And probably it is a matter of being better off not thinking, but
I’m sitting here and writing a piece for a novel about one of my characters, and all of a sudden I stop, right in the middle of where he’s about to get violently murdered if he lets his guard down.
Why have I stopped right there?
A strange through goes through my mind.
Did he remember to have breakfast, did he make the bed and tidy up after he got up? Did he have to arrange to have his clothes cleaned, or were they cleaned for him?
Does he have a maid and a butler and a cook to do all those things?
The problem is, we don’t know what happened before he finished up in that precarious position.
We may know that he was taught to fight by a sen master, a swordsman, though I’m not sure if there is a requirement for fencing, to drive defensively, to kill people in more ways than you’ve had different dinners.
We may know that he was in a similar fight the day before, and his energy has been depleted and may be running on painkilling drugs. Of course, if that’s the case, and knowing the side effect of some of those drugs, he may be impaired, and slower in reaction time, which might mean premature death.
But we don’t know if he ate anything, whether he slept well, or not at all (though sometimes it rates a mention more often than not as an afterthought or an excuse), whether he has any distracting thoughts, like what the hell am I doing here?
Everyday things which all of us, and I’m sure even the most successful of spies, have to deal with.
Just a thought.
Back to the fight, yes he wins, got a couple of slashed and there’s a copious amount of blood on his shirt.
Let’s not worry about whose going to clean up the mess, or do the washing.
A few running repairs with needle and thread, including the requisite grimaces in pain, someone else will clean the shirt, and yes, there’s always a cupboard full of clean clothes to change into.