Category: Writer

The 2am Rant: How about this for a plotline?

No matter how hard you try, how seamless, on paper the plan is, the odds are something will go wrong. That is not to say I am a fatalist, or a glass half empty kind of traveler, because most of the trips I have planned, and taken, have been relatively painless.

Except our good luck had to finally run out.

It was not a matter of bad planning; it was just one of those times when events didn’t quite go according to plan. It happens.

For instance, the simple objective was to get from Brisbane in Australia to Florence in Italy. There is no direct flight. Booking on an airline site is a horrendous experience, fares are ridiculously high, and there is no accommodating stopovers.

This is a trip that only a travel agent can handle.

The objective, travel to London via Hong Kong, or Singapore, or any medium distant airport, then on to London, or Paris, or where-ever, then to Florence. No overnight stopover, staying in a hotel, not this time, in either of Hong Kong or London.

Simple.

Not.

It was as horrendous for the agent as it was navigating the airline’s internet site. It was not something that could be done, sitting opposite her as she deftly navigated the highways and byways of the travel system on her computer. This was a longer, more intricate job.

Two days later she had the solution for the Brisbane, Hong Kong, London, and thence Florence trip. It would require a stay of 10 hours in Hong Kong, the connections didn’t align according to price constraints, and then a 14 hour layover in London as flights to Florence were not aligned either. All well and good. Cathay Pacific for the trip to London and Vueling Airlines for the Florence leg. At least we would arrive in Florence at a reasonable hour, about 6pm.

On paper, it was the most practical solution in the circumstances.

Reality proved it to be something else entirely.

At Brisbane airport, we were given boarding passes for the flights through to London, but by some quirk of fate had our baggage checked through to Florence. How this could be done without boarding passes for the London to Florence flight was a surprise. Back in Brisbane, the check-in person told us she could not give us a boarding pass for the London to Florence leg because the system would not issue it. We could she said, get it easy enough when we arrived in London.

The first leg went smoothly enough, though we did not realize until we got on the plane that it stopped over in Cairns for an hour or so. This was not a problem, just made the time between Brisbane and Hong Kong longer than we anticipated.

In Hong Kong, we had no trouble getting into the lounge I’d booked. The problem came with the interpretation of using the bathroom facilities, and it took several hours before we finally realized that the bathroom facilities were not part of the lounge but operated independently and you had to book your place. By that time there were a large number of people ahead of us (who obviously knew the problems associated with these facilities) and it annoyed me that the lounge staff did not mention it when we arrived.

The Hong Kong to London leg was as all long haul flights are. We knew what to expect, and arrived in London around 6 am. We arrived at terminal three and the lounge we’d booked was in terminal three. All we needed was a boarding pass to get in.

Oops.

That was not the case.

Because we could not get back into terminal three without a forward boarding pass we had to exit and go through customs and immigration. We were told that the only way to get a boarding pass for the Florence flight was to go to the airline counter.

The problem was Vueling did not have an airline counter.

This is where tempers started to flare. 7:30 in the morning, no means of getting into the lounge which we had paid a lot on money for, and no one in the terminal being helpful.

The Vueling web site was impossible to use.

The telephone number rang out.

At this point, I was beginning to believe the airline didn’t exist and we had been ripped off.

Only by a quirk of fate, reading the departures board, did I see a flight for Vueling leaving at 10 am, with the check-in counter displayed.

By this time we had spent two very frustrating hours and I was nothing short of angry.
At the gate, the head of the check-in counter, a representative of Vueling was surprised we had any problems, particularly in Brisbane, but happily issued the boarding passes.

When we mentioned the baggage she advised us it was lucky we did, otherwise it would have gone missing. She took the tag numbers and sorted that problem out.

The airline, it seems, is well respected, and based on the service I received, I had to say I agreed

The problem was back in Brisbane with an inexperienced check in person.

There was only one problem in getting to the lounge, now four hours later than we had advised, the fact we had to go back through customs, and in doing so, the duty-free that we had brought from Hong Kong was now outside the limits allowed, and the customs staff were adamant despite the circumstances we could not take it with us. $400 worth of goods finished up in the bin.

It would be true to say that day the customs staff at Heathrow were not the best ambassadors for their country, and one, in particular, would be best doing service elsewhere where human contact was not a requirement. As for the others, they were as helpful as they could be, but rules unfortunately were rules.

At last, rather distressed over the duty-free, and the lateness of our arrival at the lounge, there was no possibility of getting a short sleep before going to Florence. At least we did not have the same problems using the bathroom facilities, our room I’d book had them included in the room.

We rested, and figured nothing else could go wrong.

Not. Again!

The plane was advertised to leave London at about 3 pm. We left the lounge expecting to get to the gate on time. We checked on the departure board for the flight to get the gate number, only to see a notice ‘delayed’. When that delay passed 5 pm, two hours later, we decided to go to the counter and find out what was happening.

Only to find there was no airline counter. Again!

We asked at least a dozen people, including the special helpers the airport who there is plenty of signage to say to go to if you have a problem, but not one of them knew where the counter was or who was looking after the affairs of the airline. By this time other irate passengers of the delayed flight were massing, also seeking answers. One discovered who the agent was, and we descended on the counter as a large group.

The first person I saw at the counter was the woman who had checked us in that morning. For her, it had been a long day, and it was getting longer.

The problem, the plane had been delayed on an earlier leg, yes it would be arriving, having just left the lat airport, and we would be embarking about 7:30. For our trouble, we got a meal voucher, and at least we could have a reasonably good dinner.

The plane arrived, we embarked, the service was good and the people on board as cheerful as they could be given the delays and the discontented passengers.

We arrived in Florence just before midnight, our driver to take us to the hotel was waiting for us, and the hotel upgraded us to a very nice room.

All in all a harrowing journey, but at the end, basically a six-hour delay, and two very tired, but happy people. And we were in Florence, in summer. What more could anyone want?

What I learned about writing: Even my Grandmother’s eerie house was fuel for the imagination

The Highway to Yesterday: When Progress Paves Over Memory

There’s a phrase we hear often: “the march of progress.” It conjures images of innovation, growth, and moving forward. And often, it’s a good thing, bringing advancements that improve our lives. But sometimes, this relentless march brings with it a different kind of change – one that paves over the past, transforming what we held dear into something unrecognizable.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, prompted by a landscape that used to be… something else entirely.

I remember a time, long ago now, when ‘country’ truly meant country. Our holidays at my grandmother’s house, nestled just outside Melbourne, were expeditions into a different world. The drive itself was part of the magic. A comfortable half-hour journey, winding through stretches of open farmland, punctuated by small, charming towns – Beaconsfield, Officer, Berwick – each an oasis amidst the green. Today? That same route is a continuous sprawl of houses, a testament to metropolitan expansion, where those ‘oases’ are now just another indistinguishable part of the urban fabric.

But it was Grandma’s house that truly held the enchantment. A rambling, grand old place on extensive grounds, it was a universe waiting to be explored. Gardens, multiple garages overflowing with forgotten treasures, a huge workshop – it was a child’s paradise. One Christmas, my brother and I, armed with a sense of adventure and a few rusty tools, decided to become archaeological explorers. We unearthed a magnificent fountain, hidden beneath years of overgrowth, clearly once the centerpiece of a grand display. It felt like discovering our very own secret garden, complete with a sprawling, mysterious fernery.

Then there were the internal explorations. A whole wing of bedrooms, each a time capsule. I recall an ancient iron bedstead, so high off the ground we had to climb into it, easily a century old. And in another, the faint, lingering presence of my Uncle – a formidable, towering man whom, in our youthful imaginations, we first mistook for an ogre straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale. The way his heavy footsteps would ‘clomp’ through the silent house after dark still sends a shiver of delicious apprehension down my spine.

But the march, as it always does, continued. And today, all of it is gone. That sprawling house, those secret gardens, the workshop, the echoes of my uncle’s footsteps – replaced. Not by new homes, not by another suburb, but by the relentless concrete and asphalt of a multi-lane highway, carving an alternate coastal route between Melbourne and Sydney. The very ground where those precious memories were made now carries the weight of countless cars, indifferent to the history beneath their tires.

All that remains are the vivid, precious memories of a time that will never return. They are treasures far more valuable than any physical object, etched permanently in the mind’s eye.

The march of progress is inevitable. It brings necessary change, growth, and sometimes, undeniable improvements. But it also exacts a cost, often unseen by those building the future. It’s a powerful reminder to cherish the present, to imbue the places we love with meaning, and to hold onto the stories that define us, because one day, they might be all that’s left.

And for me? It’s provided a rich soil, a fertile ground, for a whole new pile of stories, waiting to be told.

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 231

Day 231 – Writing in the first person

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The Power of “I”: Unlocking the Advantages of the First-Person Novel

When you crack open a novel and the very first word you read is “I,” an unspoken social contract is formed between you and the narrator. You aren’t just an observer looking down from a cloud; you are strapped directly into the passenger seat of someone else’s mind.

First-person point of view (POV) is one of the most intimate and enduring tools in a writer’s arsenal. From classic masterpieces like The Catcher in the Rye and Jane Eyre to modern psychological thrillers like Gone Girl, the “I” narrator has the power to grip readers and refuse to let go.

If you’re an aspiring author trying to decide which POV to use, or a passionate reader wondering why certain books feel so visceral, understanding the advantages of the first-person novel is essential.

Let’s dive deep into the unique strengths of the first-person perspective and why it continues to dominate bestseller lists.

1. Unmatched Intimacy and Emotional Resonance

The single greatest advantage of the first-person novel is proximity. In first-person, there is no filter between the character’s internal emotional landscape and the reader.

  • Direct Access to Thoughts: We don’t just see characters cry; we hear the frantic, self-deprecating, or hopeful loops playing in their heads as they wipe away the tears.
  • Instant Empathy: Even if a narrator makes terrible choices, experiencing their motivations, fears, and heartbreaks firsthand makes them deeply human. We understand why they do what they do, even if we don’t agree with it.

This level of intimacy creates a profound bond. Readers often finish a great first-person novel feeling like they have just said goodbye to a real-life friend.

2. A Distinct, Unforgettable Voice

In a crowded literary marketplace, voice is everything. First-person narrative allows authors to showcase a character’s unique personality not just through their actions, but through how they speak and think.

Think of Holden Caulfield’s cynical, slang-heavy cadence in The Catcher in the Rye, or Humbert Humbert’s hyper-articulate, manipulative prose in Lolita. The narrator’s voice becomes the music of the book.

  • Rhythm and Diction: A weary detective, a sarcastic teenager, and a medieval peasant will all describe a rainy Tuesday differently. First-person forces the writing to be utterly specific to that character’s worldview, elevating the prose and making the storytelling infinitely more textured.

3. The Power of the Unreliable Narrator

One of the most thrilling narrative devices available in fiction is the unreliable narrator—and it only truly works in the first person.

Because we are locked inside one character’s perspective, we are vulnerable to their biases, blind spots, delusions, or outright lies.

  • Building Suspense: When a narrator is convinced of something that the reader slowly realises is false, the tension skyrockets.
  • The “Aha!” Moment: Twists hit harder in first-person because the reader has been actively complicit in believing the narrator’s deception. Think of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne’s conflicting first-person accounts keep readers guessing until the very end.

4. Heightened Suspense and Stakes

When the protagonist is the one telling the story, a very specific rule applies: They survived long enough to tell the tale.

While this might seem like a spoiler (we know the protagonist doesn’t die in chapter three), it actually heightens suspense in clever ways.

  • The “How” Over the “If”: Instead of wondering if the character will survive, the reader wonders how they possibly escaped the nightmare they are currently describing.
  • Subjective Danger: Because we only know what the narrator knows, we are ambushed by plot twists right alongside them. If they can’t see the killer sneaking up behind them in the dark, neither can we.

5. Built-In Focus and Streamlined Pacing

Third-person multi-POV novels can sometimes suffer from narrative bloat as authors jump between five different subplots across different continents. First-person acts as a natural anchor.

  • Laser-Focused Narrative: Everything in a first-person novel filters through the protagonist’s experiences. If they aren’t there to witness it, it doesn’t happen (unless they hear about it secondhand). This keeps the plot tight, fast-paced, and intensely focused on the core conflict.
  • Character-Driven Plots: First-person naturally prioritises internal growth and psychological transformation over sprawling world-building, making it the go-to choice for character-driven stories.

Potential Pitfalls to Keep in Mind

While the advantages are powerful, writing in the first person comes with unique challenges:

  • The “Head-Hopping” Restriction: You cannot show scenes where the protagonist is absent.
  • The “I-Ego” Problem: If your narrator is too passive, whiny, or unlikable without being fascinating, readers will drop the book fast.
  • Information Limits: It can be difficult to naturally reveal things the narrator wouldn’t reasonably know.

However, in the hands of a skilled writer, these limitations often force creative solutions that make the story even stronger.

Conclusion: Is First-Person Right for Your Next Read—or Your Next Book?

The first-person novel is more than just a stylistic choice; it is an immersive experience. It transforms reading from a passive activity into a deeply empathetic, psychological journey. Whether you are looking to get lost in a complex character study, unravel a twisty mystery, or feel the raw electricity of a unique literary voice, the “I” narrator delivers like no other POV can.

Are you a writer planning your next project, or a reader with a favourite first-person novel? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!

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Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Perth, Australia

Discover Perth’s Hidden Gems: Top 5 Under-the-Radar Attractions with Unique Charm

Perth, Australia, is often celebrated for its stunning beaches and vibrant culture, but for those seeking quieter, more distinctive experiences, the city and its surroundings harbour lesser-known treasures. These five attractions offer a blend of natural beauty, history, and artistry—without the usual tourist crowds. Perfect for travellers craving serenity and authenticity, here’s where to explore Perth’s hidden side.

1. Bold Park: Eucalyptus Groves and Botanical Wonders

Tucked between the Swan River and the Darling Scarp, Bold Park is a sprawling oasis of 580 hectares of native flora, walking trails, and historic landmarks. While it’s larger than many realize, its size ensures it’s often overlooked by the average tourist. Wander through ancient jarrah and marri forests, or stroll the Daly-Douglas Bridge for panoramic views of the river. The park’s crowning jewel is the Botanic Garden and Perth Zoo, but venture deeper for peaceful spots like the Chinese Garden of Friendship—a tranquil blend of art and horticulture. Bold Park is perfect for picnics, birdwatching, and immersing yourself in WA’s unique ecosystem.

2. South Perth Foreshore: Scenic River Serenity

Just a stone’s throw from the city centre, the South Perth Foreshore offers a picturesque riverside escape. This 2.5-kilometre promenade along the Swan River is ideal for a leisurely walk or bike ride, with breathtaking bridges, art installations, and sweeping views of the city skyline. Unlike the busier northern foreshore, this area is rarely packed, making it a prime spot for yoga, photography, or a quiet sunset. Don’t miss the Hassell Bridge at dusk—its illuminated arches reflect beautifully on the water, creating a postcard-perfect scene.

3. Karrakatta Cemetery: A Garden of History

Step into the past at Karrakatta Cemetery, WA’s original burial ground and a living museum of colonial history. Established in 1829, this peaceful garden cemetery is the resting place of Western Australia’s founding figures, including Premier John Forrest and pioneering women like Lady Frederick Broome. Its serene paths and historic monuments offer a unique glimpse into the region’s past. The cemetery’s ornate design and lush greenery make it a fitting tribute to those who shaped Perth. It’s also a birdwatcher’s haven, with native species thriving in the quiet environment.

4. Perth Institute of Contemporary Arts (PICA): Modern Art with a Side of Serenity

For art lovers, PICA is a must-visit. Located in the heart of Perth, this contemporary art space hosts cutting-edge exhibitions, performances, and installations that often fly under the radar of typical tourist itineraries. The venue’s sleek architecture and thoughtfully curated collections create an atmosphere that’s both inspiring and understated. PICA’s indoor-outdoor spaces and rooftop views of the city add to its charm. With smaller crowds than the Art Gallery of WA, it’s a perfect spot to engage with Australia’s modern art scene at your own pace.

5. Kings Park’s Secret Spots: Beyond the Main Attractions

While Kings Park is Perth’s largest park and a major draw for wildflower season, its lesser-known nooks remain uncrowded. Skip the main lawns and trek to the Pinjarra Hills for peaceful bushwalking or the Garden of Resilience, a 1.5-hectare native plant garden showcasing WA’s environmental efforts. The Culturama (open for three months each spring) offers interactive Indigenous art workshops and a cultural hub with a relaxed vibe. These hidden corners of Kings Park provide a chance to connect with nature and local heritage without the crowds.

Why Explore These Gems?

Perth’s less-crowded attractions often highlight the city’s unique identity—whether through history, art, or natural beauty. By venturing beyond the usual spots, travellers can experience a more intimate side of Western Australia, free from the hustle and bustle of mainstream tourism.

Next time you’re in Perth, take the path less travelled. Discover where eucalyptus groves meet contemporary art, and history mingles with serene landscapes. These hidden spots not only showcase the city’s diversity but also reinforce why Perth is more than just a gateway to the West Australian coast—it’s a destination with layers waiting to be uncovered.

Have you visited any of these underrated attractions? Share your favourite hidden gems in the comments below! 🌿✨

In a word: Flower

It’s what we expect to see when we walk past the front of some houses, but instead sometimes see lawn, rocks, or a disaster.

They are what makes the difference between a delightful street and an ugly one, and by that I mean flowers.

By definition, though, it means the state or period in which the plant’s flowers have developed and opened.

Just beware the man who turns up with a bunch of flowers that look vaguely familiar to those that grow in your neighbour’s gardens.

They are also in abundance in horticultural gardens and in florist shops.

My favourites are roses.

And just a word of warning, look out for triffids.  If you read John Wyndham’s science fiction, you’ll know what I mean.

Another meaning for the word is to reach the optimum stage of development, though the word bloom could also be used to describe the same thing.

There is another similar-sounding word, flour, but this is the stuff used to make bread, scones, and puddings.

By definition, it is the result of grinding wheat or other grains to a powder.

If something is said to be floury, then it means it is bland.

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Harare

Hidden Gems of Harare: 5 Unique and Uncrowded Tourist Attractions You Shouldn’t Miss

When most travellers think of Zimbabwe, destinations like Victoria Falls, Hwange National Park, or Great Zimbabwe often dominate the conversation. But the vibrant capital city of Harare, often overlooked, holds its own with a blend of culture, natural beauty, and quiet charm. While many tourists rush through Harare on their way to other destinations, those who pause to explore will discover a city brimming with understated elegance and off-the-beaten-path experiences.

If you’re looking to escape the crowds and soak in Harare’s authentic spirit, here are five distinctive yet seldom-crowded tourist attractions that offer something truly special:

1. Harare Gardens (Botanical Garden)

Tucked away in the heart of the city, Harare Gardens—also known as the National Botanic Garden—is a serene 47-hectare oasis bursting with indigenous flora, tranquil ponds, and shaded pathways. Despite its central location, it remains one of the city’s best-kept secrets, often visited more by locals taking their morning strolls than by international tourists.

Why It Stands Out:
Home to over 900 plant species, including ancient baobabs and flame trees that bloom spectacularly in November, the gardens are a haven for birdwatchers and photographers. The rose garden and the peaceful duck pond add a romantic touch, perfect for quiet reflection or a peaceful picnic. On weekends, you might catch local musicians or art displays, adding a cultural flair.

Pro Tip: Visit early morning to enjoy the misty atmosphere and catch glimpses of sunbirds flitting between blossoms.

2. The Kopje: A Geological Wonder in the City

Perched atop a granite hill in the suburb of Mount Pleasant, The Kopje is a natural rock formation and one of Harare’s oldest geological landmarks. It’s a short, moderately steep hike (around 20 minutes) that rewards adventurers with panoramic views of the city and surrounding highlands.

Why It Stands Out:
Beyond the scenic vista, The Kopje is rich in history and geology. The massive granite boulders—some balancing precariously on others—were formed over 2.6 billion years ago. Look closely, and you’ll spot ancient rock carvings that hint at early human settlement. The site is sacred to some Zimbabweans and exudes a rare sense of stillness and spiritual energy.

Pro Tip: Bring sturdy shoes and a camera. Golden hour here offers some of the most breathtaking cityscape views with minimal foot traffic.

3. Chapungu Sculpture Park

A tribute to Zimbabwe’s renowned Shona sculpture tradition, Chapungu Sculpture Park in Borrowdale is a sprawling green space adorned with over 100 stone masterpieces. Despite its artistic significance, it remains refreshingly uncrowded, offering a tranquil space to appreciate the country’s rich sculptural heritage.

Why It Stands Out:
Each sculpture tells a story—some spiritual, some whimsical, all deeply connected to Zimbabwean culture and nature. The park is set within beautifully landscaped gardens, with gazebos, lily ponds, and winding paths. It’s an open-air museum where art and nature coexist in harmony.

Pro Tip: Look out for works by master sculptors like Bernard Takawira and Henry Munyaradzi. Guided tours can be arranged to deepen your appreciation of the symbolism behind the art.

4. National Gallery of Zimbabwe

Located in the city centre, the National Gallery is a cultural gem that showcases the best of Zimbabwean and African contemporary art. While it occasionally hosts bustling events, the galleries themselves are usually pleasantly quiet, giving visitors space to truly engage with the artwork.

Why It Stands Out:
The permanent collection includes traditional Shona sculpture, modern paintings, and thought-provoking installations by both emerging and acclaimed artists. The gallery also hosts temporary international exhibitions, film screenings, and artist talks, making it a dynamic cultural hub.

Don’t miss the outdoor sculpture garden and the charming café, which often features live acoustic music on weekends.

Pro Tip: Visit on the first Friday of the month for “First Friday,” a monthly art event with extended hours and special previews—still intimate but lively.

5. Samora Machel Avenue: Heritage & Urban Art Trail

Step off the main tourist routes and explore Samora Machel Avenue—a modest street in the city center that doubles as an open-air gallery of colonial-era architecture and vibrant street art. While not a traditional attraction, its blend of historical preservation and urban expression makes it a unique sight.

Why It Stands Out:
You’ll find beautifully restored Edwardian and Art Deco buildings standing side-by-side with striking murals that reflect Zimbabwe’s liberation history, cultural diversity, and social commentary. It’s a walk through time: from colonial Harare to modern, resilient Zimbabwe.

Pro Tip: Visit mid-morning when natural light hits the murals perfectly. Bring a notebook—this quiet street inspires reflection on art, history, and identity.

Final Thoughts

Harare is more than just a transit city—it’s a destination with a soul. These five hidden attractions offer peace, beauty, and cultural depth without the usual tourist throngs. Whether you’re admiring ancient stone carvings at The Kopje, soaking in the quiet elegance of the botanical gardens, or letting art spark deep conversations at Chapungu, you’ll come away with a richer understanding of Zimbabwe’s capital.

So the next time you’re in Harare, skip the crowded spots and discover the city’s quieter, more authentic side. After all, the best travel memories are often made in the places few others think to go.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying.  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 231

Day 231 – Writing in the first person

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The Power of “I”: Unlocking the Advantages of the First-Person Novel

When you crack open a novel and the very first word you read is “I,” an unspoken social contract is formed between you and the narrator. You aren’t just an observer looking down from a cloud; you are strapped directly into the passenger seat of someone else’s mind.

First-person point of view (POV) is one of the most intimate and enduring tools in a writer’s arsenal. From classic masterpieces like The Catcher in the Rye and Jane Eyre to modern psychological thrillers like Gone Girl, the “I” narrator has the power to grip readers and refuse to let go.

If you’re an aspiring author trying to decide which POV to use, or a passionate reader wondering why certain books feel so visceral, understanding the advantages of the first-person novel is essential.

Let’s dive deep into the unique strengths of the first-person perspective and why it continues to dominate bestseller lists.

1. Unmatched Intimacy and Emotional Resonance

The single greatest advantage of the first-person novel is proximity. In first-person, there is no filter between the character’s internal emotional landscape and the reader.

  • Direct Access to Thoughts: We don’t just see characters cry; we hear the frantic, self-deprecating, or hopeful loops playing in their heads as they wipe away the tears.
  • Instant Empathy: Even if a narrator makes terrible choices, experiencing their motivations, fears, and heartbreaks firsthand makes them deeply human. We understand why they do what they do, even if we don’t agree with it.

This level of intimacy creates a profound bond. Readers often finish a great first-person novel feeling like they have just said goodbye to a real-life friend.

2. A Distinct, Unforgettable Voice

In a crowded literary marketplace, voice is everything. First-person narrative allows authors to showcase a character’s unique personality not just through their actions, but through how they speak and think.

Think of Holden Caulfield’s cynical, slang-heavy cadence in The Catcher in the Rye, or Humbert Humbert’s hyper-articulate, manipulative prose in Lolita. The narrator’s voice becomes the music of the book.

  • Rhythm and Diction: A weary detective, a sarcastic teenager, and a medieval peasant will all describe a rainy Tuesday differently. First-person forces the writing to be utterly specific to that character’s worldview, elevating the prose and making the storytelling infinitely more textured.

3. The Power of the Unreliable Narrator

One of the most thrilling narrative devices available in fiction is the unreliable narrator—and it only truly works in the first person.

Because we are locked inside one character’s perspective, we are vulnerable to their biases, blind spots, delusions, or outright lies.

  • Building Suspense: When a narrator is convinced of something that the reader slowly realises is false, the tension skyrockets.
  • The “Aha!” Moment: Twists hit harder in first-person because the reader has been actively complicit in believing the narrator’s deception. Think of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne’s conflicting first-person accounts keep readers guessing until the very end.

4. Heightened Suspense and Stakes

When the protagonist is the one telling the story, a very specific rule applies: They survived long enough to tell the tale.

While this might seem like a spoiler (we know the protagonist doesn’t die in chapter three), it actually heightens suspense in clever ways.

  • The “How” Over the “If”: Instead of wondering if the character will survive, the reader wonders how they possibly escaped the nightmare they are currently describing.
  • Subjective Danger: Because we only know what the narrator knows, we are ambushed by plot twists right alongside them. If they can’t see the killer sneaking up behind them in the dark, neither can we.

5. Built-In Focus and Streamlined Pacing

Third-person multi-POV novels can sometimes suffer from narrative bloat as authors jump between five different subplots across different continents. First-person acts as a natural anchor.

  • Laser-Focused Narrative: Everything in a first-person novel filters through the protagonist’s experiences. If they aren’t there to witness it, it doesn’t happen (unless they hear about it secondhand). This keeps the plot tight, fast-paced, and intensely focused on the core conflict.
  • Character-Driven Plots: First-person naturally prioritises internal growth and psychological transformation over sprawling world-building, making it the go-to choice for character-driven stories.

Potential Pitfalls to Keep in Mind

While the advantages are powerful, writing in the first person comes with unique challenges:

  • The “Head-Hopping” Restriction: You cannot show scenes where the protagonist is absent.
  • The “I-Ego” Problem: If your narrator is too passive, whiny, or unlikable without being fascinating, readers will drop the book fast.
  • Information Limits: It can be difficult to naturally reveal things the narrator wouldn’t reasonably know.

However, in the hands of a skilled writer, these limitations often force creative solutions that make the story even stronger.

Conclusion: Is First-Person Right for Your Next Read—or Your Next Book?

The first-person novel is more than just a stylistic choice; it is an immersive experience. It transforms reading from a passive activity into a deeply empathetic, psychological journey. Whether you are looking to get lost in a complex character study, unravel a twisty mystery, or feel the raw electricity of a unique literary voice, the “I” narrator delivers like no other POV can.

Are you a writer planning your next project, or a reader with a favourite first-person novel? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below!

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“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz