Tag: Books

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

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

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

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

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

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

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

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

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

“Name of guest, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 9

Nine

If I had deliberately wanted to flush out the people following us, and eventually lose them, I would never have thought of renting a car at a suburban shop.  I had to wonder what James Bond would have done in similar circumstances.

But it worked.

Driving out of the carpark onto the main street, it wasn’t difficult to see several people caught unawares.  And on their cell phones making calls.

And it was Emily’s last-minute brainwave to cover the car’s registration plates so if they were to take a photo, they would not be able to track it.  Well, not straight away.  It was she who said London had a lot of CCTV cameras, but on the way to the carpark, she had checked out where they were, those that she could readily identify, and we could avoid.

Something I learned about Emily that I didn’t know; she was a computer nerd, and a hacker of sorts, not one of those dark web experts, but she knew enough to dig around in places most people wouldn’t go looking.

That skill might just come in useful.

And, for a few minutes, maybe an hour, we revelled in the thought we may have outwitted them, whoever ‘them’ was.

It was late afternoon when we finally found a hotel with a carpark, a long way from Cecile’s flat in Earl’s Court, and on the other side of the Greater London region in Mile End Road, not very far from the Stepney Green underground station, the result of Emily searching the web for a hotel with a carpark, and near public transport.

She also had our luggage delivered from the airport a little less than two hours from the moment she made the call.  I think I may have remarked that I might just employ her as my travel agent when I started my European odyssey, but she had fallen asleep, way past exhausted.

I wasn’t far behind her.  We had a long day tomorrow, if today was anything to go by.

I woke to the smell of coffee and that more interesting aroma of burnt toast.

There were shopping bags on the table, and it looked as though Emily had been up and around for a while.

I looked at my watch, it was not much past seven, and not an hour I found myself up back home.  I had an apartment in the city, and it was a ten-minute walk to the office, so early rising was not a necessity.  My parents lived in the suburbs, and more than an hour by public transport, and two by car.  It was the reason I moved.  I didn’t want to spend quarter of my life travelling to and from work.

Of course, London was so much larger than where I came from, and definitely not a place I would want to live, or work, despite the advantages that Cecile had tried to impress upon me.  And don’t get me get started on driving around London.  Yesterday had been harrowing, and left me, at times, shaken.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Emily put a coffee plunger on the table, two cups, a plate of toast, bowls, and the cereal that was my favourite, though how she knew was anyone’s guess.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I like to get some exercise every morning, so I combined it with a shopping expedition

I had not attended this type of domesticity in a long time, at least not since I left home.  I had grown accustomed to being on my own, and that might have contributed to Cecile and I drifting apart.  It probably also had a lot to do with my awkwardness with girls, and rather than try to get over it, I just avoided them.

But, somehow, Emily was different, perhaps because she was younger and hadn’t been blunted by the vicissitudes of life.  She had finished school, and as far as I was aware, didn’t have a real job, preferring to spend her time pottering in her father’s office.

I had thought, much like in an 18th century romance novel, she was waiting for the right man to marry, but there were not too many of those running around these days.

Something else I just realised; how well I seemed to like being at ease in her company, much more so than when I was with Cecile, always on my guard not to say or do the wrong thing.

“I find going to a grocery store a trial, which is why I eat out a lot.”

She shook her head.  “You’re just lazy, like everyone else your age.  Convenience over practicality.  And you should think about doing some exercise.”

I could feel the eyes of the appraiser upon me and shivered.  It was good that I could not read her thoughts, but if I could, perhaps some might be considering those extra pounds that had found their way onto my frame after I stopped playing tennis and squash.

“I promise I’ll think about it.”

“Better still, I don’t think it’s all that safe to be jogging the streets in this neighbourhood early in the morning, so you can come with me as my protector.”

She saw my look of disdain, or was it the thought of having to exercise.

“Cheer up, I don’t go very fast.”

The sound of the phone vibrating on the table interrupted that thought, and conversation.

It was a private number, so I assumed it was the man from the day before.

“Yes?”

“Trafalgar Square, by the column, 12:30 pm today.”

It was the man’s voice.

“We’ll see you there.”

The call was disconnected.  Short and to the point.

“We have a lunch date.”

Before I could reach out to pick up my cup of coffee, the phone rang again.

Also a private number, I assumed it was the man ringing back with a change of plans.

“Yes?”

“We need to talk.”

A woman’s voice this time, not one that was familiar.

“About what?”  I was surprised, and didn’t have time to work on a better comeback.

“Your Cecile.  She is over her head.”

Aside from stating the obvious, who was this woman, how did she know about Cecile, and more important, how did she know my cell number?

“Who the hell are you?”

“The London end of the team that recruited her.  Time is of the essence, so we’ll come to you.  We’ll be there in half an hour.”

That line went dead before I could ask another pertinent question, how did she know where we were?

“Who was that?”  Emily had been oblivious to the turmoil I was feeling.

“Someone else who wants to talk about Cecile.”

“Who?”

“No idea, but the word reruited popped up, whatever that might mean.”

“Here?  No one knows we’re here.”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps we should leave, like, right now.”

“No.  I have a feeling that we might find out what Cecile is up to.”

And, in the back of my mind, several small, associated details clicked into place.  At the time they didn’t make any sense, but now, in a bigger context, and given the circumstances, I think I knew now why she had come.

And, more importantly, I realised she had been dropping breadcrumbs for me to follow long before she had left.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 13

Day 13 – Writing exercise

All the days just ran together in one long blur.  Wake, dress, go to work, come home, read, sleep, repeat.  Then everything changed…

…

I got out of bed and went over to the closet.

Seven sets of work clothes, seven sets of leisure clothes, I picked one of the work sets and went to the bathroom.

No need to be more selective.  Each of the work and leisure sets was all the same.  Work tan, leisure blue.  Women wore green and pink.

We all looked the same.

On the yellow bus, picking up the factory workers each morning and dropping them off at night, it was a sea of tan and green.

Everyone read the same newspaper in the morning and sat quietly at night.

At work, I sat at a desk, one of two hundred, symmetrically arranged, just far enough apart to prevent idle conversation.  That happened in the canteen where a thousand people congregated for lunch.

Some single people lived in dormitories, and married people lived in houses.  Everything was supplied.  Everything was regulated.  It had been the same as long as I could remember.

That day I came home, changed into the leisure set, went for a walk, spoke to the others in the park where there was a walking track, a playground for children, and picnic tables.

A healthy lifestyle was a healthy, happy worker.

Why then wasn’t I happy?

…

I woke up, went to the closet and picked a work set.  It didn’t matter which one it was.

The newspaper was shoved through a slot in the door as it was every morning at the same time.

The eggs cooked perfectly, the toast cooked perfectly, and the coffee percolated perfectly.  I resisted the urge to open the newspaper and start reading, remembering protocol.

Dining utensils in the dishwasher, clean the surfaces, and ready to leave for work.  The bus was never late or early.  The walk to the bus stop is two minutes and twenty seconds.

I opened the door, ready to step out.

Standing there, in the way, was a young woman.  Odd that she was in the men’s dormitory.  Odder still, she was wearing yellow, not green.

“You are not in regulation clothing,” I said, not ‘how are you?’ or ‘ who are you?’, which would sound more appropriate.

“You’re not who I’m looking for.  Who are you?”

Clocks were everywhere, reminding us of the importance of time.  The time had passed, and now I would miss the bus.

The paperwork was going to be horrendous.

“Johnny five.  You?”

“Melinda Seventy-Two.  I was looking for Alfred thirty.”

Alfred Thirty had been the previous occupant of my space.  He had died, or so we had been told.  It was in the newspaper, and we believed everything that appeared in it.  There was no reason not to.

“Did you not see the report in the newspaper about a month ago?”  His death had afforded me a promotion and larger quarters.

“I don’t believe anything I read in that rag.”

That was seditious and could get her into trouble if anyone heard her.

“You’d better come in.  You cannot be saying stuff like that out loud.”

She looked at me like I was mad, then shrugged and stepped in.

I looked up and down the passage, then closed the door.

“Just me being in here can cause you trouble.”

We were allowed visitors, but at specific times and with the appropriate permission slips.  She was right.  The mountain of paperwork was piling up.

She was not from this district.  The different coloured suit told me she was not from this area.  People were not allowed out of their areas unless they had a travel pass.  I doubted she had one.

“How did you get here?”

“The tunnels.”

I’d heard about the tunnels, that they were an urban myth.  There were service conduits, but they were not big enough for people to travel through.

It was in the newspaper.  Someone had started spreading the rumours that people could travel from area to area via an extensive tunnel system created when the districts were being built.

An urban myth created by troublemakers.  There had been a few in the beginning after the great calamity that destroyed everything.

We were rebuilding the world, a better world where everyone coexisted in harmony.  A happy life, a happy world.  We all believed it.

“They don’t exist.”

“Because they tell you.  They tell you everything, and everything is a lie.  You are a slave to their lies.”

Who was this woman?  She sounded like a revolutionary; some had been around when I was a child.  My father had been on the tribunal that tried them as traitors and sent them to the penalty settlement.  Had she escaped?

“Are you a revolutionary?”

“I am just the same as you. I do what I’m told.  Or did.”  She took a note out of a pocket and handed it to me.

It said:  You do not have to bow to oppression.  Go to Tan-Green, speak to Alfred thirty.  Take the 387 tunnel.”

“The 387 tunnel?”

“I work in Engineering.  We use the tunnels to move around under the district to repair the services.  I did what was asked.  Where is Alfred thirty?”

“Gone.  Dead.  Can’t help you.  I have to go.  Late.  I have to go.”  I could not wait for her to decide what she wanted to do.

I left.

…

I caught the next bus.  It had different people.  I don’t know why I thought there was only one bus, the bus I took every morning.

They all had the newspaper and were reading it.  No conversation.

Why, all of a sudden, did it matter?  Had she affected me that much?

I arrived at work and swiped my key card.  It was what gave me access to my dorm, the bus, the building and my workstation.

A moment after I swiped my card, I was approached by a security guard.  It had never happened before; in fact I had never seen a security guard before.

“You are late, Johnny Five.  Why?”

What did it matter?  I was here, ready to work.  Perhaps the hesitation in answering was causing difficulty.  Should I mention the girl?

“Overslept. Sorry.”

A minute passed, during which it seemed he was waiting for instructions, then, “Proceed.”

I went into the room and walked slowly to my workstation, past about another 20 clerks.  I noticed that some glanced up then went back to work, others lingered, intrigued by the anomaly.

By the time I sat down, the room was back to normal.

For half an hour.

…

The supervisor sat in a room that overlooked the floor, taking in all of the clerks.

We all had to be in that room once, the day we started work, and it was an interesting view.  And intriguing to wonder how long it took to become a supervisor.

Or what exactly the supervisor did, though they too had a workstation.

No one had seen the supervisor leave that room, or come, or go.  She was always in there when we arrived, and still there when we left.

Today, she came down to the floor, walking from the invisible door under the window, then across the floor, walking up the middle of the room, then turning into my row, and then stopping at my workstation.

It had never happened to anyone else.

“Shut down your workstation and accompany me, please.”

I did as I was told.  She waited until the station switched off and then headed back to the invisible door.  By this time, most of the others had stopped and watched us cross the floor.

At the invisible door, she turned and said, “Back to work.”

She waited until their attention was back on their workstations, then opened the door, we passed though and it silently closed behind us.

Two security guards were waiting.

“You will be reported to Maintenance on Level Sun Basement Seven.  The guards will take you.”

“Why?”

“That is not a question I can answer.  I do as I am told, as should you.  Your key card had been programmed with the appropriate authority.”

Whatever that meant

One guard took the lead, the other followed.  I don’t know why, but at one point, waiting at the elevator lobby, I was entertaining the thought of running.  Not where, or why I would want to, but running.

Nor where I would run to.  It was a very strange feeling.

We went down to Sub Basement 7, and when the doors opened, a different guard was waiting.  My escorts stayed in the lift.

I stepped out, and the doors closed.

The new guard said, “This way “

There was only one.  Perhaps down here, they didn’t think they needed two.

We went down a long corridor to the end, to a door that said ‘Maintenance Five’.  The guard scanned a key card, and the lock clunked.

He opened the door and stood to one side.  “Please wait inside.  An engineer will see you shortly.”

I went in, and the door closed behind me.  The room had a chair and a table.  I looked around the room.  It was a square box, brightly lit, with CCTV.

I waited fifteen minutes before another door, behind the desk, and Melinda seventy-two stepped into the room.

“You.”  I recognised her immediately.

“Me.”

“Why?”

“That’s a word you are not supposed to use.  You know that.  Why do you?”

I thought about the question.  It was something that bothered me, too.  It was in the protocol manual. We accepted that everything we did had a reason and that we didn’t need to know why, only that it was to be done.  Years of work had gone into creating workable systems.

“Curiosity “

“There’s a saying….”

“Yes.  I am aware of it.”

“Then you are one of the more recent classes.  Can you tell me, if you had a choice and there were no restrictions, where you would like to go?”

It was not something I thought about.  No one did. But there was a word invoked, in that very moment, a word I’d not used before.  “Sanctuary.”

She smiled.  “And so it will be.  I knew you were different.  We have a special job for you, Johnny five.  Repeat after me, MGS34RYPLM.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.  Repeat the code.”

“MGS34RYPLM.”

There was a moment when my eyes closed, everything went dark, and a second later, everything in my head changed.

“Who are you?”

I looked over at the girl.  I knew instantly who she was.  “Elizabeth.  How are you?”

“All the better for seeing you, Dad.  Everything you had set in place is ready.  I’m sorry it took so long to find you.”

“No matter.  I’m here now.  Let the revolution begin!”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

What I learned about writing – Scams are rampant, especially now with AI

I received this from the “Verashelpfhelp bookclub” the other day:

Hello,

Am Vera, and I coordinate the ShelfHelp Book Club based in Southeast London. We host vibrant monthly gatherings where a diverse community of readers comes together to explore books that inspire meaningful, thoughtful conversation. Each session is intentionally structured; members vote on titles in advance and arrive prepared for rich, engaged discussion.

We would be delighted to feature your book in one of our upcoming meetings. Our “Spotlight Sessions” focus on a single title, allowing members to delve deeply into its themes and perspectives. Our team manages all aspects of the process from establishing reading timelines to guiding the discussion, ensuring your book receives the thoughtful attention it deserves.

ShelfHelp Book Club has built a strong reputation as an enthusiastic and supportive reading community. Because members read ahead and actively participate, every featured book benefits from genuine engagement and meaningful conversation.

If you’re open to it, I would welcome the opportunity to discuss featuring your book in an upcoming session. I am confident it would be a rewarding experience for our readers.

Warm regards,
Vera

Of course, flattered, I replied:

I am curious about this opportunity. What do you need from me?

To which the following was sent:

Hello,

Thank you so much for your openness and curiosity. That truly means a lot, and I appreciate you taking the time to ask.

At ShelfHelp Book Club, everything we do is rooted in one simple belief: books deserve readers who will truly sit with them, feel them, and talk about them with care. We have grown into a community of over 12,000 active readers who do not just read to finish a book, but read to understand it, reflect on it, and share what it stirred in them.

When an author’s book is featured, it becomes the heart of one of our Spotlight Sessions. Readers commit to your work intentionally. They explore its themes, relate them to their own lives, and engage in thoughtful discussion that gives the book space to breathe and be appreciated. Many authors tell us this kind of focused attention feels deeply rewarding because their words are not rushed past or forgotten.

Our team supports the entire process from start to finish. We coordinate the schedule, guide reader engagement, prepare thoughtful discussion prompts, and ensure your book is presented with clarity, respect, and professionalism. You can simply focus on being the author while we make sure your work is experienced the way it deserves to be.

Authors who participate often gain more than visibility. They gain genuine readers, meaningful feedback, word-of-mouth recommendations, and long-term supporters who continue to talk about the book long after the session ends. It becomes more than a feature. It becomes a connection.

To reserve your place in our upcoming Spotlight Sessions, there is a $105 reservation fee. This secures your slot and allows our creative team to immediately begin preparing your book’s promotional materials so it can be introduced to our readers with care and intention.

Let me ask you something. What do you imagine could happen if your book landed in the hands of over 12,000 readers who are ready to dive deep, reflect honestly, and talk about what your story or message awakened in them?

If this feels aligned with what you want for your book, I would be happy to send you the reservation link now so we can secure your spot immediately and begin working on your book’s presentation right away.

I would love to continue this journey with you.

Warm regards,

Vera

It has everything in it that an up-and-coming author wants to hear, and by the end of the email, they are reaching for the credit card, anxiously wanting to jump on board – only it’s a well-crafted scam:

The “shelf help” or “book club” scam is a prevalent, increasingly AI-driven scheme targeting indie and newly published authors with fraudulent offers of promotion. These scams often use flattering, personalised-sounding emails to trick authors into paying “fees” for inauthentic “spotlights” or “features”. 

How the Book Club Scam Works

  • Initial Flattery: Scammers send warm, unsolicited emails claiming that a “book club” or “reading group” has chosen your book for a feature, often praising it profusely to build rapport.
  • The “Ask”: After establishing rapport, the scammer requests a payment, often called an “administration fee,” “spotlight fee,” “coordination fee,” or “participation fee” to cover the cost of the event.
  • Fake Evidence: The emails are often generated by AI and may falsely claim that hundreds or thousands of members will discuss your book.
  • The Disappearance: Once the fee is paid, the scammer either disappears or pressures the author to pay for additional, expensive “marketing services”. 

Common Red Flags

  • Unsolicited Contact: The contact comes out of nowhere, usually from a generic Gmail, Hotmail, or Yahoo account.
  • Unusual Payment Requests: Legitimate book clubs do not charge authors to read or discuss their books.
  • AI-Generated Content: The praise is generic, and they cannot provide specific details about your book’s content.
  • Vague Details: The club cannot provide a link to a group page, photos of past events, or verify their membership.
  • WhatsApp or Other Messaging Apps: Scammers often move conversations to WhatsApp to avoid detection. 

How to Protect Yourself

  • Never Pay for Book Club Appearances: Legitimate clubs are free, and it is a privilege for them to have an author attend, not the other way around.
  • Verify Everything: Search for the book club online. If no credible online presence exists, it is a red flag.
  • Ignore and Report: Block the email and report it to your email provider, the Authors Guild, or relevant writing forums.
  • Do Not Send Free Files: Scammers may try to harvest your manuscript files. 

Note: If you have been contacted, it is recommended to check with organisations like Writer Beware for the latest information on specific scam names. 

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 13

Day 13 – Writing exercise

All the days just ran together in one long blur.  Wake, dress, go to work, come home, read, sleep, repeat.  Then everything changed…

…

I got out of bed and went over to the closet.

Seven sets of work clothes, seven sets of leisure clothes, I picked one of the work sets and went to the bathroom.

No need to be more selective.  Each of the work and leisure sets was all the same.  Work tan, leisure blue.  Women wore green and pink.

We all looked the same.

On the yellow bus, picking up the factory workers each morning and dropping them off at night, it was a sea of tan and green.

Everyone read the same newspaper in the morning and sat quietly at night.

At work, I sat at a desk, one of two hundred, symmetrically arranged, just far enough apart to prevent idle conversation.  That happened in the canteen where a thousand people congregated for lunch.

Some single people lived in dormitories, and married people lived in houses.  Everything was supplied.  Everything was regulated.  It had been the same as long as I could remember.

That day I came home, changed into the leisure set, went for a walk, spoke to the others in the park where there was a walking track, a playground for children, and picnic tables.

A healthy lifestyle was a healthy, happy worker.

Why then wasn’t I happy?

…

I woke up, went to the closet and picked a work set.  It didn’t matter which one it was.

The newspaper was shoved through a slot in the door as it was every morning at the same time.

The eggs cooked perfectly, the toast cooked perfectly, and the coffee percolated perfectly.  I resisted the urge to open the newspaper and start reading, remembering protocol.

Dining utensils in the dishwasher, clean the surfaces, and ready to leave for work.  The bus was never late or early.  The walk to the bus stop is two minutes and twenty seconds.

I opened the door, ready to step out.

Standing there, in the way, was a young woman.  Odd that she was in the men’s dormitory.  Odder still, she was wearing yellow, not green.

“You are not in regulation clothing,” I said, not ‘how are you?’ or ‘ who are you?’, which would sound more appropriate.

“You’re not who I’m looking for.  Who are you?”

Clocks were everywhere, reminding us of the importance of time.  The time had passed, and now I would miss the bus.

The paperwork was going to be horrendous.

“Johnny five.  You?”

“Melinda Seventy-Two.  I was looking for Alfred thirty.”

Alfred Thirty had been the previous occupant of my space.  He had died, or so we had been told.  It was in the newspaper, and we believed everything that appeared in it.  There was no reason not to.

“Did you not see the report in the newspaper about a month ago?”  His death had afforded me a promotion and larger quarters.

“I don’t believe anything I read in that rag.”

That was seditious and could get her into trouble if anyone heard her.

“You’d better come in.  You cannot be saying stuff like that out loud.”

She looked at me like I was mad, then shrugged and stepped in.

I looked up and down the passage, then closed the door.

“Just me being in here can cause you trouble.”

We were allowed visitors, but at specific times and with the appropriate permission slips.  She was right.  The mountain of paperwork was piling up.

She was not from this district.  The different coloured suit told me she was not from this area.  People were not allowed out of their areas unless they had a travel pass.  I doubted she had one.

“How did you get here?”

“The tunnels.”

I’d heard about the tunnels, that they were an urban myth.  There were service conduits, but they were not big enough for people to travel through.

It was in the newspaper.  Someone had started spreading the rumours that people could travel from area to area via an extensive tunnel system created when the districts were being built.

An urban myth created by troublemakers.  There had been a few in the beginning after the great calamity that destroyed everything.

We were rebuilding the world, a better world where everyone coexisted in harmony.  A happy life, a happy world.  We all believed it.

“They don’t exist.”

“Because they tell you.  They tell you everything, and everything is a lie.  You are a slave to their lies.”

Who was this woman?  She sounded like a revolutionary; some had been around when I was a child.  My father had been on the tribunal that tried them as traitors and sent them to the penalty settlement.  Had she escaped?

“Are you a revolutionary?”

“I am just the same as you. I do what I’m told.  Or did.”  She took a note out of a pocket and handed it to me.

It said:  You do not have to bow to oppression.  Go to Tan-Green, speak to Alfred thirty.  Take the 387 tunnel.”

“The 387 tunnel?”

“I work in Engineering.  We use the tunnels to move around under the district to repair the services.  I did what was asked.  Where is Alfred thirty?”

“Gone.  Dead.  Can’t help you.  I have to go.  Late.  I have to go.”  I could not wait for her to decide what she wanted to do.

I left.

…

I caught the next bus.  It had different people.  I don’t know why I thought there was only one bus, the bus I took every morning.

They all had the newspaper and were reading it.  No conversation.

Why, all of a sudden, did it matter?  Had she affected me that much?

I arrived at work and swiped my key card.  It was what gave me access to my dorm, the bus, the building and my workstation.

A moment after I swiped my card, I was approached by a security guard.  It had never happened before; in fact I had never seen a security guard before.

“You are late, Johnny Five.  Why?”

What did it matter?  I was here, ready to work.  Perhaps the hesitation in answering was causing difficulty.  Should I mention the girl?

“Overslept. Sorry.”

A minute passed, during which it seemed he was waiting for instructions, then, “Proceed.”

I went into the room and walked slowly to my workstation, past about another 20 clerks.  I noticed that some glanced up then went back to work, others lingered, intrigued by the anomaly.

By the time I sat down, the room was back to normal.

For half an hour.

…

The supervisor sat in a room that overlooked the floor, taking in all of the clerks.

We all had to be in that room once, the day we started work, and it was an interesting view.  And intriguing to wonder how long it took to become a supervisor.

Or what exactly the supervisor did, though they too had a workstation.

No one had seen the supervisor leave that room, or come, or go.  She was always in there when we arrived, and still there when we left.

Today, she came down to the floor, walking from the invisible door under the window, then across the floor, walking up the middle of the room, then turning into my row, and then stopping at my workstation.

It had never happened to anyone else.

“Shut down your workstation and accompany me, please.”

I did as I was told.  She waited until the station switched off and then headed back to the invisible door.  By this time, most of the others had stopped and watched us cross the floor.

At the invisible door, she turned and said, “Back to work.”

She waited until their attention was back on their workstations, then opened the door, we passed though and it silently closed behind us.

Two security guards were waiting.

“You will be reported to Maintenance on Level Sun Basement Seven.  The guards will take you.”

“Why?”

“That is not a question I can answer.  I do as I am told, as should you.  Your key card had been programmed with the appropriate authority.”

Whatever that meant

One guard took the lead, the other followed.  I don’t know why, but at one point, waiting at the elevator lobby, I was entertaining the thought of running.  Not where, or why I would want to, but running.

Nor where I would run to.  It was a very strange feeling.

We went down to Sub Basement 7, and when the doors opened, a different guard was waiting.  My escorts stayed in the lift.

I stepped out, and the doors closed.

The new guard said, “This way “

There was only one.  Perhaps down here, they didn’t think they needed two.

We went down a long corridor to the end, to a door that said ‘Maintenance Five’.  The guard scanned a key card, and the lock clunked.

He opened the door and stood to one side.  “Please wait inside.  An engineer will see you shortly.”

I went in, and the door closed behind me.  The room had a chair and a table.  I looked around the room.  It was a square box, brightly lit, with CCTV.

I waited fifteen minutes before another door, behind the desk, and Melinda seventy-two stepped into the room.

“You.”  I recognised her immediately.

“Me.”

“Why?”

“That’s a word you are not supposed to use.  You know that.  Why do you?”

I thought about the question.  It was something that bothered me, too.  It was in the protocol manual. We accepted that everything we did had a reason and that we didn’t need to know why, only that it was to be done.  Years of work had gone into creating workable systems.

“Curiosity “

“There’s a saying….”

“Yes.  I am aware of it.”

“Then you are one of the more recent classes.  Can you tell me, if you had a choice and there were no restrictions, where you would like to go?”

It was not something I thought about.  No one did. But there was a word invoked, in that very moment, a word I’d not used before.  “Sanctuary.”

She smiled.  “And so it will be.  I knew you were different.  We have a special job for you, Johnny five.  Repeat after me, MGS34RYPLM.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.  Repeat the code.”

“MGS34RYPLM.”

There was a moment when my eyes closed, everything went dark, and a second later, everything in my head changed.

“Who are you?”

I looked over at the girl.  I knew instantly who she was.  “Elizabeth.  How are you?”

“All the better for seeing you, Dad.  Everything you had set in place is ready.  I’m sorry it took so long to find you.”

“No matter.  I’m here now.  Let the revolution begin!”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 8

Eight

So, not to sound like I was a snotty loser, when Cecile had first told me about Jake, the man I assumed was her new boyfriend, I said he was too good to be true.

He’d been sent to Australia to work in a branch of his father’s company as a learning experience on the way to bigger and better things.  He was just the sort of man she thought she wanted, not the slow and steady wins the race type, but someone who would, and literally did, sweep her off her feet.

Our last conversation, when she told me I was not the man of her dreams, she didn’t exactly identify him, but I knew who she was talking about.  She had fobbed me off several times, so I followed her and lo and behold, there was the man himself.

All she had to do was tell me we were done, but she didn’t, and exactly why she hadn’t remained a mystery.

That he had led her down a very dangerous path, well, I might have carried a grudge, but we had been together since childhood, and my feelings for her were not easily extinguished, not to the point I would take her back, but I would find her, and save her if she wanted to be saved.  After that, I would be the tourist for a while before going home.

Or if I got the travel bug, tour Europe for a while.

From the moment I’d told Emily about our separation, she had gone quiet.  Had she known about it?  If she knew that we were no longer together, why did she think I would come with her on this mission?  Get us back together?  We were going to have to talk about this, and the fact Cecile and I were done, and sooner rather than later, in case she got the wrong idea.

I was not the knight in shining armour, not anymore.

As for this Jake character, just who the hell was her.  If he was not who he said he was, and his parents were bot the people she was expecting, was he just some cheap imposter, after he money.  Her parents were wealthy, yes, but not overly so, and certainly not the sort who could pay a hefty ransom.

All of this would make sense if he was a conman.  And if that was the case, perhaps the man in the pin stripe suit was his accomplice.  I would call him soon once we were resettled in another hotel.

In the meantime, we had to make sure we were not being followed.

After spending an hour confusing even ourselves where we were, we stopped at a café.  Coffee and a rest, along with a consultation with the map, and an internet search of small hotels, on the other side of town, one that required a few changes of train and/or bus.

We had said little except to agree or disagree which way to go, until now.  I could see that revelation about Cecile and her new boyfriend had struck her, and I began to believe that Cecile had neither told her, or told anyone else about Jake.

That made sense too, if he didn’t want her to tell anyone ‘Just yet’, until they got home.  For a girl with so much common sense, how could she have been so easily led astray?

After the coffee and a cake was delivered to the table, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“Dragging you here on this odyssey.  If I’d known you two had split up, I would not have been so insensitive.  Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought she had.”

“Do you know who this Jake is?”

“Only saw him once, and he was devilishly handsome.  Adonis would have had trouble competing with him.”

Did that sound like sour grapes?  Probably.  The first time I saw him, I knew I had no chance.

“That’s not her type.”

“Apparently it is now.”

She took a moment, eyed the cake, and mentally calculated the number of calories it contained, in exactly the manner he elder sister did, then asked, “Why did you come?”

“I still care about her, and what happens to her.”

“Even after she dumped you?”

I had forgotten Emily could be quite blunt sometimes, and now that she had learned of our split, she wasn’t taking it well.  That may have had something to do with the fact she took the credit for us getting together, all those years ago, when I might add, she was about five.

I’d been part of the furniture for almost all of her life, so I guess it was hard to take.

“Well, when we find her, I’m going to give her a very stern bollocking.”

If, and/or when, we found her. 

We still had to find a new hotel, get our luggage from the airport, Figure how to find our way to Jakes last known address, and make a call to a man called Sid Jackson, though he didn’t look like a Sid to me.

An idea occurred to me, and rather than having to rely on public transport, not that in London it wasn’t far better than anything we had at home, I remembered seeing a rent-a-car place not too far back.  A car might just be the thing, and in one respect, just the move they might not be expecting.

Something else had just occurred to me too.  Why had Cecile left this trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow, when she had made it quite clear she didn’t want to be with me anymore?

I guess it was a question I’d have to ask when we finally found her.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 12

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

Every compelling narrative has a protagonist—the hero, the rebel, the reluctant saviour. We cheer for them, root for their growth, and remember their names long after the book is closed or the credits roll. But have you ever paused to consider the unsung heroes who linger in the background, the extras who, with a single line or moment, could steal the entire show? These bit players might not have the spotlight, but they’re the secret sauce that makes stories rich, relatable, and unforgettable.

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

Stories thrive in worlds that feel alive, and minor characters are the mortar holding those worlds together. Take Mrs. Dubose from To Kill a Mockingbird. On the surface, she’s a grumpy neighbour, hurling insults at Scout. But her brief appearance unravels the complexities of addiction, courage, and legacy. Her story—told in the periphery—deepens the novel’s themes long after she disappears.

Similarly, in The Godfather, the scene where a horse’s head is placed in a man’s bed is legendary. While the man himself (a minor character) is a plot device, his presence underscores the Corleone family’s ruthless power and the era’s mob culture. These characters are not just “extras”; they’re the brushstrokes that add texture to the canvas.

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event

Bit players often highlight the protagonist’s journey by acting as foils. Consider Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp wit and independence shine brightest when measured against his obsequiousness and cluelessness. Though he’s a minor character, his presence sharpens the story’s critique of societal norms and amplifies Elizabeth’s growth.

In The Lord of the Rings, even the occasional tavern loiterer or roadside traveller reinforces the vastness of Middle-earth and the contrast between the mundane and the epic. These characters remind us why Frodo’s quest is so extraordinary—they live in the same world but will never attempt what he does.

The Scene-Stealers: When Bit Players Shine

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment for a minor character to etch themselves into our memories. Recall the eerie calm of the priest in The Departed as he’s boxed in by assassins, or the surreal comedy of the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in The Producers. These characters may only appear for a scene, but their impact lingers.

Even in literature, consider the Looney Tunes-esque antics of the Gnomes in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They exist for less than a chapter but remain among the most quoted, parodied, and loved elements of the series. Their fleeting presence reminds us that magic often lives in the moments we least expect.

Why It Matters: The Human Touch

At our core, humans crave connection and recognition. We’re all protagonists in our own stories, yet bit players in others’. The minor characters in fiction mirror this duality, grounding narratives in authenticity. They remind us that a society—or a story—needs more than just heroes and villains. It needs the barista who forgets your name, the coworker who “borrowed” your pencil, and the stranger who hands you a stray umbrella in a downpour.

By appreciating these characters, we become more intentional readers and creators. We learn to look beyond the surface, to find wonder in the ordinary, and to recognise that even the smallest role can carry profound weight.

Your Turn: Who Are Your Favourite Bit Players?

Think back to your favourite stories. Which minor characters stick with you? Is it the gruff motel owner in Breaking Bad, the inscrutable IT guy in The Office, or even the diner regulars in your favourite novel? Share them in the comments—sometimes the best stories are the ones we didn’t expect to remember.

Because in the end, whether they’re on the page or the screen, these bit players teach us this: every voice, even every extra, has the power to change the narrative.

What I learned about writing – Stirring conscience

The Writer’s Role: Menacing the Public’s Conscience

In an age of carefully curated content and echo chambers, the idea of a writer’s role is often reduced to entertainment, information, or self-expression. But at its most vital, literature and journalism hold a far more urgent purpose: to menace the public’s conscience. This phrase, simple yet provocative, invites us to consider how the written word can challenge complacency, disrupt apathy, and force society to confront its contradictions. Let’s unpack why this responsibility is not just important—it’s essential for a healthy democracy and a humane world.

What Does It Mean to “Menace the Conscience”?

The word menace often carries negative connotations, evoking fear or threat. But in this context, it refers to the act of unsettling—provoking discomfort so that the public is jolted from complacency. It’s about holding up a mirror to societal evils, hypocrisies, and injustices, and demanding that we look. A writer who menaces the conscience doesn’t offer easy answers; they ask uncomfortable questions. They expose the rot beneath the surface, from systemic inequality to the erosion of truth.

The Historical Imperative

Great writers have always played this role. George Orwell’s 1984 didn’t just predict a dystopian future; it forced readers to grapple with the dangers of authoritarianism and surveillance. Kafka’s The Trial and The Metamorphosis turned bureaucratic absurdity and alienation into visceral, haunting experiences. James Baldwin, in essays like The Fire Next Time, confronted America’s unhealed wounds of racism, not with anger alone, but with a moral urgency that demanded reflection.

These authors didn’t write to comfort the comfortable. They wrote to challenge the status quo, urging readers to see themselves not as passive observers but as active participants in the world they inhabit.

The Mechanism of Menace: How Writers Provoke Change

  1. Narrative as Disruption
    Stories humanise the abstract. When a writer portrays a character fleeing persecution or a community decimated by poverty, they convert statistics into lived experience. This empathy is a form of menace—it annoys the conscience into action.
  2. Language as a Weapon Against Lies
    In an era of misinformation, writers have a duty to sharpen truth. By exposing half-truths, biases, and manipulative rhetoric, they dismantle the narratives that allow injustice to persist.
  3. Unmasking Invisibility
    Too often, the powerful and the privileged are invisible to themselves. A writer’s job is to illuminate those hidden corners—like the systemic gender wage gap, the trauma of climate migration, or the dehumanising effects of capitalism.

The Risks and Challenges

Menacing the public’s conscience isn’t without peril. Writers may face backlash, censorship, or accusations of being “divisive.” After all, people protect their worldviews fiercely; to challenge them is to threaten the self. Consider the criticism directed at authors like Ta-Nehisi Coates for confronting racial trauma or Greta Thunberg for shaming inaction on climate change. The more a writer’s work stings, the more resistance it may provoke.

Yet, this resistance is a sign that the conscience is awakening. It’s a discomfort that precedes growth. The key is persistence.

The Modern Media Landscape: A New Frontier

Today’s writers face a paradox: we have more voices and platforms than ever, yet attention spans are shorter. How can a writer menace a conscience buried beneath viral trends and endless scrolling? The answer lies in specificity. Instead of broad, generalised critiques, focus on the personal, the granular. A single, powerful story can cut through the noise.

Also, consider the power of gentle menace. It’s not always about outrage; sometimes, it’s about aching honesty or poetic reflection that slowly reshapes how we see the world. Writers like Ocean Vuong and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie master this, blending vulnerability and truth to pierce the reader’s heart.

The Writer’s Responsibility: Beyond Provocation

To menace the conscience is not simply to shock for shock’s sake. It requires care. Writers must balance courage with nuance, pushing readers toward empathy without exploiting trauma. The goal is not to paralyse with guilt but to inspire—to show how change is possible and how each of us can contribute.

A conscience menaced is only useful if it leads to action. That means pairing uncomfortable truths with glimpses of hope, with paths forward.

Final Thoughts

The writer’s role has never been more critical. In a fractured world, we need voices that refuse to sanitise, that dare to ask, “What if this were you?” To menace the public’s conscience is to stand as a sentinel against complacency, a provocateur for justice, and ultimately, a hope for a better future.

So, to writers: Write boldly. Write with empathy. Write until the comfortable start to squirm—and then write some more.

What stories will you stir? What truths will you unearth? The world is waiting.

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 12

Day 12 – The smaller characters that can steal the scene

…

The Scene-Stealers: Why the Bit Players in Stories Make Them Unforgettable

Every compelling narrative has a protagonist—the hero, the rebel, the reluctant saviour. We cheer for them, root for their growth, and remember their names long after the book is closed or the credits roll. But have you ever paused to consider the unsung heroes who linger in the background, the extras who, with a single line or moment, could steal the entire show? These bit players might not have the spotlight, but they’re the secret sauce that makes stories rich, relatable, and unforgettable.

The Depth Weavers: How Bit Players Add Layers

Stories thrive in worlds that feel alive, and minor characters are the mortar holding those worlds together. Take Mrs. Dubose from To Kill a Mockingbird. On the surface, she’s a grumpy neighbour, hurling insults at Scout. But her brief appearance unravels the complexities of addiction, courage, and legacy. Her story—told in the periphery—deepens the novel’s themes long after she disappears.

Similarly, in The Godfather, the scene where a horse’s head is placed in a man’s bed is legendary. While the man himself (a minor character) is a plot device, his presence underscores the Corleone family’s ruthless power and the era’s mob culture. These characters are not just “extras”; they’re the brushstrokes that add texture to the canvas.

The Mirrors and Shadows: Contrasting the Main Event

Bit players often highlight the protagonist’s journey by acting as foils. Consider Mr. Collins in Pride and Prejudice. Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp wit and independence shine brightest when measured against his obsequiousness and cluelessness. Though he’s a minor character, his presence sharpens the story’s critique of societal norms and amplifies Elizabeth’s growth.

In The Lord of the Rings, even the occasional tavern loiterer or roadside traveller reinforces the vastness of Middle-earth and the contrast between the mundane and the epic. These characters remind us why Frodo’s quest is so extraordinary—they live in the same world but will never attempt what he does.

The Scene-Stealers: When Bit Players Shine

Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment for a minor character to etch themselves into our memories. Recall the eerie calm of the priest in The Departed as he’s boxed in by assassins, or the surreal comedy of the “Dance of the Seven Veils” in The Producers. These characters may only appear for a scene, but their impact lingers.

Even in literature, consider the Looney Tunes-esque antics of the Gnomes in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. They exist for less than a chapter but remain among the most quoted, parodied, and loved elements of the series. Their fleeting presence reminds us that magic often lives in the moments we least expect.

Why It Matters: The Human Touch

At our core, humans crave connection and recognition. We’re all protagonists in our own stories, yet bit players in others’. The minor characters in fiction mirror this duality, grounding narratives in authenticity. They remind us that a society—or a story—needs more than just heroes and villains. It needs the barista who forgets your name, the coworker who “borrowed” your pencil, and the stranger who hands you a stray umbrella in a downpour.

By appreciating these characters, we become more intentional readers and creators. We learn to look beyond the surface, to find wonder in the ordinary, and to recognise that even the smallest role can carry profound weight.

Your Turn: Who Are Your Favourite Bit Players?

Think back to your favourite stories. Which minor characters stick with you? Is it the gruff motel owner in Breaking Bad, the inscrutable IT guy in The Office, or even the diner regulars in your favourite novel? Share them in the comments—sometimes the best stories are the ones we didn’t expect to remember.

Because in the end, whether they’re on the page or the screen, these bit players teach us this: every voice, even every extra, has the power to change the narrative.

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…

lovecoverfinal1