Tag: Reference

In a word: Lie

Here’s another of those small words that have so many different meanings that it can boggle the mind.

The most obvious, is telling a lie, in other words trying fervently to avoid getting the blame, admit that we are anything but ordinary, or that we are larger than life.

I’m none of the above.

Then it’s where a golf ball lands, and is quite often, for me, at the bottom of a lake, or in the middle of a sand trap. That statement, play it where it lies takes on a whole new meaning when playing with friends who hate to lose.

Then, if I’ve got a headache, which is what this is giving me trying to catch up with all the meanings, I have to lie down. Usually that’s in a prone position, though I’m sure there are people who would argue otherwise.

You can lie in state, after you’re dead, but that ain’t going to happen to me. And the way Prince Harry’s going, I don’t think it’ll happen to him either.

The mountain lies in that direction, said the elf pointing towards the sea. Elves are meant to be confusing. But inevitably something will lie in a particular direction.

Perhaps the elf will lie about the lie of the land?

A book will lie on the table, or a sill, or a shelf, or just about anywhere.

And just to add to the confusion, your future will lie before you. Figure that one out!

This is not to be confused with lye, a strongly alkaline solution, especially of potassium hydroxide, used for washing or cleansing.

In a word: Pear

Now, how did such a simple word that described a piece of fruit become so tangled?

The English language of course.

It throws up many a variation of the same sounding word, just to confuse us.

Just think, there is also pair, and pare.

But a pear, that’s a piece of fruit.

And if you’re not careful things can go pear shaped very quickly.

Then there’s pair, which means there’s two of something the same, such as a pair of socks

Except in my house it’s more than likely that pair of socks are an odd pair.

Then there’s pare, which is to take the outer layer off such as an orange.

It can also mean to cut down, as in staff after restructuring an organisation.

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

In a word: Port

So, I wonder if it’s true, any port in a storm, except perhaps Marsailles

Or, if you are a lothario type sailor, you would have a girl in every port.

Yes, the most common definition of a port is a place where ships dock.

And, while talking of ships we don’t call the sides left and right, we call them port and starboard.  Just in case you didn’t know, port is the left side of the ship when facing forward.

And of course, ships have portholes, ie windows, traditionally round and rather small.

 

It could be an alcoholic drink, imbibed mostly after dinner with coffee and cigars, though no one seems to smoke cigars any more.

There is still coffee, for now.  No doubt sometime in the future someone will link it to death and dying, and it will fall out of favour, like sugar, weedkillers and asbestos.

The best port seems to come from Portugal, strange about that.

 

You can port a program (app in phone speak) from one platform to another, which basically means from Android to Apple IOS, but not without a reasonable amount of work.

It can also be an outlet plug on a computer that accepts cables from other devices (USB) and many years ago, a printer port, and a serial port.

 

In certain places in the world a port is a child’s schoolbag, a definition I was not aware of until we moved to a different state.

I’m still having a problem with it 30 years on.

Figures of speech

I found this explanation for what a figure of speech is, on the internet: ‘a word or phrase used in a non-literal sense for rhetorical or vivid effect.’

We as writers should not use these in our writing because most people might not understand their use, mostly because some figures of speech are location specific, some are universal, and some are lost in the translation to another language.

I think it sometimes adds a degree of whimsy to the story.

I remember some years ago when I working with a Russian chap who’d not been in the country very long, and though he had a reasonable command of English, was not quite up with our figures of speech. and it made me realize when he kept asking me what they meant, just how many I used in everyday speech.

Most of these figures of speech use descriptions that do not necessarily match the situation being described, such as ‘I dance like I have two left feet’.  It’s cousin, ‘I am all thumbs; generally means you can’t build anything, and that includes IKEA furniture.

I’m guessing you don’t have to be in possession of all thumbs to not be able to put IKEA furniture together.  I’m a builder, and still have trouble.

As for the two left feet, that pretty much sums up how good I can dance, and that’s after the seven introductory lessons by Arthur Murray.  But…

‘Like a bat out of hell’, may literally describe someone racing madly away from danger, but to a Russian, it means absolutely nothing.  But as trite as it sounds, it lives on in my vernacular

‘Like a bull in a china shop’, describes a toddler let loose, sometimes in the kitchen department of a large store, with glassware, plates, and saucepans.  Once is enough, believe me.

‘More front than Myers’, as my mother used to say, but in context, Myers is the Australian version of the English Selfridges or Harrods or Paris Galleries Lafayette, or New York’s, Saks of Fifth Avenue.  It refers to the width of street frontage of the stores.

These people my mother referred to were the privileged few who can ignore queues, and cut in front of you for service because they can’t wait.

‘As mad as a hatter’, though not necessarily of the millinery kind, but, well, you can guess, it has something to do with Alice in Wonderland.

‘As nutty as a fruitcake’, provided your fruitcake has nuts in it.  Apparently ours did.

You can see, if you get the references, they are somewhat apt, and, yes, they sometimes creep into my stories, but when writing for an international audience, sometimes it’s best you leave them out.

In a word: Steal

You know how it goes, somebody breaks into your house and they steal the family jewels, which means, they’ve taken something that’s not theirs.

Baseballers will be well familiar with the term steal a base because that sneaky second base runner is trying to get to third, before the pitcher fires in a curveball.

But then there’s that same thief trying to rob you is stealing his way downstairs.

You come across a bargain, that is the seller doesn’t quite know what they’ve got and assumed it’s junk, that’s a steal.

On stage, one actor can steal the limelight from another.  if a film, an actor with a lesser part, can, if their good enough, steal the scene.

And if you’re lucky enough, you might steal a kiss, or just get slapped.

Then there’s the government, using a certain event to change the laws, and it might just steal your liberty.

This is not to be confused with the word steel, which means something else entirely, like a very malleable metal that’s low in carbon.

Or like most of our heroes, they have nerves of steel, or if they are like us, they need to steel themselves with a suitable fortification, rum is my choice.

But for me, I like the phrase, he had a steely look on his face and it was hard to tell if that was good or bad.

The unthinkable has happened…

I’m lying awake in the dark, my mind is racing with endless thoughts centred on a world wide disaster. There are things happening that could lead to what could only be described as a catastrophic event that leads to a dystopian world, one no one thought could possible happen.

Of course, it hasn’t happened, but could it…

Here’s how my mind is connecting the dots.

There are two superpowers, both nuclear equipped, and both antagonistic towards each other. Tensions have been rising, but not only with one country, but a number of countries.

In the other, an election comes and goes, there’s no decisive result, and it leads to skirmishes that eventually break out into the second civil war. No heed is paid to the virus that had been killing indiscriminately before, and seemingly had disappeared.

A fearsome world is watching what will happen as millions are being killed.

The adversarial country deems, when the civil war is at it’s zenith to attack an uncoordinated and vulnerable country, thinking no one would have their finger on the button. Nuclear weapons are launched on either side, other countries join in, and that plunges the world into a nightmare no one could have predicted.

It takes three months for the dust to settle, and to realise that more than three billion people have died from the nuclear fallout, and whole countries are now just infertile and dangerous wastelands.

And then the virus comes back, because there are no medical facilities, no fresh or running water, and no food. No electricity, no oil, no petrol, no vehicles, or transport of any kind.

In one decisive and utterly stupid move, everyone is back in the stone age, or worse.

…

Every day is a battle to survive, to keep away from the virus infected people, find food, find or build shelter, and above all, find water. All of which are not contaminated.

The land in one country that was more or less suffered two destroyed cities and caused millions of deaths, looks from a certain perspective, as though nothing has happened. There are tracts of land that are still fertile, near water, but have been taken over by the few who thought to have weapons and the forethought to create fiefdoms.

People can go there, but they are subjugated into what could be called slavery, and sacrifice everything, including their freedom, as the price to live. It’s inevitable that some will rule and others will follow, much like feudal England in the early years.

The people thought that their rights and freedom had been trampled on before the great conflagration, but now, they realise that was nothing compared to the new normal. Executions, heinous punishment for simple crimes, starvation and dehydration. The dreaded socialism that was earlier feared has come home to roost.

It’s not the first story of it’s type, it follows a fairly standard formula that I’ve read in a few books, each using a different premise for the reason, and taking a more reasonable line in the aftermath where people help each other rather than the few subjugating the masses.

To be honest, I don’t think there would be much kindness and co-operation in a world like that, simply because we’ve gone too far down the road being greedy and searching for power, particularly over others.

The meek will certainly not inherit the earth.

Of course, there’s always an exception to very rule, and this is the protagonist for this story.

…

Feel free to adapt it any way you like.

And let’s hope it doesn’t happen in reality.

The new ‘COVID 19 Normal’

I’ve just spent the last half hour writing a rant. I’m relatively sure no one wants to know about what’s irritating me right now, so I’ve closed off that post and sent it to the draft bin.

One day, when I’m not so angry, I might being it out again and temper the language. I’m sure there have been days when you’ve been so annoyed at the stupidity of people that you too would want to vent your anger.

Neither the time or the place.

The point is, I have an awful feeling the world is going to hell. It never used to be like this. Life was normal once. You know, we were all battling along the majority of us hovering just above or just below the poverty line, but mostly above.

The Government sailed along making stupid decisions like it always does, increasing our incredulity in either the government or the opposition, because it seemed to me all they did was blame each other when something went wrong.

Coronavirus withstanding, the status quo is almost the same as before it hit, only there are a lot more people hovering below the poverty line, and as governments, reportedly looking after their people in a crisis, start throwing money around like it’s water.

I can’t complain, they threw some water at me and I drank it. I’m still alive becaise of the decisions the current ruling party has made over the course of the pandemic in this country, so I can’t complain. That is left to the opposition party who, for the first few months were silent, but now, have decided to question everything the government has done, or criticiser it for what it hasn;t done.

To me, no one is perfect, and it is a pandemic and none of us alive (except for a very few who wethered the Spanish Flu pandemnic) have any iidea what it’s like to live in such times. We are weathering it, we have lost relatively few people in the fisrt wave, and a lot more in the second.

That the second wave could have been prevented is moot. It happened. We have learned from it. I hope. Foolish mistakes are always accompanied by catastrophic results, and in the eventual wash up someone will be blamed. We live in a world where blame is essential to make ourselves feel better. I’m bot sure anyone will feel better about anything this time.

But, we’re not out of the woods. There is still a whole lot of scope for us to catestrophically fail again, because this virus is insidious, and a killer, and not just to those we know it will kill. We don;t know enough about it yet to know whether any vaccine will give lasting protection, or just a few weeks, like it seems to this who have had it and recovered.

They can get it again. Given the damage it does to some of the survivors, it’s like if it didn’t kill you the first time, maybe it will the second time around. Who’s compiling the results so far from those who’ve survived, or from those who have died? What underlying causes are the worst, who should be protected, and are vaccines being tested on vulnerable groups?

What will happen to those who are given a so-called vaccine in six, twelve or eighteen months time? How long have we been testing the current batch of vaccines, a month, two at most?

I worry that being in that vulnerable group, irrespective of vaccines tested or untested, that I’m between a rock and a hard place. Whoever came up with this coronavirus, whether manmade or from wildlife, certainly knew their stuff, because it seems to be it’s incurable, like the common cold, only with a lot more deadly effect.

I had a cold, I thought it was the virus, but no, it was just a cold. It was bad and I’m still recovering from the effects. Colds, as we all know, can kill. So can influenza. Neither of these have been eradicated, but can be vaccinated against, but you can still get it. This is the nature of such viruses.

So, we now live in a new world, a COVID 19 world where we are going to have to change everything we do, and apply a new level of care, and, unfortunately, suspicion, because the moment there’s a chink in the armour, the results will be catastrophic.

They’re are beginning to call it a ‘COVID 19 normal’ down here.

Limited or no overseas travel, limited interstate travel, a new level of public hygiene, with new laws and regulations? Pre COVIS we thought we were free, but that was just an illusion. Now, we’re still free, but the lines between right and wrong, once blurred are very, very clear.

Will this, eventually, be the fate of the whole world?

Where would I like to be today?

Long after you have been on a holiday and forgotten about it, basically those places you visited are just a distant memory.  And, the likelihood of getting back there is getting more remote by the day.
Let’s face it unless something calamitous happens to remind you, and generally not in a good way, they just become place names on a map.  For most of us, living a hectic life where there’s little time to think of anything else but the job, looking after the family, and rest, that generally sums up your day.
Perhaps, in the ensuing days, the only reminder that you actually had a holiday is the last of the washing.
So, what you need are little reminders that you actually went.  This might take the form of postcards or fridge magnets, but these tend to get lost among the everyday collections of bills and children’s paintings, drawings, and certificates.
And, there’s only so much you can stick on the fridge door.

But, there is another way.

If you stay in hotels as most of us do, they always, or nearly always, provide you with several very important items that can give us a little reminder of where we been and the associated memories, whether good or bad, but hopefully good.

The first is a writing pad and pen.  You don’t get much paper on that pad so it’s only good for writing down plot points, if you’re a writer like me, particularly if you’re in an overseas location.

The second is the toiletries, like hair shampoo and conditioner, along with other items, like soap and bath gel.  These invariably have the hotel name and sometimes location on them, but often the hotel name is all that is needed.

Of course, some hotels are different, like the Hilton, because every Hilton has the same pen and the same toiletries, so with these hotels, you’re going to have to have a good memory, or as I do, take the pad.  It has the hotel’s address.

With other hotels, like the Bruneschelli in Florence, or the Savoir in Venice, they have their name on both.

Some people will use the toiletries and therefore will not have a keepsake reminder, or they may not see the use in taking the pen or the pad that comes with the room, but I suggest you do.

Then, when you least expect it, there will be that little reminder of where you go been and hopefully, it will bring back good memories, and that, for me, is on the shower.

Like today.
I’m in Florence.
Well, for the duration of the shower, that is.

I’m writing a detective story…

But the devil is in the detail.

OK, so I’ve seen a lot of detective shows on TV, from America and from Britain.

The British version of detectives is somewhat easier since they call their detectives, Detective Constable, Detective, Sargent, Detective Inspector and Detective Chief Inspector. Easy enough to remember, along with coroners and forensic teams.

The Americans, well they like to do things the hard way, with just Detective, but with grades. Then they have Medical Examiners, and Crime Scene Investigators.

Pity then that I opted for the American version, with a crime committed at the Queens Botanical Gardens car park.

But as we all know, it’s not the what and where, it’s the who, and the zany cast of characters that have to be sifted through, questioned, eliminated, until the guilty party is caught. In the meantime, people will lie, secrets will be uncovered, and red herrings will abound.

My first notion when this was an idea buzzing around in my head, it was going to be an innocent man banged up by circumstantial evidence, and then has to get someone on the outside to prove his innocence.

I’m guessing every felon in jail will swear on a stack of bibles that he or she didn’t do it, but what if it is true? A detective can proceed in the collection of evidence, witness statements, corroboration of facts, and still come to the wrong conclusion, only, at the time, and based on the evidence, it didn’t seem like it.

I’m guessing that’s why the justice system is the way it is, for the protection of the innocent, but, quite often, the law seems to protect the guilty and lock up the innocent. This is just a little tale that is designed to make people think.

What if they were wrong?

Sounds like a good title too