Tag: Author

“Strangers We’ve Become”, a sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Stranger’s We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she, that is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust back into normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers those whom he thought he could trust each has their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

Searching for locations: The Shaolin Temple, near Zhengzhou City, Henan Province, China

The Shaolin Temple

Where is the Shaolin Temple?

Dengfeng Maps, Map of Shaolin Temple & Mount Song

It is located in Dengfeng Ave, Dengfeng, Zhengzhou, Henan, China, at the southern foot of Mount Song, 13 km northwest of Dengfeng City, Zhengzhou City, Henan Province.

A map of the Temple grounds, which would come in handy before you enter the grounds, so that you have some idea of what there is to see:

The structures and architecture of Shaolin Temple | Kung fu ...

A bit of history:

The Shaolin Temple was originally built in 495 during the Northern Wei Dynasty (368-534).  For over 1500 years, Shaolin Temple has developed through good and bad times.  The temple was firstly destroyed in the Northern Zhou Dynasty (557-581), then rebuilt much later as the Zhihu Temple.  In the Sui Dynasty (581-618) the temple was renamed Shaolin and became one of the largest Buddhism monasteries in North China.

Good fortune in the early Tang Dynasty (618-907) was followed by bad fortune in the later of Tang Dynasty, it improved during the Song Dynasty (960-1279) until 1312 in Yuan Dynasty (1271-1368) where it returned to its former glory.  The Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) also made contributions to the development of Shaolin Temple.

Due to the wars of the modern era much of the Temple was destroyed.

The Shaolin Temple, nestled in the forested mountains of Henan, its the birthplace of Kung Fu and Zen Buddhism. The Shaolin Temple embraces many exciting attractions, such as the Hall of Heavenly Kings (Tianwangdian), and the Mahavira Hall (Daxiongbaodian)

This is not a single building, that’s not how the Chinese work.  It’s a whole host of buildings, the first of which is up some steps, through a gate, then along a tree-lined avenue with monument stones to some more steps, past a cauldron burning incense, and then to the temple.  There are several monks inside.

The front entrance:

Inside the entrance building, there are some large statues that I’m guessing are there to scare away the wrong sort of people

Once past these characters, you are on a walkway between pagodas where there are trees, and sculptures

and through the next pagoda brings you to the first of the temples.  There are three doors and three buddas.  This is through the middle door

And no you can’t go inside, you just stand on the outside looking in.

In one part of the temple there were three monks, and, believe it or not, they were all on their mobile phones.

This is certainly not ancient times, so what did the monks do before mobile communications?

Up some more stairs to the next building,

And so on till we reach the one at the top.  Outside each is a cauldron burning incense, and that aroma hangs on the air everywhere you go in the compound.

Then it’s a case of what goes up must come down, and strangely enough, it doesn’t take as long to go back down, and in doing so we got to see and hear a bit of singing by the monks.

There was a story to go with the various buildings and other aspects but I didn’t hear half of it, and couldn’t understand our guide for the rest.

All in all, it was an interesting place, but still not worth the money we paid.

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All her knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, who life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first tie she met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there one, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords, if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open, and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression the he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

A story inspired by Castello di Brolio – Episode 37

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

Johannsen hadn’t signed up for this. He’d been in the room when Leonardo reported to Wallace, to tell him that the villagers had been neutralized, and he brought the ring leaders of the so-called resistance to the castle.

By his reckoning, Leonardo and his men had killed probably 20 or so people who had nothing to do with the war, other than try to live around the war going on in their backyard.

In fact, when he had arrived at the castle, the intention was to work with the locals and the resistance to facilitate the onward movement of prized defectors. Until Jackerby arrived, and the dynamic changed.

Johannsen hadn’t realized that Wallace was a double agent, not until it was too late.

The thing of it was, Wallace thought he was a double agent too, a belief Johannsen had taken extreme care not to dispel. And, where it was possible, he had tried to help those caught up in Wallace’s trap.

Wallace was already in situ at the castle when Johannsen arrived with another four men to join those already there, on order from London to vet the incoming defectors. Those four he had met at the plane, and he hadn’t realized they were not who they were supposed to be. By the time the four had replaced were found, it was too late to stop the mission.

That brought the complement to 10 including Wallace and himself. Then he received a message, one he assumed was from Thompson, advising the arrival of a further 5, Jackerby, and four soldiers.

He soon discovered that those orders were false.

When Jackerby reported to Wallace, and the fact Wallace sent him out of the room, he stayed behind, hidden, to listen to the conversation. There he discovered he was in the midst of an enemy operation that had been recruited from the German Army.

He then tried to warn Thompson in a coded message, but that had been substituted by Wallace with another, causing another lamb to be sent to the slaughter, Atherton. When Jackerby first arrived, he advised Wallace, not Johannsson, that Atherton was not one of them, so he was captured and sent to the cells.

By the time the paratroopers arrived, there was no effort to hide who they were or what they were doing. The castle was, for all intents and purposes, a Nazi stronghold, there to collect and execute defectors. All he had to do was play his part, and try not to arouse the suspicions of Jackerby, whom, it seemed, trusted no one.

Wallace wasn’t all that interested in being as suspicious as Jackerby, who had to be Gestapo, or worse, one of the SS.

But luck was on Johansson’s side when he took a plan to Wallace that would essentially free Atherton, and then have Atherton lead them to the other resistance. It was also a masterstroke to select Burke, a simple man who liked to think everything was his idea.

That Atherton had got away was no fault of his, but those charged with following him. Jackerby had tried to mess with him, but Wallace intervened, telling Jackerby that he had had missing people too and should be out there looking for them.

With any luck, Johansson thought, they would be dead, a likely result since none of them had come back yet.

Now, all he could do was sit and wait for Atherton, and whoever was left from the resistance to come and stop Wallace.

Johansson knew that Atherton had a good working knowledge of the castle’s architecture because on one occasion they had been discussing archaeology. Johansson was not an archaeologist but had worked with one and an assistant, before the war, of several digs.

He was hoping Atherton had an idea where there might be a secret entrance to the castle. It was old, and in his spare time, he had been pacing out room measurements, looking for nooks and crannies, and anything else that would be useful.

He had found a room full of swords, not exactly in fighting condition, but might be useful in a situation that called for a weapon. After all, he had taken a few sword fighting lessons at the university.

He had traversed a number of stone passageways, found the way from the upstairs down to the radio room, two different ways, and beyond that, there was an exit or entrance, what in modern terminology would be called the tradesman’s entrance. A back door.

He had also gone around the whole perimeter of the outer castle wall, looking for holes. When he thought about it, leaving holes in the wall was asking for trouble because the idea was to keep people out, not to leave quickly and quietly in the middle of a siege.

And this castle had seen a few sieges in its time. More than once if he could travel back in time, he would have like to see what it was like 200 years ago, or more.

But, there were only three entrances or exits. There were no grates on the ground, or anywhere within 20 yards of the exterior wall, hidden in the forests.

He was also sure there were hidden passageways inside the castle that must go somewhere, a result of checking internal measurements of rooms, and a few came up oddly short a few yards.

Still down in the dungeon, the new arrivals guard had just appeared.

“The woman is awake.”

“Thanks.”

Now, if he could just get some sense out of her.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was very careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rules out whether it was a male or a  female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective Inspector Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her Sargeant was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be a very bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

In a word: Yellow

It was an easy choice from the start, yellow is a colour, in any number of shades from very pale to very dark.

We have yellow egg yolks, yet another y word, and depending on whether the eggs are farmed in cages or free range can dictate the shade of yellow.  Free-range gives the brightest yellow, by the way.

We have yellow cabs, but oddly enough these cabs are orange, not yellow as in this country, though the same may not be the case overseas, particularly in New York.  Good thing they are bright yellow so you can see them coming if you are crossing the road, perhaps illegally.

We have yellow bananas and lemons, probably the most common answers when asked, what is yellow?  That, and perhaps the yellow rose of Texas.

Then there is a more sinister meaning of the word, and it is associated with cowardice, and cowards are said to have a yellow streak down their backs.

If you have yellow fever then you are in a whole world of pain.

You can sometimes have what appears to be yellow skin, a sign of jaundice.

There is a yellow sea, and then there are the yellow pages, sometimes a substitute name for a telephone directory of businesses.

And lastly, an expression that comes out of the past, and not used so much these days, but people from Asia were thought to have yellow skin.

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

 

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

 

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

There are disturbing similarities…

Between Germany in 1933, and the United States in 2020.

Here’s the plot of a story, where fiction can sail very close to reality.  Still, you have to take it all with a grain of salt because it’s just that, FICTION.

No disrespect is intended to anyone mentioned in this fictional outline, it’s just the usual delusional ramblings of a writer whose imagination is on fire.

So, how does the story go?

It’s the little things that gradually disappear.  And no one really notices, or cares, until it’s too late.

Except for a few who benefit from the changes.

Voting will be rigged one way.  For the current president whose name for the purposes of this story will be Ferguson, and his political party of choice.  All this skirmishing about postal ballots, is just phase one in a huge snow job that Ferguson himself has said will not favour his party of choice, or himself.  A truth, or is it a lie.

A sane person would know that if the ballots can be meddled with, then his political party would be welcoming this method of voting with open arms.  It is because they know it can’t be rorted, they’re so against it?

As P T Barnum said once, there’s a sucker born every minute.  Ferguson knows this and is an expert at using it to his advantage.

If Ferguson gets a second term, you can be assured of two things.

One, he will become president for life.  Two, anything that resembles opposition will be destroyed or killed.

Dystopian?  Maybe.

The reality, well, who knows what the future will bring.

But if there’s a sudden demand for huge stadiums holding 500,000 people, then start worrying.  You’ve seen the beginnings of these ‘rallies’ through previous presidential campaigns.   How soon before swastikas begin to appear?

Just wait until there are 100,000 armed brown brown shirts there to quell opposition.

You’ve seen the beginnings, of these gunmen attending various venues, reportedly there to ‘protect their rights’.  At the moment they are relatively disorganized, but it only takes a little time, and a charismatic but quite mad man, to turn these people into hunting parties.

In 1933 everyone thought Hitler was just a little pipsqueak.  But, charismatic, and persuasive, he turned a nation of rabble into, well, you know what happened.  And if you don’t, time to hit the history books before history repeats itself.

If you’re like me and think it could never happen to you, well, think again.

You are going to let it happen.

You’re going to let your principal vessels of free speech be shut down.  If it doesn’t fit the Ferguson narrative, it should not exist.  What once was the pinnacle of free countries is about to become the new China, with no social media outlets for the population to find out what’s really going on.

No NYT, no CNN, Fox News becomes Ferguson News.  You get to see and hear only what Ferguson News wants you to hear.

If you oppose the Ferguson narrative, you are an enemy of Ferguson.

Not the country, mind you, you’re an enemy of Ferguson.

It’s no longer about the COVID 19 pandemic.  Forget that.  COVID 19 was just the excuse Ferguson was looking for to play on your fears.

But, it’s what’s coming that is going to be far, far worse.  Planned euthanasia for the elderly and ‘different’, attitude readjustment camps for those who don’t meet the Ferguson American patriot standard, concentration camps for the rest.  Dissent?  Well, there’s a camp for you too, where you’ll be whisked away in the dead of night, never to be seen again.

Will history repeat itself?

It’s a scary thought, made even scarier because no one is doing anything about it.

“The Things We Do For Love” – Coming soon

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Past conversations with my cat – 96

20160902_093753

This is Chester

Once again, it’s Sunday night, and he’s looking for a philosophical discussion.   COVID 19 is off the topic list.

He’s suitably disappointed that the Trump Show is over, as far as we are aware, though he’s not surprised.

But he is worried that two cats have tested positive.

I try to tell him that it is in New York, about 18,000 miles away, where there are over 200,000 cases. We have just over 1,000 and they are all isolated so we cannot be harmed.

I guess it’s hard to convince a cat when his mind is made up.

We’ve also taken the grandchildren off the list of topics too,

They arrive a few hours ago, and studiously ignored him when they arrived. I tried to point out that he was in hiding when they arrived, but again, the stubbornness of opinion is amazing, or normal.

I should be used to this sort of contrariness.

So, what is on the discussion list?

Outlander, Season 5 Episode 10. Well, I say, we haven’t seen it yet, so don’t tell me what the plots is.

He looks at me as if I’m mad. I only get to see it when you do, he says. How should I know what the plot is?  In fact, what is the plot?

Time travel, I say.

Pity we can’t do some of that, he says.

Why I asked, and really, I should know better.

Because I could go back to the day you came to the pet shop and hide. I have given you 18 years to improve, and you’re still the same as you were then.

Discussion over.

Not his favorite food for dinner tonight.