Tag: Serial

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 89

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…

20160921_071506

This is Chester.  We have been discussing the possibility of being stuck in the house for anything from 14 days to 10 months.

Yes, the Coronavirus is finally arriving in Australia, and though it is slow to catch on, we are being warned that it could get a lot worse, very quickly.

Chester has suggested we barricade the doors and windows.

Alas, I tell him, this is not the same as the American cowboys fending off an Indian attack.  No circling the wagons, and definitely no John Wayne to ride in and save the day.

Too many westerns on Fox.  I keep forgetting Chester has mastered the art of turning the TV on and changing channels on the Foxtel remote.

I also tell him that the virus is not only airborne, spread by those who cough or sneeze, but also by touch, like shaking hands, and hugging.

At that, Chester takes a good three, four steps back away from me.  So, he challenges me, what are the options.

Well, firstly cats may not get the virus.  Only one dog, as far as I know, had got it.  You, I tell him, do not need to worry.

As for the humans, well, we are in trouble if it comes.

We will be staying in, in some sort of forced quarantine, trying to avoid the rest of the world until it goes away,

So, he says, that means you have enough cat food and litter, the proper one?

I shake my head like he does when he’s annoyed.

Well, if it happens, I’m sure we’ll find out.  Besides, I add, you need to lose a kilo or two.

NaNoWriMo Day 30 + 8

This is the eighth update since the end of November.

Since the last update, I have been working on the outline, and fleshing out some of the chapters.

Of particular interest, for me that is, is what came to me at the most unexpected time, doesn’t that always happen, great ideas and never a piece of paper to write it down.

So, hold that thought, became my mantra for several hours until I got home and I put it down. in the meantime, the ideas had grown and the whole of the eighth stone and leading to the ninth came to me in a flurry of words.

I could hardly write it down fast enough.

This means the plan is now set through to the penultimate event.

Progress indeed.

I hope by the last update I’ll have the whole story through to the end, at least in outline form.

For the bean counters, this session sees another 3,185 words for a running total of 105,704.

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 88

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…

20160909_062838-2

This is Chester.  He had reminded me that it is Dr. Seuss’s birthday

Or perhaps that of the Cat in the Hat.

Chester told me once he auditioned for the role of Cat in the Hat, but he couldn’t get the hat to sit right.

A stitch-up, really, he added.  There was this fat cat, and he told everyone the role was his.

Period.

So, I had to ask, did he get the role?

No.  You’ve seen the Cat in the Hat, haven’t you?  Nothing like him.

So, other than trying to intimidate the competition, what was so scary about him?

Oh, I wasn’t scared or anything like that.  I just didn’t want to make a scene in front of the ladies.

I take a minute, trying to equate the cat in front of me, and that of the Cat in the Hat.

No resemblance at all.

And as for the scaredy-cat part, I decide not to remind him of his all-conquering fear of the grandchildren.

I’ll just wait until the next time they visit…

In less than two hours.

In a word: Zip

Which, unfortunately, I do not have a lot of in my step.

At last, we have reached the end of the alphabet because I’m running out of zip to write these blogs.

So…

Zip is the sing, the energy, the spring we have in our step, that usually gets us from a to b quickly.  Without this zest, we would need to take a bus, train, or cab.

Then comes the variations like …

Zip code, we all have one of these, though in some countries it is called a postcode.

Zip it up, meaning do not speak, especially if you’re about to spill a secret.

A zip, which is a part of some types of clothing, usually in trousers, jeans, and skirts to name a few.  Some dresses have long zips, some short, all seem to get tangled at one time or another, or, in the most embarrassing of situations, split.

Then there is a colloquial use of the word zip, meaning nothing, zilch, zero, in other words, a basis for of z words.

And that’s about as much zeal I’m going to show for writing this blog, and I’m going to close the book on it.

Thank you, and goodnight.

NaNoWriMo Day 30 + 7

This is the seventh update since the end of the month, and is nearly the end of another month. Without the dedication to the task as happened in November, it is harder to find the time, particularly when the following month, December, is given over to preparing for the Christmas festivities.

But I have been hiving out an hour or two every day to writing and planning.

For instance, I hadn’t much of a plan for what was to happen after the fifth stone, and a basic concept for the sixth. These have now been fleshed out and various chapters written.

I’m still working on the parallel events happening back at the castle with Ophelia while Marigold is out on the quest, and still needs some more work.

I have an idea what might happen, but, as always happens, when writing, the story tends to take a different course. This time I’ve tried to steer the ship on the right course, and not run aground.

For the bean counters, this session has produced 4,236 words, for a running total of 102,519.

Yes, we’ve cracked the magical 100,000.

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 87

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…

20160903_163858

This is Chester.  He was looking very benign before he left.

Now I can’t find him.

Anywhere.

He’s in none of the usual hiding spots.

He’s not hiding under any of the beds.

He’s not hiding in any of the cupboards.

I’m worried.

 

He’s planning something.  It might be my demise.  I’m still trying to figure out what he could gain from my death.  Not having to listen to me reading chapters of my books?

That, to him, might be a blessing.

I found a magazine on the floor open at an article entitled, ‘Ways to check if your spouse is trying to kill you’.

It’s got me doubly worried now.

I saw him on the kitchen bench near my coffee cup.

How hard could it be for him to dip his paw into some poison or other and then put it in my coffee cup?

That expressionless expression gives him away.

It’s what he’s not saying that’s telling me everything.

Behind that bland face, there’s the heart of a plotter, plotting something bigger than blowing up parliament by Guy Faulks.

I’m going to keep a very close eye on him.  Very, very close.

When I find where he’s hiding.

Books, books, and more books

If there is one thing I cannot resist is walking into a book store wherever it might be.

It usually elicits a groan from everyone I’m with because for them, watching grass grow is a more fascinating exercise.

But…

The best bookshops are the pop-up ones that appear in various shopping centres where there are empty spaces, and these have a wide variety of books for just $7 each.

And there are lots of bargains…

As you can see, I have been on a few bargain hunts lately and like any writer’s room, tucked away with the boxes of drinks, gardening equipment and everything else that just doesn’t fit in the house, are the piles of books awaiting being put into the shelves

As you can see, the shelves are almost full so it’s going to be an uphill battle to find spaces for them.

By the way, there are eight such book cases on the surrounding walls, as well as a new one, recently discarded from the lounge room, to house the reference books

Along with a few stuffed bears.

The job of putting books on shelves falls to the grandchildren, whom I am trying to convince that when they get older, they should too embrace the idea of having a reading room, which my writing room will also be when I eventually get to throw out the accumulation of years of discarded homewares.

Perhaps one day next year…

Why New Year resolutions are a waste of time, this year

If ever there was a year to not have any new year resolutions, this is the one.

After what had to be the worst year that I can remember, I will be glad to see an end to 2020. Absolutely everything was disrupted.

But…

The panacea that governments are touting, the COVID 19 vaccine, will not stretch to every corner of the earth, nor be available for everyone in the short term (we in Australia won’t get it until March or April) and it will be the same for nearly every country that isn’t the US, Russia and China.

By the end of next year, of course, we will know whether the vaccine will be once a year, who can’t have it, who won’t have it, and how many people will have had an adverse reaction to it. Then there’s the question of whether it stops you from getting COVID, and whether COVID can still kill you even after being vaccinated.

The problem is, 2021 is going to be a watershed year for the vaccine. Will it eradicate the virus, or will it just make the virus more resilient, or will it mutate into a version the vaccine can’t stop. Nobody knows the answers to these questions because there hasn’t been enough time to study the virus, or the vaccines because like it or not, they really do take five years to discover their effectiveness.

In that case, if I was going to make a resolution it would be to stay away from the virus and be alive in 2022.

That, of course, is impossible. There are too many selfish and inconsiderate people out there who don’t care if they get it it, and then if they pass it on. Anything to avoid being inconvenienced. So what if a few old people die, or sick people die. Less of a drain on the economy because they don’t really contribute anything, do they?

It could be argued that whoever invented this virus intended it for old and sick people because of the burden they place on the welfare system. Otherwise why would it not be so devastating for those under 50 typically most of the productive members of the workforce, nor the young who need to take their place. It is said that we may never get rid of COVID so will it be a cycle that will mean some time in the future that people will not live beyond the age of, say, 60, by design?

Has someone arbitrarily decided that there are too many people on the planet and it’s time to start culling the population? A pandemic that removes about 1 billion people would make things more sustainable.

It’s a terrifying thought. It’s the stuff of science fiction, but the problem with that it, life eventually imitates art, and what has been dreamed up on television or in the movies, eventually happens in reality.

Think about Logan’s Run. Was this the forerunner of what life will be like on this planet?

There were films about space travel in the 50’s. That became a reality in the 70’s.

Pandemic type films like Outbreak and Contagion showed the problems and possible resolutions, and yes, it eventually happened almost exactly as the latter film showed us.

It was strange to discover that everyone knew a pandemic was possible, knew what was supposed to be done, just in case, and then when it hit, no one had any idea of what to do. Will we have learned from this crisis?

I doubt it.

The biggest problem with a crisis of global magnitude is people. Half the world are constantly told lies, and the other half do not want to be told the truth.

If anything is going to destroy this world, it will not be nuclear radiation or global warfare, but a simple unkillable bug that will, if we let it though ignorance and stupidity, kill us all.

After all, there’s been a few movies that have prophesised exactly that.

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 86

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…

20160921_071452

This is Chester. He’s having a hard to trying to understand the notion of a day happening only once every four years.

I try to explain to him that it’s the fault of the Romans getting the calendar wrong.

He tosses that aside and mutters, Time is irrelevant.

How so? OK, I have to bite, because I’m sure I’m about to get a catlike pearl of wisdom.

It comes and it goes, and if it wasn’t for the fact there was night and day, you’d have absolutely no idea what time it is.

About to dismiss it as crazy, I stop to think about it.

And, damn him, he’s right.

Of course, one could argue semantics, and say if I was outside, I could approximate the time by the sun, or at night by the stars, but that’s a little beyond the cat’s imagination.

So, in a sense, you might be right, but I can usually guess what the time is.

Chester shakes his head.

You’re retired, time is irrelevant for you too. You can sleep all day and work at night if you want to. Or not do anything at all.

Like you?

Another shake of the head.

What is the point in having a serious discussion with you?  But just one question before I go?

That’ll be interesting.

Was I born on the 29th of February?”

No. Not that lucky, I’m afraid. Why?

If I was I would have no reason to feel every one of those 18 human years I’ve had to put up with your nonsense. It would only be 4 and a half.

He jumps off the seat and heads out the door.

Where are you going now?

To bed. It’s been a long morning.

You’ve only been here 10 minutes.

In your time. In cat time, it feels like hours. Only call me if you see a mouse.

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