How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
Athens: The Road Less Travelled – Your Next Five Unforgettable Discoveries
Athens. The very name conjures images of ancient wonders: the majestic Acropolis, the bustling Plaka, the grandeur of the Parthenon. And rightly so – these iconic sites are breathtaking and essential to any first-time visit. But what if you’ve already stood in awe of the Caryatids, navigated the labyrinthine streets of Plaka, or found yourself yearning for something beyond the well-trodden tourist path?
Athens is a city of layers, a vibrant tapestry where ancient history brushes shoulders with modern grit, bohemian charm, and serene coastal beauty. For the curious traveller eager to dig a little deeper, to uncover the authentic soul of this magnificent metropolis, a wealth of hidden gems awaits.
So, if you’re ready to venture beyond the postcards, here are the next top five things to do or see in Athens, proving that the road less travelled truly leads to unforgettable discoveries:
1. Lose Yourself in Anafiotika: An Island Village in the City
Nestled directly under the shadow of the Acropolis, yet often overlooked, lies Anafiotika. This tiny, picturesque neighbourhood feels like a Cycladic island village magically transplanted to the heart of Athens. Built by craftsmen from the island of Anafi who came to Athens in the 19th century to work on King Otto’s palace, they created homes reminiscent of their homeland.
Why it’s unique: Whitewashed cubic houses, impossibly narrow alleys, vibrant bougainvillea, and sleepy cats create an atmosphere of serene timelessness. It’s an oasis of calm that feels a world away from the city’s hustle and bustle, despite being just steps from the tourist throng.
What to do: Wander aimlessly. Get wonderfully lost. Discover hidden churches, admire the unique architecture, and soak in the tranquil ambience. It’s a photographer’s dream and a perfect spot for quiet contemplation.
Pro Tip: Go early in the morning or late in the afternoon to avoid the crowds and catch the best light. Allow yourself to simply be rather than rushing through.
2. Embrace the Bohemian Heart of Exarchia
For a taste of Athens’ alternative, intellectual, and slightly rebellious spirit, head to Exarchia. This neighbourhood is a vibrant hub of students, artists, and activists, known for its lively squares, independent bookstores, vintage shops, and some of the city’s most striking street art.
Why it’s unique: Exarchia offers a raw, unfiltered view of contemporary Athenian life. It’s a place of passionate debate, political murals, and a strong sense of community. It’s not sanitised for tourists; it’s authentic, edgy, and exhilarating.
What to do: Explore the captivating street art, grab a coffee at one of the bustling cafes on Exarchia Square, browse the unique bookstores (many with English sections), or catch a live music performance in a local bar. The open-air cinema, Cine Vox, is also a summer highlight.
Pro Tip: While generally safe during the day, be aware of your surroundings, especially at night. It’s a place to observe and soak in the atmosphere respectfully, rather than overtly act like a tourist.
3. Savour the Culinary & Cultural Delights of Pangrati
Just a stone’s throw from the Panathenaic Stadium (the site of the first modern Olympic Games), but much less explored by visitors, lies Pangrati. This charming, upscale residential neighbourhood is a true Athenian gem, celebrated for its fantastic food scene, stylish boutiques, and relaxed, local vibe.
Why it’s unique: Pangrati is where Athenians go to eat, drink, and socialise. You’ll find traditional tavernas serving authentic Greek dishes alongside trendy cafes, wine bars, and gourmet restaurants. It’s less about ancient ruins and more about experiencing daily Athenian life.
What to do: Embark on a self-guided food tour, hopping from ouzeri (meze bar) to taverna for delicious local specialities. Visit the Goulandris Museum of Contemporary Art for a dose of modern culture, or simply enjoy a leisurely coffee and watch the world go by in one of its leafy squares.
Pro Tip: Don’t miss the chance to try a koulouri (sesame bread ring) from a street vendor or indulge in a traditional bougatsa (custard-filled pastry) for breakfast.
4. Unwind by the Athenian Riviera & Lake Vouliagmeni
Who knew Athens had a stunning coastline easily accessible from the city centre? Escape the urban heat and discover the Athenian Riviera, a beautiful stretch of coastline dotted with beaches, marinas, and charming seaside towns. A particular highlight is Lake Vouliagmeni.
Why it’s unique: This natural thermal lake, nestled in a breathtaking setting, is a hidden wellness oasis. Its brackish waters are constantly refreshed by both the sea and underground thermal springs, maintaining a year-round temperature of 22-29°C (71-84°F). It’s home to natural fish spa therapies and is rich in minerals.
What to do: Swim in the therapeutic waters of Lake Vouliagmeni, relax on the sunbeds, or enjoy a coffee with a view. Further along the Riviera, explore the chic beaches of Glyfada or enjoy fresh seafood at a coastal taverna.
Pro Tip: Take the tram (T6 from Syntagma Square), which runs along the coast, offering scenic views and easy access to various spots along the Riviera. It’s a fantastic half or full-day escape.
5. Embark on a Street Art Safari in Metaxourgeio & Kerameikos
While Exarchia offers a glimpse, the neighbourhoods of Metaxourgeio and Kerameikos are increasingly becoming an open-air gallery showcasing some of Athens’ most powerful and poignant street art. These areas, once neglected, are undergoing a renaissance, with art playing a significant role in their transformation.
Why it’s unique: Beyond mere graffiti, you’ll discover huge, intricate murals by renowned Greek and international artists that tell stories, provoke thought, and add vibrant colour to the urban landscape. It’s a dynamic, ever-changing exhibition that reflects the pulse of the city.
What to do: Take a guided street art tour (many local companies offer them) to understand the history and meaning behind the pieces, or simply wander with an open mind and a camera. You’ll find works ranging from political commentary to whimsical fantasies. Afterwards, enjoy a drink in one of Metaxourgeio’s trendy bars.
Pro Tip: Don’t just look at the big pieces; pay attention to smaller, intricate stencils and tags that reveal hidden gems around every corner. Keep an eye out for commissioned works as well as more anarchic expressions.
Athens is a city that rewards the curious, the adventurous, and those willing to step a little off the beaten path. While the ancient marvels will always be its cornerstone, these five “next steps” offer a richer, more diverse, and deeply authentic immersion into the heart and soul of this incredible European capital. So, pack your bags, lace up your comfortable shoes, and prepare to discover the Athens you never knew existed!
What hidden gems have you discovered in Athens? Share your favourite “road less travelled” spots in the comments below!
I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.
Or I could be underwater.
Everything was blurred.
I tried to focus but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.
What happened?
Why was I lying down?
Where was I?
I cast my mind back, trying to remember.
It was a blank.
What, when, who, why and where, are questions I should easily be able to answer. These are questions any normal person could answer.
I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.
I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.
“My God! What happened?”
I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.
I was blind. Everything was black.
“Car accident; hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”
Was I that poor bastard?
“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.
“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”
“What isn’t broken?”
“His neck.”
“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”
I heard the shuffling of pages.
“OR1 ready?”
“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”
“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”
Magic.
It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.
Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time underwater.
Or somewhere.
I tried to speak but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.
Was it night or was it day?
Was it hot, or was it cold?
Where was I?
Around me, it felt cool.
It was incredibly quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or that was the sound of pure silence. And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.
I didn’t try to move.
Instinctively, somehow, I knew not to.
A previous unpleasant experience?
I heard what sounded like a door opening, and noticeably quiet footsteps slowly came into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.
My grandfather.
He had smoked all his life until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way, down the same path. I could smell the smoke.
I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.
I couldn’t.
I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.
“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a bad accident. You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days and just came out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
She had a very soothing voice.
Her fingers stroked the back of my hand.
“Everything is fine.”
Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.
“Just count backwards from 10.”
Why?
I didn’t reach seven.
Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning, I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.
It rose above the disinfectant.
She was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.
It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.
The next morning, she was back.
“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very severely injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”
More tests, and then when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. This was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.
The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”
Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accidents, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.
How could that happen?
That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, or only vague memories after.
But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised, I could not remember my name.
I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.
I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I will remember tomorrow. Or the next day.
Sleep was a blessed relief.
The next day I didn’t wake up feeling nauseous. I think they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that but not who I am?
Now I knew Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something unbelievably bad. She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”
So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.
But there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.
This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.
This time sleep was restless.
Scenes were playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Others, people I didn’t know. Or I knew them and couldn’t remember them.
Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.
The morning the bandages were to come off she came in early and woke me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.
“This morning the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly, or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”
I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.
I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender; the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.
I was amazed to realise at that moment, I wasn’t.
I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.
I felt the bandage being removed, and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.
Then a moment when nothing happened.
Then the pads are gently lifted and removed.
Nothing.
I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.
“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. There was ointment or something else in them.
Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.
She wiped my eyes again.
I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.
I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.
Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.
I nodded.
“You can see?”
I nodded again.
“Clearly?”
I nodded.
“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”
I couldn’t wait.
When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the most handsome of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.
I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.
They came at mid-morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. She was the distraction, taking my mind off the reality of what I was about to see.
Another doctor came into the room before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon who had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.
I found it hard to believe, if he were, that he would be at a small country hospital.
“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months.”
Warning enough.
The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.
Then it was done.
The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.
I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand and was reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the result. The doctor said it was going to heal with little scarring. You have been extremely fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
She showed me.
I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess, I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.
And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked in that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.
“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement in last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”
Background material used in creating a location, an explosive situation, and characters to bring it alive – the story – A Score to Settle
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The premise
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The Powder Keg Conference: When Irony Meets Incitement in the Republic of Azmar
The world of international politics often serves up a certain dish of absurdity, but occasionally, the ingredients align for a truly catastrophic meal. We are witnessing such a geopolitical culinary disaster right now, brewing in the fictional Republic of Azmar.
Azmar is, by all measures, a textbook example of modern authoritarianism: a military dictatorship, financially and politically shielded by a major superpower, and helmed by President General Kroll, a man whose personal wealth seems to increase inversely to his country’s freedoms. The regime’s human rights abuses—disappearances, rigged judiciary, suppression of dissent—are not simply allegations; they are an open, festering secret among global watchdog organizations.
And yet, this week, Azmar is throwing a party.
The Irony Convention
In a move that strains the very definition of chutzpah, the Kroll regime is hosting the Global Summit for Progressive Human Rights Advancement.
The contrast is dizzying. While political prisoners languish in overcrowded, secret facilities, the capital city has been scrubbed clean. Banners proclaiming “Justice Through Dialogue” hang from lampposts. The state-run media is ecstatic, broadcasting endless interviews about Azmar’s commitment to “international transparency.”
The goal, of course, is not dialogue. It is legitimization. The conference is a Potemkin Village, a meticulously constructed facade designed to convince foreign investors and, more importantly, the regime’s international patrons that Azmar is a stable, reforming nation.
And perhaps the most volatile element of this stagecraft? The roster of attendees.
The Ethical Tightrope Walk of the Keynote Speaker
The event has attracted truly renowned figures: Nobel Laureates, celebrated international lawyers, and veteran human rights defenders. These are people whose careers have been defined by fighting the very abuses Azmar exemplifies.
Why are they here? For some, it is the genuine belief that dialogue must occur, even with the devil. For others, it’s the hefty speaking fees and the promise of a global stage. Whatever the motivation, their presence offers the Kroll regime exactly what it craves: a veneer of institutional approval.
When a celebrated author stands at the podium, criticizing abstract concepts of oppression while simultaneously shaking hands with the architect of that oppression, the lines between principle and pragmatism blur dangerously. Their words, intended as a critique, are instead absorbed into the regime’s propaganda machine: “See? Even the world’s greatest thinkers endorse Azmar’s path forward.”
It is a tense, ethically compromised theatre. But the real drama is about to erupt just outside the conference hall.
The Return of the Ghost
For years, the domestic unrest in Azmar has been a low, continuous rumble—a simmering resentment against Kroll’s corruption and brutality. The memory of the previous government, the democratically elected administration deposed in the violent coup fifteen years ago, lingered like a ghost, kept alive only by hushed whispers.
That ghost has just materialized.
Simultaneously with the arrival of the international luminaries, news has swept through the Azmari underground that Elias Mendieta, the long-missing son of the deposed and disappeared president, has returned home.
Elias Mendieta represents everything President Kroll is not: legitimacy, democratic mandate, and the promise of a free Azmar. His return is not just political news; it is a profound symbolic act. It transforms simmering discontent into active incitement.
The Collision Course
The timing is either impossibly unlucky for President Kroll or perfectly calculated by Mendieta’s supporters.
Think about the dynamics now at play:
Maximum Global Focus: The world’s major media outlets and human rights organizations are all focused on Azmar due to the conference.
Maximum Internal Tension: The regime has poured all its resources into maintaining a facade of tranquility, meaning security forces are stretched and focused on keeping the peace in the capital’s diplomatic quarters.
Maximum Ideological Threat: Elias Mendieta, the embodiment of popular resistance and democratic history, is now mobilizing supporters in the streets.
This is not a political confrontation that will play out in press releases. This is a dramatic, high-stakes collision.
If Mendieta attempts to make a dramatic public appearance, the regime faces an impossible choice:
Option A: Allow him to speak. This instantly delegitimizes the conference and risks igniting mass protests that could turn revolutionary.
Option B: Arrest or silence him violently. Doing so while Nobel Laureates are debating “the future of free expression” literally blocks away would shatter the carefully constructed facade and invite global condemnation, potentially forcing the major power propping up Kroll to finally step back.
The Republic of Azmar has prepared a gilded stage for a dialogue on human rights, but what is truly about to commence is a revolution.
What could possibly go wrong? Everything. And we are all watching the fuse burn down.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
A relationship, a bad day, a friendship, a long, monotonous lecture, and dinner.
It’s basically the light at the end of the tunnel, when it’s not the 6:32 express from Clapton, entering the other end of that same tunnel.
You could go over the top, which means, in one sense, over and above the expected, or way beyond the expected but not in a good way.
You could go over the waterfall in a leaky boat. Not advisable, but sometimes a possibility, if someone fails to tell you at the end of the rapids there is a waterfall. Just make sure it’s not the same as Niagara falls.
Still, someone has gone over Niagara in a barrel.
Then we could say that my lodging is over the garage, which simply means someone built it on top of the garage.
Branches of trees quite ofter grow over the roofs of houses, until a severe storm brings them down and suddenly they are in your house, no longer over it.
You can have editorial control over a newspaper
In a fight, the combatants are equally trying to shout over the top of each other
And sometimes, when trying to paint a different picture to what is real, you could say the temperature is sometimes over 40 degrees centigrade when you know for a fact it is usually 56 degrees centigrade. No need for the literal truth here or no one will come.
Then you could say I came over land, assuming that you took a car, or walked when in actual fact you came by plane. And yes, the whole flight was, truthfully, over land.
I don’t accept my lot in fife, nor do I want a small lot on which to build my mansion!
But the oddest use of the word over is when we describe, in cricket, the delivery of 6 balls.
I’ve listened to cricket commentary, and aside from trying to pronounce the names of the players, if you were unfamiliar with the game, being told this ball was outside leg stump, one of several deliveries, the last of which was the end of the over. If the delivery hit the stumps, it is then a wicket, and the batsman is out.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
All stories require some form of research, quite often to place a character in a place at a particular time, especially if it is in a historical context. This series will take you through what it was like in 1914 through 1916.
…
What was the path an aristocratic son had to follow to become a commissioned officer in the armed services?
After the abolition of the purchase system in 1871, the path for an aristocratic son to become a commissioned officer still heavily favoured his social standing, despite being based officially on merit and examination. For the army, this typically involved attending elite public schools and then the Royal Military College at Sandhurst. For the Royal Navy, it meant entering training at a young age.
The path to a commission in the British Army
1. Elite education at a public school:
Preparatory training: A military career was often decided early, with many boys attending elite public schools like Eton , Harrow , or Radley
Officer Training Corps (OTC): From the age of 13, public schools would operate Officers’ Training Corps units that groomed students specifically for military leadership.
“Character” over academics: While academic standards were needed for entry, the emphasis was placed on developing the “right character,” reinforcing the idea that officers came from a specific class.
2. Entry into a military college:
Sandhurst: Most aspiring infantry and cavalry officers would attend the
Royal Military College (RMC) at Sandhurst
. Entry was competitive and primarily based on entrance examinations.
Woolwich: Those seeking commissions in the Royal Engineers or Royal Artillery—branches that never had a purchase system due to their specialised nature—had to graduate from the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich
.
3. Choosing a regiment and affording the lifestyle:
Social connections: Regimental officers retained the right to vet potential candidates, and social connections helped ensure entry into a prestigious unit, particularly the Guards or Household Cavalry.
Extracurricular costs: While the commission was no longer purchased, aristocratic officers were expected to maintain an expensive lifestyle. This included high mess bills and funding for activities like polo, which were far beyond the means of lower-class men.
Financial support: Despite a junior officer’s pay being modest, aristocratic families could afford to subsidise their sons, making it possible to serve in the most expensive regiments.
The path to a commission in the Royal Navy
Unlike the army, the Royal Navy did not use the purchase system and was theoretically more meritocratic. However, patronage and wealth still played a significant role.
1. Entering the service at a young age:
Cadet entry: Aspiring naval officers would join the service as young cadets, often around 12 years old. For the aristocracy, this could be arranged through familial connections.
Britannia Royal Naval College: From 1863, naval officer training was institutionalised through training ships and later at the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth
.
2. Training as a midshipman:
Practical experience: Following college, a cadet was appointed a midshipman and had to gain extensive practical experience at sea.
Patronage: Connections remained crucial, as a senior officer could take a young man under his wing. Many officers were reluctant to take on those without influential family connections.
3. The Lieutenant’s examination:
Merit-based advancement: The most significant step was passing the “Lieutenant’s Examination,” a demanding test of nautical and mathematical knowledge. Failure meant a midshipman could remain without promotion indefinitely.
Post-exam placement: Even after passing, social connections were often necessary to secure an active posting, as there were always more qualified officers than available positions.
Background material used in researching the Vietnam was and various other aspects of that period
…
Professional soldiers versus the conscripts or nashos
..
The Digger and the Nasho: A Comparative Analysis of the Experiences of Regular and Conscripted Soldiers in the Australian Army Task Force, Vietnam
Abstract The Australian commitment to the Vietnam War (1962-1973) was uniquely characterised by the deployment of a large contingent of conscripted soldiers, known as “Nashos,” alongside the volunteer regulars of the professional Australian Army. A pervasive national myth suggests that these two groups were seamlessly integrated, sharing identical experiences, burdens, and fates. This paper challenges that homogenised view. Through an analysis of recruitment, training, unit deployment, operational roles, and the psychosocial experience of homecoming, it argues that while regulars and conscripts were indeed tactically integrated and performed with equal distinction, significant differences in pre-deployment conditioning, perceived military purpose, and post-war societal reception created a fundamentally distinct lived experience for each group. The paper concludes that the policy of tactical integration, while militarily sound, could not erase the profound underlying distinctions between the volunteer and the compelled soldier.
Keywords: Vietnam War, Australia, Conscription, National Service, Australian Army, Military History, Civil-Military Relations, Veterans
1. Introduction
Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War remains one of the most contentious periods in the nation’s modern history. Central to this controversy was the Menzies government’s reintroduction of conscription in 1964 via the National Service Act 1964, which required twenty-year-old males to register for a lottery-style ballot (the “birthday ballot”). Those selected were obligated to undertake two years of continuous service, which included deployment to an overseas theatre of war, specifically Vietnam. Between 1965 and 1972, approximately 63,735 national servicemen were enlisted, of whom 15,381 served in Vietnam, constituting nearly 40% of all Australian troops deployed (Dennis et al., 2008).
The official military narrative, both at the time and in subsequent decades, emphasised the seamless integration of these conscripts, or “Nashos,” into the regular army. They wore the same uniform, trained in the same institutions, and fought alongside career soldiers in the same infantry sections and platoons. This led to a public perception of a monolithic “Digger” experience. However, a deeper historiographical examination reveals a more complex reality. This paper will argue that while the Australian Army Task Force (1ATF) successfully integrated conscripts and regulars at a tactical level for operational effectiveness, the two groups’ experiences were differentiated by fundamental factors: their reasons for being there, their career trajectories, their assignment to specific corps, their psychological framing of the conflict, and their vastly different receptions upon returning home.
2. Methodological Framework and Sources
This analysis employs a comparative historical methodology, drawing upon a range of primary and secondary sources. Primary sources include official government documents, unit war diaries, and personal narratives from veterans of both groups. Secondary sources comprise scholarly military histories, sociological studies on conscription, and psychological analyses of Vietnam veterans. The paper will structure its comparison across several key domains: recruitment and training, unit deployment and corps assignment, combat experience, and post-deployment life.
3. Recruitment and Training: The Volunteer and the Conscript
The initial and most profound difference lay in the state of mind upon entry into the military.
3.1 The Regular Soldier The regular army volunteer enlisted as a career choice. Motivated by factors including family tradition, a desire for adventure, economic opportunity, or a belief in the “Forward Defence” policy and the Domino Theory, the regular made a conscious decision to become a professional soldier (McNeill, 1984). Their training was part of a long-term investment in a military profession. They often had more time to absorb military culture and skills, progressing through a system designed to retain them for years.
3.2 The National Serviceman In stark contrast, the Nasho was compelled. His entry was not a choice but a result of statistical chance. While some accepted their fate with equanimity or even enthusiasm, many others felt resentment, anxiety, or a sense of profound injustice (Edwards, 1997). Their two-year service was a finite interruption to their civilian lives—university, apprenticeships, careers. This created a “tourist” mentality, a focus on surviving their 365-day operational tour and returning to “the World.” Their initial training at Scheyville or Puckapunyal, while intense, was accelerated, designed to produce a combat-ready infantryman in a matter of months, not a long-serving professional.
This divergence in motivation and temporal perspective created an underlying psychological schism. The regular was building a life; the Nasho was serving a sentence.
4. Unit Deployment and Corps Assignment: The Myth of Total Integration
While it is true that once in Vietnam, Nashos and regulars were mixed within units, their pathways to specific roles were not identical.
4.1 The Infantry: A Forced Integration The policy of the Army was to fully integrate national servicemen into regular battalions. A typical rifle company in 6RAR or 7RAR would be a mix of regular and conscripted soldiers. In the field, on patrol, and in contact with the enemy, no distinction was made. Promotion was based on merit and vacancy; many conscripts attained the rank of Corporal or even Sergeant, leading sections or platoons that contained regular soldiers (Coulthard-Clark, 2001). In the crucible of combat, the bond of “mateship” overwhelmingly superseded the distinction between volunteer and conscript. Survival depended on mutual trust and professional competence, not one’s method of enlistment.
4.2 The Corps Divide: Voluntary Skilled Roles However, a significant difference emerged in assignments to certain specialist corps. Technical support roles—in the Royal Australian Engineers (RAE), Royal Australian Signals (RASigs), Royal Australian Army Ordnance Corps (RAAOC), and Royal Australian Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (RAEME)—were overwhelmingly filled by regular soldiers (O’Keefe, 1994). These roles required long-term training and investment, making them unsuitable for a conscript on a two-year stint. A Nasho could not train for 12-18 months to be a signals technician only to have 6 months of useful service.
Conversely, the infantry and armour (tank and APC crews), which required robust numbers and where training could be completed relatively quickly, absorbed the vast majority of conscripts. This meant that while conscripts were fully integrated into the infantry, they were significantly underrepresented in the technical and logistical support corps. Consequently, the dangerous, relentless “grunt” work of patrolling and engaging the enemy in the jungles of Phuoc Tuy province fell disproportionately, though not exclusively, to a force that was 40-50% conscripted.
5. The Combat Experience: Shared Danger, Divergent Perspectives
In the operational area, the experience of danger was a great leveller. A bullet or mine did not discriminate between a volunteer and a conscript. Patrols, ambushes, and major battles like Long Tan (1966) and Coral-Balmoral (1968) were fought by integrated units. The primary identity in combat was that of the section, the platoon, and the battalion.
Yet, the psychological lens through which this experience was filtered differed. For the regular, this was his job, the culmination of his training, and a step in his career. For the Nasho, it was often an alien, terrifying ordeal to be endured until his DEROS (Date Eligible for Return from Overseas). Historian Peter Edwards notes that conscripts frequently expressed a more instrumental view of the war: their goal was not a grand strategic victory but the more immediate objective of keeping themselves and their mates alive until their tour ended (Edwards, 1997). This did not make them less effective soldiers, but it did colour their personal narrative of the conflict.
6. The Homecoming: The Deepening Divide
The most stark and damaging difference between the two groups manifested upon their return to Australia.
6.1 The Regular Soldier For the career soldier, returning to Australia often meant returning to the supportive, insular community of an army base. His professional identity was validated within his institution. He could continue his career, often with another posting, surrounded by colleagues who understood his experience.
6.2 The National Serviceman For the Nasho, the end of his tour meant an immediate and often brutal transition. He was discharged from the army, given a suit, a pay cheque, and sent back to a society that was deeply divided over the war he had just fought. He returned not to a military community but to a civilian one where his experience was either misunderstood or met with outright hostility. He was instructed not to wear his uniform in public to avoid abuse. The societal rejection felt by many Vietnam veterans was, therefore, a burden borne disproportionately by the conscripts, who were thrust back into the civilian world that had rejected the war (Jensen, 2021). They lacked the ongoing institutional support structure of the army, leaving many to process trauma and alienation alone.
7. Conclusion
The Australian Army’s policy of integrating regular soldiers and conscripts in Vietnam was an operational success. At the tactical level, in the infantry battalions that formed the backbone of 1ATF, the distinction between “Nasho” and “Digger” was largely irrelevant to the conduct of military operations. They fought together, bled together, and achieved together with equal valour and professionalism.
However, to claim their experiences were identical is a historical oversimplification. Their journeys were bookended by profound differences. The regular began his journey with a sense of purpose and choice; the conscript began his with compulsion and interruption. While they fought side-by-side, conscripts were funnelled into the direct combat arms in greater proportion, while regulars dominated the technical support roles. Finally, and most significantly, their wars ended in utterly different ways: the regular returned to the embrace of his profession, while the conscript was cast adrift into a fractious and often hostile society.
The experience of the Australian soldier in Vietnam was not monolithic. It was a spectrum defined, above all, by the nature of one’s service. Understanding the nuanced differences between the regular and the conscript is crucial not only for historical accuracy but also for appreciating the complex and enduring legacy of the Vietnam War for Australian veterans and the nation itself. The integration was real in the jungle, but the dichotomy of choice versus chance created two distinct strands of experience within the same formidable military force.
References
Coulthard-Clark, C. (2001). The Encyclopaedia of Australia’s Battles. Allen & Unwin.
Dennis, P., Grey, J., Morris, E., Prior, R., & Bou, J. (2008). The Oxford Companion to Australian Military History (2nd ed.). Oxford University Press.
Edwards, P. (1997). A Nation at War: Australian Politics, Society and Diplomacy during the Vietnam War 1965-1975. Allen & Unwin.
Jensen, P. (2021). The Long Return: Australian Vietnam Veterans and their Endless War. NewSouth Publishing.
McNeill, I. (1984). The Team: Australian Army Advisers in Vietnam 1962-1972. Australian War Memorial.
O’Keefe, B. (1994). Medicine at War: Medical Aspects of Australia’s Involvement in Southeast Asia 1950-1972. Allen & Unwin.
OK, I could have made one, I have a Nespresso machine, purchased after watching an inspiring George Clooney advertisement (well, my wife bought it) but I was after something with a little more oomph!
We have a small shopping centre just up the road about a kilometre and I thought, what’s five minutes and a short drive against a cup of hot, steaming, delicious to the last drop, coffee?
That’s where any semblance of sanity ends.
I walked out the back door and forgot the car keys, so I had to go back in. The door opens and the cat gets out. Not so bad you think, but no, after three road kills, the cat getting out is a major catastrophe (pardon the pun).
Ten minutes later, cornered like a rat in a trap, he is back inside, I have the keys, and out in the car. It’s a hot day, and the air conditioning isn’t working. Damn. It’s like 45 degrees Celsius in the car.
This is the time to give up and go back inside. The omens are telling!
I don’t.
Our driveway is up a slight hill and usually we back the cars up so it’s easier to drive out onto the street. We live in a corner house, and whilst it is not a busy intersection, it has been known for cars to treat it like the third chicane of a grand prix. Late at night cars have rolled trying to make that tight corner.
I’m reversing off the driveway, too lazy the previous day to back it up, and you guessed it, Enzo Ferrari’s brother is making heavy weather in the third chicane and takes the corner wide, sliding across to the other side of the street, a) because he’s going too fast, and b) because he just saw me backing out of my driveway.
I’m having a heart attack and waiting for the bang, and he’s rapidly accelerating, smoke pouring from streaming tyres, and engine roaring in first or second as the revs pass 9000 and are redlining.
Disaster averted. One speed junkie and daredevil happy, one old man shaken to the core.
So far I’ve travelled 10 metres.
On the radio the station is playing the James Bond theme from ‘You Only Live Twice’.
Apt, very apt.
I am now very sedately driving to the shopping centre, the road following a wide curve. Nothing can go wrong here, until I reach the T intersection. I stop like I do every time, and look. No cars from the left, and one opposite me, turning into my street.
I start to turn. The car opposite decides to do a U Turn, and I slam the foot on the brakes. The driver of the other car is oblivious to me, happily chatting on her mobile phone. Didn’t stop, didn’t look, didn’t care.
My heart rate is now 170 over 122, and perhaps I should be clinically dead.
Coffee is the last thing I need.
But I persevere. How much worse can it get?
The shopping centre is not far, up to the roundabout and a right turn into the shopping centre car part. Usually there are plenty of parking spots, today there a none. I drive down one of the lanes, and nearly get hit but a reversing driver. Again, not looking, or perhaps distracted by four children in the back seat.
Or the very, very loud music coming from the car.
I thought at first it was the pounding of my headache, brought on by high blood pressure.
I back up the car a) top give the driver more room to reverse out, and b) so I could turn into the spot when he vacates it.
More fool me. The car backs out, another driver swoops in and takes the spot.
I get out to remonstrate, but he’s three feet wide and seven feet tall with a scarred face and tattoos on both arms. Time to move on.
Yes, there’s nothing like a tall hot steaming cup of coffee on a pleasant Sunday morning.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 