As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. Once again we have a standoff.
This time it’s over the scratching post, and, I guess, where I’ve put it. Silly me, I didn’t think it mattered where I put it.
But, you’d think he would be grateful I spent nearly a whole day building it for him.
And many more hours trawling the pet shops trying to find a replacement that was better than the last one. It’s amazing just how much these people want to charge for something that I could make for a lot less.
So I did.
Is it possible that Chester wants me to spend a fortune on a new scratching extravaganza? it’s not as if he knows anything about money, and costs, and effort.
Or does he?
I’m beginning to think this cat is a lot smarter than he looks.
Still, once again I pick him up, get the low growl because he knows where I’m taking him, and then put him on the top level.
Perhaps it’s the smell of the new carpet. It certainly makes my nose wrinkle and doesn’t do much for allergy sufferers, but it is new, even if it is an offcut. Surely he couldn’t be offended at that, could he?
Perhaps I’ve won. He’s sitting there looking at me.
I have often wondered just how much or how little of the author’s personality and experiences end up in a fictional character.
Have they climbed mountains,
Have they escaped from what is almost the inescapable,
Have they been shot, tortured, or worse,
Have they been dumped, or divorced,
Have they travelled to dangerous places, or got locked up in a foreign jail?
We research, read, and I guess experience some or all of the above on the way to getting the book written, but it’s perhaps an interesting fundamental question.
Who am I today? Or, more to the point, who do I want to be today?
Or it can be a question, out of left field, in an interview; “Who are you?”
My initial reaction was to say, “I’m a writer.” But that wasn’t the answer the interviewer is looking for.
Perhaps if she had asked, “Who are you when you’re writing your latest story?” it would make more sense.
Am I myself today?
Am I some fictional character an amalgam of a lot of other people?
Have I got someone definite in mind when I start writing the story?
The short answer might be, “I usually want to be someone other than what I am now. It’s fiction. I can be anyone or anything I want, provided, of course, I know the limitations of the character.”
“So,” she says, “what if you want to be a fireman?”
“I don’t want to be a fireman.”
“But if the story goes in the direction where you need a fireman…”
“What is this thing you have with firemen?” I’m shaking my head. How did we get off track?
“Just saying.”
“Then I’d have to research the role, but I’m not considering adding a fireman anytime soon.”
She sighs. “Your loss.”
Moving on.
And there is that other very interesting question; “Who would you like to be if you could be someone else?”
A writer in that period between the wars, perhaps like an F Scott Fitzgerald or Ernest Hemingway, in Paris, or if it is a fictional character, Jay Gatsby.
He’s just the sort of person who is an enigma wrapped up in a mystery.
We as authors always like to see two little words in every review, page turner.
Alas, sometimes they’re not, but usually this applied to non fiction simple because they’re reference books. Then another two words apply: boat anchor.
The good stuff is usually over the page.
Page in this instance refers to a leaf in a book, which generally has many pages.
Then the is a page boy, not what you’d find lurking around these days but were more common in days past, but refers to a boy in training to become a knight, or an errand boy for a nobleman.
These days a page boy opens doors and runs messages in a hotel.
Another variation is being paged over the P.A. system, always a major cause of embarrassment because you and everyone else thinks your in trouble.
Of course, before there were mobile phones, there were pagers, and sometimes in the deathly silence of the classroom, it went off. Definitely not advisable to have one on you if you are trying to sneak up on someone. Same goes for the modern equivalent, the mobile phone.
For the person who uses a word processor, you are familiar with pages, and having the software generate page numbers, of course, not for the title page, and a different numbering for other pages like an index, before the story starts.
Complicated? Sometimes.
And many years ago a boss of mine often used to say I needed to turn over a new page, and it did make much sense to me. That might have been because I was young and stupid. But, later on I realised what he was really saying was that I needed to turn over a new leaf.
Kind of strange, but then a lot saying are.
And did I?
Eventually.
And just to end on a high note, Paige is also the name of a girl, I think, and one I’ve decided to use in a story.
This is in a very scenic area and on the first impression; it is absolutely stunning in concept and in viewing.
As for the idea of walking on it, well, that first view of the mountain climb when getting off the bus, my first question was where the elevator is? Sorry, there is none. It’s walk on up or stay down the bottom.
Walk it is. As far as you feel you are able. There are quite a few who don’t make it to the top. I didn’t. I only made it to the point where the steps narrowed.
But as for the logistics, there’s the gradual incline to the starting point, and what will be the end meeting place. From there, it’s a few steps up to the guard station no 7, and a few more to get up to the start of the main climb. The top of the wall is guard station no 12.
Ok, those first few steps are a good indication of what it’s was going to be like and it’s more the awkwardness of the uneven heights of the steps that’s the killer, some as high as about 15 inches. This photo paints an illusion, that it’s easy. It’s not.
If you make it to the first stage, then it augers well you will get about 100 steps before you both start feeling it in your legs, particularly the knees, and then suffering from the height if you have a problem with heights as the air is thinner. And if you have a thing with heights, never look down.
This was from where we stopped, about a third of the way up. The one below, from almost at the bottom. One we’re looking almost down on the buildings, the other, on the same level.
It requires rest before you come down, and that’s when you start to feel it in the knees, our tour guide called it jelly legs, but it’s more in the knees down. Descending should be slow, and it can be more difficult negotiating the odd height steps, and particularly those high ones. You definitely need to hang onto the rail, even try going backward.
And, no, that rail hasn’t been there as long as the wall.
While you are waiting for the guide to return to the meeting place at the appointed time, there should be time to have some jasmine tea. Highly refreshing after the climb.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. We have a major discussion coming up.
He knows I’m not happy. We had a discussion about claws and furniture a while back where it was clearly understood that the scratching post was where he worked on his anger management issues.
And for quite some time I thought it was working.
More fool me.
The trouble is, there are certain parts of a room you don’t venture very often, and one of them is that small space behind the chairs in the lounge. We have a cleaning lady so we don’t venture there very often.
But it’s where we keep our DVD collection, not that we look at DVDs any more, but someone else was looking for one. That’s where I noticed the damage. Near the scratching post, on the corner of the lounge chair, clear evidence of the cat’s work.
He thought if he did it out of sight we wouldn’t notice. He would be right, except for exceptional circumstances.
Now I’m looking for him. He knows. Perhaps that was the reason for the fearsome attitude the other day. Where’s the tiger now?
West Lake is a freshwater lake in Hangzhou, China. It is divided into five sections by three causeways. There are numerous temples, pagodas, gardens, and artificial islands within the lake.
Measuring 3.2 kilometers (2 miles) in length, 2.8 kilometers (1.7 miles) in width, and 2.3 meters (7.5 feet) in average depth, the lake spreads itself in an area totaling 6.5 square kilometers (2.5 square miles).
The earliest recorded name for West Lake was the “Wu Forest River”, but over time it changed to two distinct names. One is “Qiantang Lake”, due to the fact that Hangzhou was called “Qiantang” in ancient times. The other, “West Lake”, due to the lake being west of the city
It’s about to get busy, with a number of activities planned, and the warmth of the day is starting to make an impact.
The tour starts in the car park about a kilometer away, but the moment we left the car park we were getting a taste of the park walking along a tree-lined avenue.
When we cross the road, once again dicing with death with the silent assassins on motor scooters.
We are in the park proper, and it is magnificent, with flowers, mostly at the start hydrangeas and then any number of other trees and shrubs, some carved into other flower shapes like a lotus.
Then there was the lake and the backdrop of bridges and walkways.
.
And if you can tune out the background white noise the place would be great for serenity and relaxation.
That, in fact, was how the boat ride panned out, about half an hour or more gliding across the lake in an almost silent boat, by an open window, with the air and the majestic scenery.
No, not that boat, which would be great to have lunch on while cruising, but the boat below:
Not quite in the same class, but all the same, very easy to tune out and soak it in.
It was peaceful, amazingly quiet, on a summery day
A pagoda in the hazy distance, an island we were about to circumnavigate.
Of all the legends, the most touching one is the love story between Bai Suzhen and Xu Xi’an. Bai Suzhen was a white snake spirit and Xu Xi’an was a mortal man.
They fell in love when they first met on a boat on the West Lake, and got married very soon after.
However, the evil monk Fa Hai attempted to separate the couple by imprisoning Xu Xi’an. Bai Suzhen fought against Fa Hai and tried her best to rescue her husband, but she failed and was imprisoned under the Leifeng Pagoda by the lake.
Years later the couple was rescued by Xiao Qing, the sister of Baisuzhen, and from then on, Bai Suzhen and Xu Xi’an lived together happily.
The retelling of the story varied between tour guides, and on the cruise boat, we had two. Our guide kept to the legend, the other tour guide had a different ending.
Suffice to say it had relevance to the two pagodas on the far side of the lake.
There was a cafe or restaurant on the island, but that was not our lunch destination.
Nor were the buildings further along from where we disembarked.
All in all the whole cruise took about 45 minutes and was an interesting break from the hectic nature of the tour.
Oh yes, and the boat captain had postcards for sale. We didn’t buy any.
Lunch
At the disembarkation point there was a mall that sold souvenirs and had a few ‘fast food’ shops, and a KFC, not exactly what we came to China for, but it seemed like the only place in town a food cautious Australian could eat at.
And when tried to get in the door, that’s where at least 3 busloads were, if they were not in the local Starbucks. Apparently, these were the places of first choice wherever we went.
The chicken supply by the time we got to the head of the line amounted to pieces at 22.5 RMB a piece and nuggets. Everything else had run out, and for me, there were only 5 pieces left. Good thing there were chips.
And Starbucks with coffee and cheesecake.
At least the setting for what could have been a picnic lunch was idyllic.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. It’s going to be an interesting morning.
When I finally make it out to the writing room, I find him sitting on my desk, next to the keyboard, with a rather benign expression.
Remembering that cats can’t have expressive expressions, it worried me that he’s working overtime to make me think he has one.
I can feel his eyes boring into me, following me around the room, watching and waiting.
Waiting for what I wonder.
I also remember that cats are hunters and killers. If he was a lion or a tiger I’d be in a great deal of trouble now. He’d pounce, and that would be the end.
Is this we hat he’d be doing if I let him outside?
Is he sending me a warning?
I finish what I’m doing on the other side of the room and come over to the seat.
Are you done giving me the death stare? I ask him.
A slight shake of the head, and if I wanted to write anything into it, that would be a no.
A few seconds pass, then he jumps down to the floor and walks off.
Job done, I suspect he’s thinking.
Back to his least favourite dinner tonight, I’m thinking.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. He’s supposed to be keeping an eye on the weather.
This is the second day of Spring where it has started warm, and by mid-afternoon, it has reached a high of over 30 degrees Celcius.
It’s the start of the heatwave that basically starts in October, and doesn’t go away until April the following year.
But it’s not the heat that’s the problem, it’s the humidity, and having a day that’s 35 degrees with 1000% humidity, is like being roasted in an oven.
I see the look on Chester’s face when he comes into the writing room, a sly glance up to the roof to see if the fan is going, and a slight shake of the head when he sees it is not.
Not that hot yet, I say.
What did we get the air conditioning for or the solar panels?
He’s sharp and doesn’t miss a trick. It’s now more a benefit to run the airconditioning during the day when solar power is being generated.
We’ll be using it soon, I say. But, just as a matter of interest, don’t you cats like the heat? After all, in winter, you’re just about sitting in the fire.
A glare, no an insolent stare. That’s in winter. This is Summer.
No, it’s Spring. Let me know when it’s Summer and I’ll be happy to help.
He flops on the ground.
At least you put tiles in, it’s nice and cool down here on the floor, he mutters, feigning going to sleep.
And a wide yawn just to emphasize the fact the conversation’s over.
Why not. I turn the fan on high. Just to annoy him.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some months ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. Did someone use the word ‘vet’ out loud?
It is odd how some animals can recognise some words and remember what activity is attached to it.
Chester knows the word vet, and his memory attaches a great deal of seemingly horrible experience, not the worst of which is being transported in a pet basket.
Yes, we have just tried carrying him, but there is a sixth sense in every cat that tells them when they’re nearing a vet. Within 50 metres of the front door, the hair stands up, the cat starts hissing as he would face off against a formidable opponent.
We only carried him once, never again.
But the histrionics start in the house where we have to mound a search party to find hi, There are innumerable hiding places, and we have to be organised.
Invariably, each time something like this happens, he finds somewhere new to hide. We keep forgetting he can use his paws to open sliding doors, and close them again, a talent he had learned.
We’ve also learned to start looking a half-hour earlier than we used to. The vet is only three minutes away, and we used to leave it to the last minute, but being late for the appointment happens only once.
Vets are worse than doctors when you miss appointments. PErhaps Chester knows this and tries to use it to his advantage. It no longer works.
Then, once we find him, the next exercise is to get him into the basket. I’ve never seen so many tricks on how not to let the humans put him in it.
But, over time, we’ve learned, and sometimes it’s easy, others, I have the scars to prove it.
Then, once we get to the vet, it’ss a completely different cat, not Chester, but some other cat disguised as him. Chester has never given the vet an ounce of trouble.
Perhaps we should become vets.
Chester is fine, just a little off-colour perhaps from something he ate. Not all pet food is agreeable, and we’ve been trying to get his to have something different. I even specially cook fish for him, and maybe that was the problem.
What is off-putting is the ease in which he goes back into the basket for the vet.
November usually drags. Sometimes, being a so-called shoulder period for flying, we go off on a well deserved holiday when prices are affordable.
Not this year.
November is NaNoWriMo month so I have to stay home and get that done.
It was worth it because so far I’ve written 66,000 words, but there’s still a way to go, and I’m not going to finish it the 30 days allocated. But it is fun to write.
This was withstanding the my disappointment that the ice hockey season hasn’t started yet but this is tempered by the discovery we can get the live coverage, at a reasonable hour of the day, via the internet.
I’m also looking forward to getting back to the blogs because I don’t have time to get anything else done.
My four episodic stories haven’t got a look in and they still sit where they were at the start of the month.
But December is just round the corner, and once I get the last chapters of the NaNoWriMo project completed, I’m straight back to the four stories.
But…
Christmas has somehow managed to sneak up on me, but it will not be like any other, COVID has basically changed everything. We are still trying to work out the logistics of it, even though we are supposedly COVID free, I still think it is lurking somewhere, and all out good work will be undone by a fool. It has before, and it will again.
Perhaps I should be more optimistic, and hope Santa doesn’t get the virus. Imagine the damage he could do, visiting every house in the world!!!!!!!!!
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 