar with is being admitted to the bar which means that you can now practice law.

Raising the bar, if that’s possible, where the bar is that imaginary level which offers sinks very low. When someone says they’re going to try and raise the bar, you may be assured there will be a long battle ahead, simply because people generally find it hard to change.

Bar, as in we are not going to let you in here. Yes, this is the irksome one where you find yourself, often for reasons unknown, barred from somewhere or something. This may also be referred to by saying everyone may enter bar you.

Bar, as in an iron bar, the sort that is sometimes used as a blunt force object by villains to remind the victim they owe any one of a loan shark, bookie or the mafia. God help you if it is all three.

There are also iron bars of a different sort, those that are set in concrete outside a window most likely in a prison where the objective is to prevent escape.

It gives rise to an old expression, that person should be behind bars.

Then there is just a bar, such as a bar of gold, which I’m sure we’d all like to have stashed away, but not necessarily in the mattress, or the more common variety, a chocolate bar, which I have one now. What’s your favorite?

And just to add to the list of meanings you can always refer to sashes or stripes as bars.

Confused? Well, there’s still music, and the bane of yachtsmen, sand bars but I think we’ll leave it there.

Welcome to the English language

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 53

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.

…

There was blood spatter along one wall, and more underneath a chair just out from the wall. On the other side of the room was a table with some rather gruesome instruments on it.

I immediately felt sorry for the archaeologist. He must have endured serious pain before dying. It would be interesting to see a copy of the Medical Examiners report. The room had another overlying aroma other than the mustiness.

What did death smell like?

“Do you think this is where Alex and his cronies hang out?”

“Well, I can tell you for sure it’s not Vince’s lair. He has a house back at Patterson’s Reach. Besides, this mall is Benderby’s territory. It’s his security people who look after this place.”

Then that meant Alex or one of the Benderby’s was responsible for the murder of the archaeologist. Clearly, they were trying to get information out of him, not kill him.

“You think we should tell the cops?”

“You’re asking a Cossatino that question. I thought you knew better.”

“I happen to be in good with the Sheriff. It might make a difference.”

“No, I can assure you it won’t. Too much water under that bridge I’m afraid.”

Perhaps I was hoping she was not like the rest. Of course, if I actually stopped for a minute to think about it, it was probably a lot wiser not to say anything, simply because of the questions it would raise, and the grief the Benderby’s, and particularly Alex, would rain down on me.

We had a piece of evidence we couldn’t do anything with.

For now. That might change in the future.

There were also several filing cabinets and a cupboard in the room, but there was nothing of interest in any of them. It was simply a torture chamber. I had to hope I’d never finish up in here.

“Let’s get out here,” Nadia said, “It’s giving me the creeps.”

I’d felt a shudder or two go down my spine too. If it belonged to the Benderby’s and Alex in particular, he had already passed the point of no return. Alex was a bastard, but I didn’t think he could stoop to this sort of behavior. Vince? Maybe. Like the other members of the Cossatino family, excluding Nadia, he was as psychopathic as the rest.

It just goes to show you couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Alex’s boyish good looks hid something far more sinister underneath.

Just as we stepped out of the room and Nadia pulled the door shut, relocking it, we heard a sound coming from downstairs. The acoustics in the passage and stairwells was quite good, enough, at least, to alert us that someone else was in the building nearby.

“Someone is coming?” Nadia muttered.

“Here?” It was obvious where they were coming to, it was just the surprise anyone else would be around at this hour of the morning.

She glared at me. “Where else would they be going, shopping?”

Annoyance.

We quickly moved towards the next room, the door open, and stepped inside, taking a quick look around. There was another room running off it, and we went in there and closed the door. It had a manual lock, not using a key, and she put it in place.

A quick look around the room showed it to be a bathroom and didn’t exactly have the best of aromas. Perhaps stagnant water.

We stood side by side near the door. We could hear footsteps coming up the stairs, it sounded like two people, and then voices, slightly muffled.

“What did you say we’re here for?”

A male voice I hadn’t heard before.

“A map.”

Alex. I’d know that voice anywhere.

A few seconds later I heard him speak again, “Who the hell left these maps out? Who’s been here? They know the rules.”

“No one. I’m sure of it.” The other voice had a tremor in it.

Alex probably left them out himself, but he was not one to take the blame for anything.

“Someone’s been here. The footprints on the floor. They look fresh.”

We could then hear him coming up the passage. Had we left footprints into the other room and possibly this one? I was almost at the stage of holding my breath.

He went to the end, that last room that had been used as a torture chamber.

“You got the key to this room?”

“No. You know that’s not where we’re allowed to go. Your father’s orders remember.”

“What about this room?”

He was standing in the doorway, and I could see the torchlight from under the door.

“There’s nothing here, no one here. No one had been here, Alex. No one knows about this place. You said so yourself.”

“Except Vince. Mall cops dragged him up here one and beat him up. That was a good day.”

Once more he flashed the light around the room, and along the floor, and it seemed our footprints weren’t showing a path to this door. If he was to come in and start pounding on it, I’d have a heart attack.

“Perhaps no one has been here then, except Ed. We’ll talk to him later.”

The light disappeared, and the footsteps receded.

There were no more voices for a few minutes, then Alex said, “Got it. Now let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

The footsteps and voices receded quickly as they retraced their steps, leaving us, once again, in silence.
Except I swear I could hear my heart beating very rapidly.

“Wow,” She said. “That was exciting.”

“What? We nearly got caught.”

“No matter. I could have used my charms on him.”

She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Instead, I have you.”

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 28

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…

By the time they reached the outskirts of Munich, what the Standartenfuhrer considered their biggest hurdle, it was quite dark and almost impossible to see where they were going.

The whole city seemed to have disappeared so effectively was the blackout.

But there was one benefit, there was little or no traffic on the roads, which lessened the chance of running into another car or truck.

And it was time to refill the tank with two more petrol cans, leaving two remaining. Filling up now, the Standartenfuhrer said, would get them to Innsbruck.

He sounded confident, but Mayer got the distinct impression it was mostly that he was putting on a brave face. There had been one instance, the checkpoint before Munich where he nearly lost his nerve. For the first time, there had been SS guards at the checkpoint, and which had been entirely unexpected.

An SS officer of the same rank had been summoned and he had requested their written orders. They had paperwork, but Mayer wasn’t sure if it related to their current situation, further confirming his belief this had been a very carefully planned operation to get him out of Germany, and that there was a more pressing reason why. It definitely had something to do with the V2’s, but had their intelligence services found out about something else, something he didn’t know about?

Given the level of risk to the two men with him, and that at every turn there was a possibility of capture or death, given the level of planning and the run so far, one he would have never thought of trying on his own, he didn’t have a very high level of confidence that they would get away with it.

Those in the SS were not fools, trusted no one, believed nothing they were told, and disregarded anything written on paper. Check, double-check, then check again. Take nothing as read. The document he’d been given on what made a first-class SS officer in the eyes of the Reich, was fundamentally not him, nor most of the German population.

The officer at this checkpoint reminded him of the one who had shot the shooting in the hotel, and for at least ten tense minutes, during which time the other two had conferred quietly in English, one suggestion they cut and run.

That would have invited a hail of machine-gun fire that none of them would survive.

Both looked visibly relieved when he returned, having obviously called the name of the officer who had signed the order. The only explanation he had for this was that the level of discontent among officers Military of SS must be greater than he thought.

They managed to cross over into Austria without any problems, the route they had taken, a series of back roads and tracks which had been given to them. Once again, Mayer was surprised that so many people could be working against their own country, but, of what he’d seen, conditions were harsh no matter which part of Germany they were in.

The war was not going the way the German people were being told, and it was hard to see any resolution of the conflict any time soon.

Perhaps everyone in the high command was hoping the new V2 rockets were going to change the country’s fortunes in the war. If they were, they were going to be bitterly disappointed. What they needed was the jet-propelled fighters and bombers, something that remarkably had not been implemented years earlier, and would have given them air superiority.

He’d worked on those early jet engines and they were remarkable, and faster than anything the British or the Americans had. It was hard to comprehend why high command had not pushed forward the new jet-propelled planes that Belin had finally decided to implement.

And just when the trio had agreed that everything would work out about 100 kilometers from Innsbruck, on the road to the Italian border crossing, they took the wrong route. It was a mistake brought on by tiredness, and a momentary lapse in concentration.

A checkpoint where there shouldn’t be one.

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 40

…

This was taken from the plane on our way home from Melbourne to Brisbane and we were on approach to Brisbane airport.

Aside from the fact whenever we are returning home, we are relieved, glad to be coming home, and always tired. The thing is, you always come back from holidays exhausted.

So, what sort of inspiration can this provide?

One: The obvious, coming home, tired, from a hard mission in the field. A worn storyline, no one knows what you really do, and think you’re just coming back from another sales trip or conference.

Sometimes it’s hard to hide the injuries when things go wrong. Broken bones mean elaborate excuses not to come home, bruising, you walked into a door, drunk, everyone thinking injuries cause by drink are funny, and forgetting to bring back holiday trinkets, is unforgivable.

Trying to blend into normal society, is a battle in itself.

Two: A little more elaborate, coming home to see the family after being away for a long time, for reasons that no one really wants to remember. Old feuds are lurking, and hurt remains, particularly between father and son, or mother and daughter.

Old flames are there still, either successful, married, unmarried, or divorced or widowed.

Whatever the situation, it’s still water under the bridge, and still with a possibility of drowning.

Three: and one I haven’t thought of using but has merits, being shunted into witness protection in the boondocks. A city person unable to cope with open country, fresh air, and mountains.

Or a country person lost in the concrete jungle, and having far more trouble to get into.

There’s more, I’m sure, and will no doubt add to the list over time.

“Opposites Attract” – The Editor’s second draft – Day 13

This book has been sitting in the ‘to-be-done’ tray, so this month it is going to get the second revision and release to beta readers.

…

A little time in Emily’s world

…

After the meeting with Mrs Bakersfield is over, our boy realises that Emily is going to be staying with her grandmother until the end.

Perhaps he will be too, but nothing is really set in concrete.

Time to spend a little time with Emily in her world of luxury and privilege.

It’s not what he wants, but he didn’t say no to the limousine ride to the airport, or no to the ride in the corporate jet, or no to the suite he was put in in the hotel.

I mean, only a fool would, wouldn’t they?

He calls his sister Darcy and lets her know that he is swilling it up, for the moment, it won’t last, and she says she is jealous, maybe.

Then, of course, there are the other members of Emily’s family, especially her stepmother, whom Emily despises, and rather niggardly calls Mrs Winkle, her former married name, and not as Mrs Rothstein, and definitely not Mom.

Our boy is going to take a seat on the sidelines and see just how unhappy families get along.

…

Searching for locations: Old Shanghai, China

The old Shanghai refers to a small area of Shanghai that used to be walled in and remained that way until about 1912 when all but a small section of the wall was demolished. With the advent of the concessions, Old Shanghai became the administrative center until later when it became a shopping complex.

Now it has many restored historical buildings as well as new buildings in a somewhat traditional style that has become one of Shanghai’s main tourist attractions, housing many shops and restaurants.

The “Old Town” is not exclusively old, as you still have a chance to take in the atmosphere if you wander into the quaint side streets.

But, on first viewing walking down the street towards the complex, I’m not sure I’d go as far as to say this is in reality old Shanghai, except for what appears to be a true representation of it architecturally.

The buildings, which are shops and restaurants, are set out symmetrically, with streets, alleyways, and squares which may prove that it was specially built for the tourists, and no mechanized traffic.

Anyway…

The buildings are magnificent, and a photographer’s delight, and you’d finish up having hundreds of photos by the time you leave. All the buildings are exquisite representations of traditional Chinese architecture.

As for buying stuff, remember if you’re not Chinese you have the sucker tourist stamp on your forehead, so be prepared to walk away if the vendors will not bargain.

Nothing here is worth the price tag and in our group discounts like from 130 RMB to 50 RMB and from 1 for 1,200 to 2 for 950 RMB are common.

Here common t-shirts that we can get for 3 dollars back home start at 150 RMB which is roughly 35 dollars. It’s that kind of market.

We end up is a tea room, on the third floor of the meeting point below, and discover all the tour guides sitting around a table counting money, and I have to say it’s the most $50 notes I’ve ever seen in one place.
It is, we were told, where they discussed ‘strategy’.

The rainy-day effect

I have to say that I prefer that time a month into Autumn (or as it is called in other parts of the world, Fall) when the temperatures become bearable, and often there is the soft patter of rain and it’s a calming effect.

It suits my mood and it helps me with my writing, those days when you don’t feel like going out, you just stare out the window contemplating nothing in particular. These are days when it’s possible to write like you feel.

Melancholy, reflective.

Unlike a lot of people, I actually like the rain. The pattering of raindrops on the roof and on the leaves of the foliage outside the window, the droplets running down the glass of the windows.

It has a calming effect, a serenity about it, that with a fire burning in the background (and I mean a real fire with burning logs) and soft music, perhaps some gentle jazz, or a symphony (please, not the Pastoral Symphony, but maybe Vivaldi’s Four Seasons).

Moving closer to winter, it gets colder, but not that bone-chilling cold of minus 29 degrees Fahrenheit that Northern Hemisphere winters have) but the 16 degrees centigrade we have, along with the rain and the wind.

Different seasons have different winds. Summer, they are strong and warm, Autumn, swirling and cool with that rustle through the leaves, Winter, hard and, well, not very cold as they are down south in places like Tasmania, and Spring, the gentle breeze with a hint of the coming summer.

On rare occasions, it can have the unnerving effect, sort of like the wailing of a banshee. Or a sort of humming sound as it blows through the electricity lines.

It reminds me of a set of allegories I read about a long time ago,

Winter – sad

Spring – hope

Summer – Happy

Autumn – reflective

Perhaps it is a little early for me to be reflective because where I live, Autumn is just about over and Winter is coming.

But, of course, this year will be different. Aside from the usual spate of colds and flu, we have a bigger problem, the possibility of never shaking off COVID 19.

We may have won a short-term victory but this is war, and as we all know, wars take years to win.

But in self-isolation, there is a silver lining. I might get to write that trilogy I’ve always wanted to.

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 and 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 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 on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years. She had been there once, 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 was 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 who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

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 plutonic 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 that might be 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 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 where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country. It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have 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, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where 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, and it 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 of 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 mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir 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 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 to the room 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.

…

Searching for locations: The Yu Gardens, Shanghai, China

The Yu Gardens or Yuyuan Gardens

The Yu Gardens (or Yuyuan Gardens) are located at No. 137, Anren Street, Huangpu District, very close to the Old City God Temple, in the northeast of the Old City of Shanghai at Huangpu.

Yu Garden was first built in 1559 during the Ming Dynasty by Pan Yunduan and finished approximately 1577, created specifically as a private garden of the Pan family for Pan Yunduan’s parents to enjoy in their old age.

Yu Garden occupies an area of 5 acres, and is divided into six general areas:

-Sansui Hall which includes the Grand Rockery was originally used to entertain guests,

-Wanhua Chamber is a delicate building surrounded by derious cloisters,

-Dianchun Hall, built in 1820, includes Treasury Hall and the Hall of Harmony,

-Huijing Hall which includes Jade Water Corridor.

-Yuhua Hall which is furnished with rosewood pieces from the Ming Dynasty, and,

-The Inner Garden with rockeries, ponds, pavilions, and towers; first laid out in 1709. As the quietest part of Yu Gardens, it includes the Hall of Serenity and the Acting and Singing Stage.

The Mid-Lake Pavilion Teahouse, within the gardens, is the oldest teahouse in Shanghai.

A centerpiece of the gardens is the Exquisite Jade Rock, a 5-ton boulder that was originally meant for the Huizong Emperor (Northern Song Dynasty from 1100-1126 AD) but was salvaged from the Huangpu River after the boat carrying it had sunk.

These gardens house a lot of buildings that seemed to be a perfect blend of the old and the new, and if it was up to me, I’d keep the old. Both the building and the gardens they are set in are like an oasis in the middle of an industrial complex, and perhaps impractical for the number of people living in Shanghai.