Aside from the fact it is one of those necessary items to walk with, and the fact we can have two or four for most humans and animals, there are a few other uses for the word ‘leg’.
Like…
‘You haven’t got a leg to stand on’, doesn’t necessarily mean you have no legs, but that you are in a precarious position.
“the table had ornate legs’, yes, even non-living objects can have legs, like tables and chairs.
“It was the fifth leg of the race’, meaning it can be a stage of a race.
“He was legless’, meaning that he was too drunk to stand up. Some might think being legless is a badge of honour, but I suspect those people have been drinking a long time and the alcohol has destroyed most of their brain cells.
“leg it!’, meaning get the hell out of here before you’re caught.
Then, finally, ‘he’s on his last legs’, meaning that he’s exhausted, or about to die.
I’m sure there’s more but that’ll do for now.
I have to use my legs to get some exercise, of which the first leg is to the tripod to check if its legs are stable, and the second leg is to come back to the table and replace one of the legs which is broken. Then I’ll leg it to the pub where hopefully I won’t become legless.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
I got back to the hotel just before Cecilia was leaving. She was wearing what I would call her party clothes, something that left little to the imagination, but not different from the many others trying to be noticed.
I had thought of using the analogy that she was going to be a single tree in a forest of similar trees, but it was probably something she already knew.
And a pity she felt she needed to make such an entrance just to be noticed, and probably to some, for all the wrong reasons. At least she was gaining experience for what I called her day job.
“I’ll be back to make an impression on your friend,” she said.
She didn’t need to say anymore. Impression would be an understatement. But it might, quite literally, shake the trees to see what falls out.
A half-hour later there was a light rapping on my door. I was not expecting any visitors, so it could be one of three options, Cecilia was back early or changed her mind though I seriously doubted it, or Juliet was being pre emotive, or perhaps it was just one of the hotel staff.
Whomever it was, I made the necessary preparations, just like in the old days, and opened the door. There was always that moment of unpreparedness, that someone would come crashing through the door and take you by surprise.
Happened once, not again.
“Juliet.” More a statement than a question, it should not be a surprise but it was.
She had dressed for dinner, not as Cecilia would, but she had made an effort. Had Cecilia made that happen?
And yet the first question to come to mind is, “How did you know I was here?”
“Simple, I saw you go into this room. It had to be either you, or the girl, so I made a choice. I was not sure what I was going to do or say if I was wrong.”
“It wouldn’t bother Cecilia. She and I, were just old friends.”
“Like us?”
“Are we old friends. It seems to me that we had something else back then, for a brief time, until I had to go back.”
“You never did explain what happened to you.”
“No, and the less said about it the better. I was young and stupid, like all men of that age, and I cheated death. I was lucky, very lucky, and, I might add, very lucky too that you were my doctor.”
“May I come in?”
Standing in the passage discussing personal matters might have been more embarrassing for her than for me. I stood to one side and let her pass. There was no fount in my mind she had a device that was sending our conversation back to Larry.
There would be questions, probing for the truth. Who I was, what I did, where I’d been. Now, or over dinner, it was her task
I closed the door and leaned against it.
I had to ask, “What are you doing here?”
A puzzled look came over her face, surprised perhaps I’d be that direct in asking.
“I thought you asked me to dinner.”
“I did.”
“We’re you just asking for the sake of asking?” There was a tinge of disappointment in her tone.
“No. I thought dinner would be good since Cecilia is out there promoting herself. She asked me to come along and see what it is like, but it’s too near the limelight for me.”
“Do you and her have a thing?”
I’m not sure what ‘a thing’ meant. “If you mean, a romantic attachment, no. It’s too soon after Angelina’s death. I may never get over it, but Cecilia popped up and said she was coming and she’s good fun. And being seen with her makes me look good for an over-the-hill retiree.”
That might make it reasonably clear if she wanted to push this to another level it wasn’t going ti work. Larry would be disappointed. It would be interesting to see what she had as a plan B.
“You’re not that old, just out of practice, but I get it. That doesn’t mean we can’t have dinner.”
“No, it does not.”
I thought about taking her to the hotel restaurant, but in the end opted for a long walk to St Mark’s square, one where a band was playing Rogers and Hammerstein musical songs.
The distance between us wasn’t physical, she was right beside me, so close I could have reached out and taken her hand in mine, it was the thought of her duplicity.
If she told me what was happening, I would have tried very hard to get her out of the predicament and take away Larry’s perceived advantage.
I hadn’t activated the scrambler, so Larry was no doubt listening in, but the conversation wouldn’t be all that informative. I spoke about Venice, deliberately, and of Angelina. Larry could make of that whatever he wanted.
At the restaurant we sat near to the orchestra, to help obfuscate the sound, and opposite each other. She was drinking champagne; I was having a beer.
“So, what have you been doing with yourself since I last met you?”
Nothing I write makes any sense, it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t progress the story, they are just words on a piece of paper. Perhaps it’s those moments of despair that are holding me back, those thoughts that begin to swirl in your head when the dream you had in your head becomes very different from what happens in reality.
And this is the problem, there are so many people out there that say, ‘dare to dream’, or ‘today its a dream tomorrow it is reality’.
Is it?
For some, those with the state of mind, the drive, and the confidence to pull it off, it might be, but for the rest of us, and that’s a lot of people trying to head down that same path f success, it’s a lot harder.
And you can bet those seminar or conference speakers have pocked the thousands of dollars they got for the gig, and have moved on to the next group of … well, let’s not give them a name.
I wish I could stand up in front of 200 budding authors and tell them, in the same bright breezy manner that they are on the way to success, just follow the ten proven steps, but I can’t. I know how hard that road is.
Like starting a farm, you don’t just walk onto the land, say you’re going to be a farmer, and magically everything happens. It doesn’t. It’s bloody hard work, and a lot of it, with heartbreak, and setbacks, and sometimes even a disaster.
It’s the same with writing.
You don’t sit at the typewriter, in front of a notebook, or computer screen, and it all just comes together. It doesn’t.
For some, it might, but for the rest of us, it’s a long hard road, just to get some form of recognition. And even then, like in the movies, fame can be fleeting, gone in the blink of an eye.
You have to produce, trying to produce creates pressure, pressure creates depression, and well. you get the picture, it’s a bit like the cycle of life.
Apparently, we are still discussing the implements with which we choose to put words on paper, and it seems that choice of implement might make a difference.
I have a degree of scepticism because I generally get words down on my phone, the only implement that is nearby at all times., no matter where I am.
Of course, many years ago I always travelled with little pocket-sized notebooks and a pen, rather than a pencil, to write. I still have all of these, several hundred in fact, in several shoeboxes in the cupboard in my writing room.
Over the years I have accumulated many A5-sized notebooks I bought where there were stationery sales, and now use these to both make notes or write. I tend not to use the smaller notebooks now, but I have a hundred or so sitting in a drawer just in case.
But do you like to write using a biro, with smudgy ink, a pen with a rollerball tip with less smudge, a felt-tip pen, which, depending on the paper type, can leach through, making it difficult to write on both sides, a fountain pen with ink, the old-fashioned way of writing letters, and some of the older writers back in the day?
I remember my early days I’m school, grade three in primary school, when we switched from pencil to pen and ink. It was very messy, to begin with, but I remember vividly being the ink monitor, the one who filled the ink wells, and discovering my schoolmate’s prelidiction for stuffing bits of blotting paper into the well for whatever reason.
Even now it would be a messy way to write.
But the choice is yours.
Tomorrow, at last, we get to do some more writing.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Was I working for a ghost?
I sat in that room for an hour.
I had no doubt someone was on the other side of the mirrored wall, watching me, analysing my body language. I hoped I hadn’t given any indication that Nobbin was a name that I recognised, or knew, but I was still new to this game, and as much as I tried to perfect it, I still didn’t think I had a poker face.
More than likely I had a ‘tell’.
There was something else I had to worry about, and that was what approach this Dobbin would take. For instance, did he know that I had met up with the man in the alley, and stretching that big if, did he know who the man in the alley was, and was he one of ours.
Of course, that was another problem I had, and that was recognising who ‘ours’ were. It seems the people I knew, were not the same people who were really running the place.
Or, paradoxically, were these people, interlopers, trying to get intel on the group I was supposedly working for. But they hadn’t disavowed me, so I must be working for someone they approved or knew of.
An hour and a half, and I was beginning to think this might be another game by my previous interrogators. I was glad not to be on the other side of the mirror, trying to work out what I was ‘telling;’ them. Once, I’d got up and stared directly into the mirror, thinking I might be able to see who was behind it. I also thought of tapping it to see if I could get a reaction.
And, in fact, I was about to do that very thing when Nobbin walked through the door and closed it behind him.
I saw him do a quick check of the room, from the floor to the roof, and stopping briefly at the mirror, before sitting down.
“We probably have an audience for this discussion,” I said, inclining my head towards the mirror.
“You might be right, but I did ask for a clean slate, and if anyone is considering recording or viewing this interview, there will be dire consequences.” Looking at the mirror, he added, “I made that very clear at the highest level.”
He then looked back at me. “Your name, I believe, is Sam Jackson?”
“Yes.” My current working name, that is. Once deployed to the field we started using aliases, and my first and current alias was Sam Jackson. But how they made the passport look old and used for that legend was interesting, yet not a question anyone would answer.
“You were recently assigned to a surveillance team, for this man.”
He’d brought a folder with him and pulled out a photograph of the man I’d cornered in the alley.
“Is that him?”
Was there a right or wrong answer here?
“Yes.”
“Who was leading this operation?”
“A man named Severin.”
“Describe him.
I did.
It evoked no reaction. Nobbin had a poker face. In fact, I was beginning to think it was etched in stone.
“Do you know who he is?” I asked.
“No. But we will find out. Thank you for your time.”
He stood, gave me one last look, and left the room.
I waited a minute, and then followed him out, where a security officer was waiting to escort me out of the building.
On the steps outside, security pass returned, I wondered if that was then end of my tenure with that organisation. Or whether I actually had any tenure in the first place.
There is always something strange about certain photographs that is not evident when you take them.
For instance, the photograph above.
While this might look like some vegetation by the side of a river or stream, its that are of blackness behind what looks like steps up from the water level that adds a level of intrigue or mystery.
For instance:
…
We had spent two weeks slowly going upriver looking for a needle in a haystack. It was an apt description, because there had been quite a large number of likely spots, all of which after investigation, came to nothing.
I mean, the description Professor Bates had given is was as hazy as day is long in these parts.
His recollection: that it was what looked like a cave behind lush undergrowth, with steps fashioned out of stone.
It was all the more confuse. Because when we found him, he was drifting on a rough hewn and constructed raft, half dead from dehydration. We were told he’d been on the raft for nearly a week.
That meant the cave could be anywhere between where we found him at the 10 mile mark, and 200 miles further on based on river flow.
We were currently at the 150 mile mark and the river was losing depth and width, and soon there would not be enough water to continue in the boat.
It was dusk and too dark to continue. We’d been enthusiastic those first days, continuing on in the dark, on shifts, using the arc lamps.
Then after a week, having lights on made us target practise, and after sever brushes with death, and the loss of all the bulbs being shot out, we got the message.
There was the odd marauder during the day, but we had the width of the river for safety. Now that had gone too, and we had lookouts posted, but seeing into the dense jungle was difficult.
But we got through another night with no activity, and come morning, what looked like the entrance to a cave was not fifteen feet from us.
I’ve been toiling away in the attic putting the pieces together and continuing to get the story written.
This means I’ve almost got Chapter 2 somewhere near the first draft, or maybe the second. I didn’t expect it would take this long, but most authors, I suppose, take a year, or more, to write a book.
It’s been hot in the attic and making it hard to think let alone write, but it is a good background for the steamy jungles of Southeast Asia, and it has given me a few more ideas for the background sequences.
I’ll share one or two of those next.
In the meantime, so far so good.
The following is the first musings of what Chapter 2 might read like:
…
The first sign of anything amiss was the three police cars outside the building, parked awkwardly on the plaza in front of the building. Their lights were still flashing, and several policemen were standing near them, talking.
As I went through the front revolving door I could see several uniformed and plainclothes police in the lobby. Two were by the door, perhaps to prevent someone from leaving, one on the desk with two of the building security guards, and another near the elevator lobby.
Temporary barriers had been erected, funnelling everyone through a narrow gap, where building security was checking ID cards and building passes, both of which I handed to one of the guards. These men were new, I hadn’t seen them before, and, when I took a closer look, saw they were from a different security company.
I guess with the shooting of Richardson, our management had decided the existing building security was not good enough. These new men looked a lot tougher if the number of visible tattoos on each was anything to go by, the sort of men I’d call mercenaries or ex-soldiers.
One of them gave me a good look, at my face to see if it was the same as that looking back at him on the ID card. It was not a good photo of me, and it was no surprise he was having difficulty. I’d cut my hair, I was wearing glasses, and I have the makings of a three-day beard.
I had not intended to shave while I was on holiday, and, given the urgent nature of the recall, had no time to do so before coming into the office. Benton could have warned me of the new security arrangements, but it did not surprise me he didn’t.
He called over a friend, not by turning and motioning to him, but by talking into his collar communication device. It was rather pointless, the man he spoke to was no more than 20 feet away. He checked me versus the ID photo and let me pass. Perhaps his eyesight was better.
In the elevator heading up to my floor, 18, I had a few moments to consider the implications. New security meant trouble. It had happened once before, and it caused all manner of trouble for me and my staff. We had been locked out of the server room then.
The elevator jerked to a stop, and the doors opened. Everything looked quiet. I could not see any police or security personnel. But waiting for me in the lobby was Benton’s personal assistant, waiting to tell me that Benton had been dragged off to an emergency meeting, one, she said, that involved share prices or stock exchange announcements. I could not make sense of what she was saying, because his hysteria had become hers. The events of the morning so far had traumatized both of them.
I smiled, trying to be my usual charming self, and then wrote a message on a scrap of paper, and gave it to her to give to him when he returned from wherever he had gone. I was quite sure it was not a meeting. She reminded me Aitchison was still waiting to see me, and then walked off.
I turned and pressed the ‘up’ button, and the doors to the elevator car I’d stepped out of opened. I stepped in, pressed the button for 59, and the doors closed. Once again I was alone with my thoughts in an elevator. I had just enough time to realize that the investigation into Richardson must be more serious than I first thought if the police were still here in numbers.
I thought I might visit the 17th floor after seeing Aitchison, and see what was happening. A decision was still pending when the doors opened, and I stepped out into ‘Fantasyland’.
It was the unofficial nickname we mortals from the lower floors called the Executive levels. They were the top three in the 60-story building. The mortals lived on levels 17 through 22.
This level housed all the Assistant General Managers. We had six. Aitchison was the AGM – Security. Goldstein, who was waiting in the lobby for an elevator, was the AGM – Administration. He was a surly chap near the age of retirement and spent more time on holiday than in the office. Preparing for retirement some said. Others were less charitable.
He nodded in my direction as we passed, I came out of the elevator car, and he went in. The doors closed behind me and I let the silence envelop me.
After leaving the hotel in Zhengzhou, which was once one of the eight ancient capitals of China, we are going to Dengfeng city, the home of China’s most famous martial art – Shaolin Kung Fu.
The Shaolin Temple nearby is the origin of Chinese Zen Buddhism, and the Songyang Academy, called “the Centre of Heaven and Earth” is located 87 Km from Zhengzhou, or, as we were advised, a 2-hour drive. It will be scenic because we are heading towards the mountains.
As one of the four ancient Song Dynasty Academies, Songyang Academy is one of many schools in the province. It is both on a large scale, is quite spectacular, and is a comprehensive Wushu training base where students are trained to spread the Shaolin Wushu Kung fu style at home and abroad.
There is a 500-seat demonstration hall where you are able to observe 30 minutes of various martial arts in shows starting on the hour.
Outside there is a specific area that generally has about 600 trainees learning kung fu elements during the day but can hold 5,000 people when outdoor performances are required.
The kung fu school
The thing you notice most about the kung fu school is its size and then the number of buses which tells you that it is a popular tourist stop.
And with that size comes long distances between the car park and the venues we need to go to, the first of which is about half a km, and that’s just to get to the ticket plaza.
But, it is pleasantly set out and is quite a large number of shops for both souvenirs and food
We pass by some of the students going through their paces
From there it’s another long, long walk to the show arena, where we’re supposed to see various kung fu elements on display. We watched this for a few minutes, then headed off towards the hall for a more intense demonstration of kung fu, and because there is limited seating we have to start lining up at the head of the queue to get a seat.
But…
Everyone else has the same idea and we join the throng which then becomes a ride, and true to the Chinese they start finding ways to push in, even using the imaginary friend somewhere ahead in the queue.
The doors open and then it’s open slather, with the hoards pushing from behind and sliding up the side to get in first. We go with the tide, and manage to get in and find a seat though we were separated from three of our group.
It was an interesting show even though not one word of English was spoken, which from our point of view was a disappointment because we had no idea what was going on.
However…
It wasn’t hard to follow
What the performers were doing was relatively self-explanatory, and quite fascinating, especially the guy who broke a sword over his head, and the guy who stopped two spears penetrating the neck, both examples of very disciplined men.
Boys gave a demonstration of kung fu moves, and intensity and age increased as this progressed to the end.
Next, we were taken in hand by an instructor in Tai chi or an equivalent, I was not quite sure what it was called, and went through the twelve or maybe more moves that constituted a morning or afternoon exercise session or it could be just for relaxation. I lasted the first session but it was a little difficult to do with my sore limbs and a bad back.
Not that I could remember any of it now other than hands overhead, hands in front, bent knees, and a few gentle kung fu hand moves.
Perhaps when I get home I might seek out someone to show me the moves.
Whilst the others were following their training instructor, I wandered about, finding a large statue
And some smaller statues
Lunch in the Zen Restaurant
After all that exercise it was time to have lunch purportedly the same food as the king fu masters. It’s in the Zen restaurant, aptly named, and the food when it came, came thick and fast, but some of it wasn’t very nice, meat with bones, tofu, a tasteless soup, but some good dishes like the vegetables and noodles with meat, without bones.
The only problem was nothing to drink except a pot of hot water. No tea, no cold water, and if you wanted a cold drink you had to pay for it. After paying 550 yuan why should we have to pay more for a drink when we have not had to so far.
But no cold water? That was just not on, and when we brought this to the attention of the tour guide she just simply ignored us. We just didn’t get anything.
That basically tainted the whole experience.
After lunch, there was the Shaolin Temple and the Pogoda Forest to visit.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 