Category: Writer

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door, so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw that the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup, and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots, and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbour and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa: the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room, which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were in the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa, behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I moved aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage, which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped into the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I were the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked, and where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I were not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage, staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me, and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today, my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed, and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect the dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed, and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts: it was either the police, alerted by the neighbours, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it were the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realised it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she were any sort of law-abiding citizen, she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good, hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed, though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished, she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

The Cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 67

This story is now on the list to be finished, so over the next few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

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

Things are about to get complicated…

Was it all simply a dream?

…

If I thought the death of O’Connell and the detention of Dobbin and Jennifer were the end of it, I was wrong.  Both Monica and Joanne arrived with several agents and took us back to the sandstone building, separated us, and then subjected us to endless questions.

I sat in the room with a guard outside in case I decided to leave, which I considered after an hour, but just as I was standing up, Monica walked in.  If I were to guess at the tactics, she had interviewed Yolanda, and possibly Jan as well, before she came to me.

It was a technique we were taught to know the answers before we ask the questions.  But you had to assume the other people knew what the answers were, and I knew they did not have all the facts.

I was not sure I was in possession of all the facts.

Monica had a file with her, quite large, put it on the desk unopened and then sat down opposite me.  I pretended not to watch.  I pretended not to care.  More lessons from agents who were now dead.  I’m not sure what sort of recommendation that was as to how good they were.

“You seem to have a particular knack for picking up people to help you, Sam.  Annoying and loyal.  I need more people like you, Sam.  You’ll be pleased to know they had not one bad word to say about you.”

“Hardly a recommendation if you’re going to throw me into a bottomless pit.”

“Interesting idea.  I suspect, though, you would know how to get out of it, or if you didn’t, had some experts hiding somewhere who would come and get you out.”

“Good to know.  So, why am I here?”

“Anna.”

“Anna is dead; she was killed in the café explosion.”

“I’d agree with you, only the body we pulled out of the café was male, what is believed to be a homeless man who was sheltering in there.  The café hadn’t been used for a year, and there were no locks on the back entrances.”

“No Anna?”

“No.”

“Yolanda said she saw Anna in the café.”

“Yolanda is no longer sure what she saw.  She admits to impersonating her, contacting O’Connell, and selling him the bogus USBs.  We recovered the money, less a hundred thousand pounds.  She claims she didn’t take any money for herself.  There were another 8 USBs, all with the same files on them.  We recovered the two from Dobbin.  The same.  He was not very pleased.”

“Was he responsible for killing Severin, Maury, and O’Connell?”

“He says no.”

“Jan?”

“She wishes she had stayed at MI6 and never got dragged into Dobbin’s fantasy.”

“The notion that there are formulas to create super viruses on the loose?”

“We only had Severin and Maury’s word that it was the case.  The laboratory where the scientist worked and supposedly created the viruses refuted that any such data had escaped their premises, and better still, had destroyed it when they realised what was happening.  I would not put it past them to have arranged for the death of the inventor.  If the truth is known, Severin was trying to worm his way back into the fold with a whole end of days scenarios which he manages to save the day.  In other words, it’s quite possible the whole exercise was a hoax.”

“With endless dead people.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.  Dead people add credence to a scenario; it helps to sell the notion that what they’re saying is true.”

So, the whole affair was simply a situation created by Severin for his own benefit.  “Dobbin thinks he was had, like us?”

“Exactly.  The trouble is, we must take all threats seriously until proven otherwise.  So, the upshot of all this is, if you, Jennifer, or Yolanda want a job with the department, let Joanne know, and we’ll put you into the program.  There’s one coming up next month.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

”O’Connell?  Where did he fit into all this?  I mean, we were following him; he killed three of our surveillance team, and he was obviously spooked about something.  And someone was trying to kill him.  Dobbin?”

“Dobbin believes he set the whole thing up himself.”

“He had turned the seed of a hoax into five million pounds.  Why didn’t he abscond with it?”

“He thought he was, with Yolanda.  We believe he let her take the money with the intention of killing her and taking it back when he got to London.  It’s convoluted, but in a way, it makes sense.  Yolanda is very lucky to be alive.  So are you and Jennifer.”

I shrugged.  “Do all your operations end up like this?”

“Mostly.  If you decide to join the fold, you’ll discover that what we do is a little more than smoke and mirrors.  Sometimes we have a win.  Sometimes.”  She stood.  “I hope you decided to join us.”

With that, she left the room, leaving the door open.  No threats about spilling secrets, no signing of papers, nothing.  Perhaps she believed I wouldn’t tell anyone, but probably more to the point, who would believe me.

Maybe when I wake up tomorrow morning, I will realise it was all just a dream.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 32

What does it say when you can’t trust the man in charge?

…

The Admiral was looking tired, possibly the result of being woken, yet again, in the dead hours of the night.

Out in space, we should be keeping earth time, in fact, we probably were, but I didn’t think to check before calling.

The matter was urgent, or at least I thought it was.

I’d just relayed the events leading up to the attack and the result. For some odd reason I didn’t think he looked pleased.

“I sent two shuttles over and they’ve confirmed 11 fatalities and one escapee who transported to the larger ship moments before the attack. I told them to set a geosychronous orbit around the moon coronas until you work out what you want to do with them. Their systems have been encrypted, so they can’t be resurrected.”

“And the base?”

“We understand it’s beneath the surface of the moon, accessible only by transporter. Our physist says she knows where the plutonium is.”

“I take it there are people down there?”

“Skeleton staff. It’s a new base, recently built, but we don’t know its purpose.”

“Definitely not alien then?”

“Unless the criminal world has made the first contact before us, and if they have, it can’t be for the betterment of mankind.”

I was no expert but at that moment I got the distinct impression that the Admiral was hiding something, or had information that might be useful to us.

Until now I hadn’t had time to think about all the events leading up to this point in time, but somewhere in the back of my mind, it had been processing everything that had happened, to do with the ship and even before that.

And the question that leapt out was, why me?

What was the compelling reason to appoint me as first officer to this particular ship at this particular time? I had no doubt there were a hundred others equally or better qualified than I was, and yet, my name was pulled out of the hat, and I could remember distinctly the captain of the ship I’d been completing my training, as surprised as I was that I’d been selected.

Them, out of left field, a memory came back, one o had tried to bury very deep, of an incident no one could explain, let alone comprehend because it was as if it never happened. I had no proof, and there was no one else left alive to corroborate what I believed to be the facts.

Solar stress, it had been called. The psychiatrist who handled the debriefing told me it was nothing more than an over-active imagination, fuelled by overwork, sleep deprivation, and the deaths of my family members on an outpost on the moon when I’d been visiting them.

That diagnosis alone should have prevented my appointment, and yet here I was.

“Then it’s no longer your problem. We’ll take it from here. There’s a ship on its way. Your mission is to proceed as planned.”

“And the other ship that fled? I’m sure they’re no to going to just forgive and forget.”

“The chances are they will. Now they know you have superior firepower, and the speed to hunt them down, they will not be coming back for a second encounter. If you do come across them, you can deal with them as you wish, but that is not the priority. You have your orders.”

The screen went blank.

Yes, he was definitely hiding something.

…

© Charles Heath 2021

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 14

I’m always rummaging through the endless photographs that, if you were to ask me, I would vehemently deny I took.

It’s like the camera on my phone takes them itself, you know, the latest upgrade they didn’t tell you about, the artificial intelligence.

OK, so it’s simply a ferry crossing a wide stretch of water. You ask, why didn’t they build a bridge? A good question, and not one I can answer.

But, what does the thought of a ferry conjure up?

It brought to mind the film Jaws, and the summer visitors to the island, or should I say, shark hunting ground.

Here?

Perhaps a little less sinister…or not.

To me, at this point, it suggests the possibility of a get away, depending on what side you’re on, mainland, or island. I’m going to say, you’re on the island and going back to the mainland.

Running.

The island is like one of those remote places, with one way in and one way out. a place where people go to try and breathe life back into a marriage that’s falling apart under the stresses of city life, but it failed.

The problem wasn’t the fact you didn’t see each other enough, it’s just that you had grown to dislike each other, and going into a small isolated situation only made the problem worse.

It was just easier to blame everything else.

But going home, well that’s a whole different kettle of fish, because bridges were burned before you left, and going back, well, there was going to be grovelling involved.

Or not.

There’s a story here, but not right now. Perhaps in a day or two.

It’s late, very late, and I need some sleep … well, thinking time.

What I learned about writing – Take the time to stop and smell the roses

Televison is a great recorder of the past, and most channels, and especially cable tv have great libraries of films that go back more than a hundred years.

And, whilst it’s possible that modern day films and television series can try to recapture the past, the English as an exception being very good at it, often it is impossible to capture it correctly.

But, if you have a film shot in the moment, then you have a visual record of what life, and what was once part of our world before you in all it’s dated glory. The pity of it is that, then, we never appreciated it.

After all, in those particular times, who had the time to figuratively stop and smell the roses. Back then as life was going on, we were all tied up with just trying to get through each day.

Years later, often on reflection, we try to remember the old days, and, maybe, remember some of what it was like, but the chances are that change came far too rapidly, and often too radical, that it erases what we thought we knew existed before.

My grandmothers house is a case in point. In it’s place is a multi lane super highway, and there’s nothing left to remind us, or anyone of it, just some old sepia photographs.

I was reminded of how volatile history really is when watching an old documentary, in black and white, and how the city I grew up in used to look.

Then, even though it seemed large to me then, it was a smaller city, with suburbs that stretched about ten or so miles in every direction, and the outer suburbs were where people moved to get a larger block, and countrified atmosphere.

Now, those outer suburbs are no longer spacious properties, the acreage subdivided and the old owners now much richer for a decision made with profit not being the motivator, and the current suburban sprawl is now out to forty or fifty miles.

The reason for the distance is no longer the thought of open spaces and cleaner air, the reason for moving now is that land further out is cheaper, and can make buying that first house more affordable.

This is where I tip my hat to the writers of historical fiction. I myself am writing a story based in the 1970s, and its difficult to find what is and isn’t time specific.

If only I had a dollar for every time I went to write the character pulling out his or her mobile phone.

What I’ve found is the necessity to research, and this has amounted to finding old films, documentaries of the day, and a more fascinating source of information, the newspapers of the day.

The latter especially has provoked a lot of memories and a lot of stuff I thought I’d forgotten, some of it by choice, but others that were poignant.

Yes, and don’t get me started on the distractions.

If only I’d started this project earlier…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 278

Day 278 – Acceptable writing

…

Embracing the Writer’s Growth Mindset: Lessons from Anne Perry’s Quote on Acceptance and Improvement

“I never assume that what I write will necessarily be acceptable. I take very little for granted – fairness, help, yes, but not acceptance. I am always trying to improve. Aren’t we all?”
— Anne Perry

Anne Perry’s words cut straight to the heart of what it means to be a writer today: a relentless pursuit of betterment, grounded in humility and an openness to feedback. In a world where likes, shares, and instant validation can masquerade as success, her reminder is a powerful antidote. Let’s unpack the quote, explore why acceptance shouldn’t be taken for granted, and see how we can turn this mindset into concrete, daily habits that elevate our craft.

1. Why Acceptance Isn’t a Given (and Why That’s Healthy)

The Myth of Instant Approval

  • Social media metrics can create a false sense of “acceptance.” A post that garners thousands of likes may still miss the mark with a core audience or fail to advance your skills.
  • Editorial gatekeepers (agents, publishers, editors) often reject work not because it’s bad, but because it doesn’t fit a current market need or lacks a specific polish.

The Value of Humility

Accepting that acceptance is uncertain forces us to:

  1. Stay curious – We keep asking, “How can this be clearer, more compelling, or more true?”
  2. Remain teachable – Feedback becomes a gift rather than a threat.
  3. Focus on process, not outcome – The act of writing improves, even when a particular piece isn’t published or praised.

SEO Tip: Sprinkle the phrase “writing acceptance isn’t guaranteed” naturally in the first 100 words and again in a subheading to capture long‑tail queries around writer’s doubt and resilience.

2. The Core Pillars We Can Count On: Fairness and Help

Perry distinguishes two things she does take for granted: fairness and help. These are the bedrock of a supportive writing ecosystem.

PillarWhat It Means for WritersHow to Cultivate It
FairnessBelieving that effort, honesty, and integrity will eventually be recognised, even if not immediately.• Set personal standards (word counts, revision cycles) and stick to them.
• Celebrate incremental wins (finished draft, solved plot hole).
HelpTrusting that mentors, peers, and resources are available when we seek them.• Join a critique group or writing forum (e.g., Scribophile, local NaNoWriMo meet‑ups).
• Schedule regular “help hours” – time to ask a beta reader or coach for specific feedback.

By anchoring ourselves in these reliable supports, we free up mental energy to focus on improvement rather than chasing fleeting validation.

3. Building a Growth‑Oriented Writing Practice

A. Adopt a Growth Mindset (Carol Dweck)

  • Fixed mindset: “I’m either a good writer or I’m not.”
  • Growth mindset: “My abilities expand with deliberate practice and learning.”

Action: After each writing session, jot down one thing you learned and one tweak you’ll try next time.

B. Set Process‑Driven Goals

Goal TypeExampleWhy It Works
OutputWrite 500 words daily.Builds habit, reduces perfectionism.
SkillStudy one dialogue technique per week.Targets measurable improvement.
FeedbackShare a scene with a critique partner every two weeks.Externalizes blind spots.

C. Embrace Iterative Revision

  1. Draft – Get ideas down without judgment.
  2. Rest – Step away for 24‑48 hours.
  3. Read Aloud – Spot awkward phrasing and pacing issues.
  4. Edit for Clarity – Trim redundancies, tighten logic.
  5. Seek Feedback – Incorporate specific, actionable notes.
  6. Polish – Focus on grammar, style, and voice.

Repeating this loop transforms each piece into a stepping stone rather than a final verdict.

4. Practical Steps to Keep Improving (SEO‑Friendly Checklist)

  • Read Widely & Critically – Alternate between genres; note what works and why.
  • Study Craft Books – On Writing Well (Zinsser), Bird by Bird (Lamott), The Elements of Style (Strunk & White).
  • Take Online Courses – Platforms like MasterClass, Coursera, or Reedsy Learning offer targeted lessons on plot, voice, SEO copywriting, etc.
  • Analyse Your Own Metrics – Use Google Analytics or platform insights to see which topics retain readers longest; treat data as feedback, not judgment.
  • Attend Live Events – Writer’s conferences, webinars, or open‑mic nights provide real‑time interaction and inspiration.
  • Mentor Someone Else – Teaching reinforces your own knowledge and highlights gaps you might have missed.

Keyword Integration: Throughout this section, naturally include phrases like “writing improvement tips,” “self‑improvement for writers,” and “continuous learning for authors.” These align with common search queries and help the post rank for long‑tail traffic.

5. Community: The Help We Can Rely On

Writing may feel solitary, but the most resilient writers build support ecosystems.

  • Critique Circles: Small groups (3‑5 members) that exchange work weekly.
  • Accountability Partners: Pair up to share goals and check progress bi‑weekly.
  • Online Forums: Reddit’s r/writing, Absolute Write, or genre‑specific Discord servers.
  • Workshops & Retreats: Immersion experiences that combine learning with networking.

When we view help as a given, we’re more likely to ask for it—turning isolation into collaboration.

6. Aren’t We All? – The Universal Call to Grow

Anne Perry’s closing question—“Aren’t we all?”—is an invitation to recognise that the drive to improve isn’t exclusive to published authors; it’s a human trait. Whether you’re drafting a novel, crafting SEO copy, journaling, or posting on LinkedIn, the same principles apply:

  1. Assume nothing about acceptance.
  2. Lean on fairness and help as constants.
  3. Commit to tiny, consistent upgrades.

When we internalise this mindset, every piece becomes a lesson, every critique a gift, and every day a chance to be a slightly better writer than yesterday.

7. Conclusion & Call to Action

Anne Perry’s succinct reminder packs a lifetime of writerly wisdom into two sentences: humility fuels growth, acceptance is a bonus—not a guarantee, and the journey of improvement is shared by all who dare to create.

Your next step: Choose one actionable item from the checklist above and implement it today. Whether it’s setting a 500‑word daily target, joining a critique forum, or reading a chapter of a craft book, commit to that habit for the next 21 days. Track your progress in a simple log or spreadsheet, and revisit this post at the end of the month to see how far you’ve come.

Remember: The path isn’t about achieving perpetual acceptance; it’s about showing up, learning, and getting a little better each time you put pen to paper (or keyboard).

Ready to grow? Share your commitment in the comments below—let’s build a community of writers who never take acceptance for granted, but always strive to improve.

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Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – London

London’s Secret Charms: 5 Uncrowded Gems with Unforgettable Features

London. The very name conjures images of iconic landmarks, bustling streets, and a vibrant energy that pulses through its historic veins. But let’s be honest, that energy often translates into crowds – a beautiful, diverse, fascinating crowd, but a crowd nonetheless.

What if you yearn for a different rhythm? A London where you can connect with history, art, and nature without constantly jostling for a view? A London where distinctive features truly shine, allowing you to savour every unique detail?

Fear not, intrepid explorer! I’ve curated a list of five phenomenal London attractions that deliver on distinctive character without the typical tourist throngs. These are the places where you can breathe, ponder, and truly absorb the magic of this incredible city.

1. Sir John Soane’s Museum: A Collector’s Labyrinth of Wonders

What makes it distinctive? Imagine stepping into the mind of an eccentric 19th-century architect, where every surface, every nook, and every cranny is crammed with art, antiquities, and architectural fragments. Sir John Soane’s Museum is not a typical museum; it’s a meticulously preserved house that he designed to display his vast and eclectic collection exactly as he wanted it. Expect a fascinating, almost overwhelming, visual feast. Highlights include an Egyptian sarcophagus, a room of hidden paintings on hinged panels, and ceilings adorned with fragments of Roman sculpture.

Why it’s uncrowded: Its very nature – a house packed to the rafters – means visitor numbers are carefully controlled. It’s a small, intimate space, encouraging quiet contemplation rather than rapid sightseeing. You’ll often find yourself with plenty of room to explore.

Insider Tip: Look out for the “picture rooms” where walls literally open up to reveal more art behind them. It’s a delightful, theatrical surprise!

2. The Wallace Collection: Opulence and Masterpieces in a Grand Mansion

What makes it distinctive? Housed in Hertford House, a magnificent stately home in Marylebone, The Wallace Collection offers a truly unique experience: a peerless collection of 18th-century French art, furniture, porcelain, and old master paintings, all displayed in the sumptuous setting of a historic private residence. It feels less like a public gallery and more like you’ve been invited into a wealthy collector’s home. From rococo masterpieces like Fragonard’s “The Swing” to an impressive armoury, the sheer quality and variety are astonishing.

Why it’s uncrowded: While well-known, it often gets overlooked in favour of the larger, more public museums. Its location, slightly off the main tourist drag, also helps keep numbers manageable. Plus, it’s completely free to enter!

Insider Tip: Don’t miss the stunning central courtyard, which has been beautifully enclosed to create a light-filled restaurant – perfect for a refined coffee or lunch break.

3. Chelsea Physic Garden: London’s Oldest Botanic Oasis

What makes it distinctive? Tucked away behind high walls near the Thames, the Chelsea Physic Garden is a living museum of plants with a fascinating history. Established in 1673 by the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries, it was created specifically for the study of medicinal plants. Today, it’s a tranquil four-acre oasis showcasing around 5,000 different species, including the largest fruiting olive tree in Britain and the world’s most northerly grapefruit tree. It’s a place where history, science, and nature intertwine beautifully.

Why it’s uncrowded: It charges a modest entrance fee and isn’t on the primary tourist routes, ensuring a peaceful atmosphere. It’s a favourite among locals seeking serenity, rather than a must-see for first-time visitors ticking off landmarks.

Insider Tip: Check their website for workshops, talks, and guided tours which offer deeper insights into the garden’s extensive collections and history.

4. St. Dunstan in the East Church Garden: A Ruined Beauty Reclaimed by Nature

What makes it distinctive? This is perhaps one of London’s most visually stunning “hidden” gems. What once was a grand medieval church, later rebuilt by Sir Christopher Wren, was largely destroyed during the Blitz in 1941. Instead of rebuilding, the ruins were transformed into a public garden. Ivy-clad walls, elegant Gothic arches, and a Wren tower now frame a vibrant collection of trees and plants. It’s an ethereal, almost magical space that perfectly blends history with nature’s resilience.

Why it’s uncrowded: Despite its proximity to the Tower of London and Monument, it’s tucked away down a side street, making it easy to miss if you don’t know it’s there. It’s a favourite spot for city workers on their lunch break and photographers, but rarely overwhelmed by tourists.

Insider Tip: Visit on a sunny day when the light filters through the archways and foliage, creating a truly enchanting atmosphere. Find a bench and simply soak in the tranquility.

5. Leighton House: An Artist’s Victorian Fantasy

What makes it distinctive? Step into the fantastical home and studio of Victorian artist Frederic, Lord Leighton, and prepare to be mesmerised. The crowning glory is the “Arab Hall,” a breathtaking space inspired by Leighton’s travels to the Middle East. Adorned with over 1,000 iridescent Islamic tiles, a golden dome, and a tranquil fountain, it’s like stepping into a dream. Beyond this, the house offers beautiful period rooms, Leighton’s grand studio, and a collection of his and his contemporaries’ art. It’s a truly unique architectural and artistic vision.

Why it’s uncrowded: Located in Holland Park, West London, it’s a little further out than central attractions, which naturally reduces footfall. It also requires a timed ticket, ensuring a pleasant visitor experience.

Insider Tip: Look closely at the tiles in the Arab Hall – many are original 16th and 17th-century pieces, carefully acquired by Leighton himself.

So, the next time you find yourself in the magnificent city of London, consider taking a detour from the main thoroughfares. These five distinctive, uncrowded attractions offer a chance to connect with a different side of the capital – one that’s rich in history, beauty, and quiet wonder. Happy exploring!

Have you discovered any other uncrowded London treasures? Share them in the comments below!

In a word: crane

Yes, it’s that huge device that is attached to a tall building and either raises or lowers building materials.  I’ve often wondered how the driver, so far up in the air, can see where to pick up or drop a load.

Typically, cranes are used to move large or heavy loads, like large fibreglass swimming pools, from the roadside into the front or back yard.

There are train breakdown cranes, dockside cranes and broken down cranes, usually on the road in the middle of rush hour.

They used to have dog men, people who hung on grimly, going up or down with the load.  Not me when the building is sixty or seventy floors up.

There can be smaller cranes built on trucks that are for smaller jobs like lifting boats or sometimes parts of houses.  We had one near us once, lifting a swimming pool into a front yard.

Then there is the crane, a bird.  Cranes are usually tall birds with long legs.

In Asia, the crane symbolises happiness and eternal youth, whereas in Japan, the crane symbolises good fortune and longevity.

And other uses such as:

The boy craned his neck to see the batter hit a home run.  

Usually, if I crane my neck, it causes days of muscular pain, i.e., literally the definition of a pain in the neck!

It means to distort your body or neck in order to see something more clearly, especially if you are in a bad position, like behind a pylon or tree.

It can also be used to describe a trolley with a large boom with a camera attached.

“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 that 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 several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at 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 discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that 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 are 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!

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