Tag: Serial

In a word: Air

Yep, another of those interesting little words that mean more than it appears.

Aside from the fact it is the air that we breathe, it can also be used to describe music.

It can be a breath of fresh air, though it’s hard to say where in this ever increasingly polluted atmosphere than we could literally draw one, except on a mountain top, where conversely it would be hard to breathe at all.

Have the air sucked out of us, well, that literally isn’t possible unless some madman comes up with a weird sort of vacuum cleaner, but that might be an episode for the X-Files.

He had an air about him, or her, as the case might be, which might refer to a sort of deference or manner.   There again that air might be one of boredom, which is what a lot of students seem to have in class.

Sorry, been a teacher, and know well the expressions on their faces.  Had one myself once, and finished up on the end of a chalkboard eraser.  Yep, in the good old day’s teachers used to chuck stuff at us recalcitrant students to get our attention, and not undergo a storm of protest from irate parents.

These days those same parents would most likely air their grievance, opinion, or view to the headmaster.

I’m guessing that same headmaster would be wishing those same parents to vanish into thin air, though I’m not sure how that would be possible.

And lastly, television stations air shows.

Weird, eh, how such a simple word can be used in so many contexts.

Searching for locations: Greve-in-Chianti, Tuscany, Italy

When we first planned to stay in Tuscany for a few days, we wanted to be in a central area.  We had thought of staying in Florence and making daily treks, but the tour operator we selected told us it would be better if we stayed closer to Arezzo.

We picked Greve in Chianti, and a place called Antico Pastificio, we booked a standard apartment with two bedrooms, and it was about as authentic Italian you could get.  The building we stayed in was the yellow pasta factory, and the apartment named ‘Iris’.

It was only steps away from the main square, shops, restaurants, and at the opposite end, the quaint ringing of church bells at various times during the day.

Gaining access was through a very narrow arch which required some deft driving and then up the road.  There were villas and two large apartment blocks.

You can just see the archway at the end of the road.

This was the entrance to our room,

along a passage and up the stairs, turning left at the top.

Going straight ahead through the gate to the car park,

and access to the grounds behind the buildings.

This was the view from the lounge/living room.  The days were hot, and on several evenings it rained, breaking the heat and making the evenings sitting by the window cool and refreshing.

And the last view is looking towards the town piazza and the church

 

© All photographs Charles Heath 2015-2020

 

Writing about writing a book – Day 13 extra

There’s nothing worse than an interrogation by children, particularly when they are brutally honest.  To make matters worse, I had two inquisitors, and it was clear they had spent some time before getting in the car to organize a coordinated plan of attack.

But, first, a little history.

Back in happier times, in other words before the eventual separation and divorce, we were known as nanna and poppy. I was, most of the time, referred to as grumpy poppy, and the two, girls adored their nanna.

She always had a way with children, and, it was also the case, with our own two sons.  They preferred her to me, for obvious reasons, I had to be bad cop all the time.

When we separated, and this was an eventuality that we both agreed on, and it was, I thought, quite amicable.  There was no underlying reason, like one or other of us cheating, but that we had, over time, simply drifted apart because we had separate ideas about life.

Since I was the nonpreferred grandparent, I decided to see less of the children and allow them more time to be with their nanna.  Sometimes we appeared together, like at birthdays and Christmas, but normally I kept my distance.

No one seemed to complain about my absences, least of all my own children, which spoke volumes, to me, about what they thought of me.

Now, out of the blue, I get this call to pick up my granddaughters from school. It was not as if their nanna was as so overloaded with things to so, so it seemed to me it was some sinister plot, but to what end, I could hardly imagine.

I’d find out soon enough.

The girls were waiting in the drop zone and got in the car.  It didn’t phase them that it was me, and I had thought they may have a problem since I was in a different car. But they seemed to know what to look for.

There was silence until we exited the school grounds, they went to a church primary school and perhaps they didn’t want to risk God’s judgment on me.

The older child fired the first salvo, “Nanna says you have a girlfriend.”

Ok, not the first question I was expecting.

Then the younger girl followed up with the second salvo, “is she going to become our new nanna?”

To them, these were serious questions.  But had they been inspired by their current nanna, and they were to get answers.  She’d know I wouldn’t lie to them.

I stopped at the traffic lights.

“If your nanna saw me with a friend having lunch the other day, then it’s quite possible it may have looked like that, but, no, I don’t have a girlfriend, and for what it’s worth, I’m not ready to embark on that journey again for a while.  As for the other question, there will never be a new or any other sort of nanna other than the one you have already.”

Speech timed to perfection.  The lights changed to green.

I let that sink in and then after a minute asked a question of my own.  “How come your nanna is not picking you up today?”

I notice the two give each other a look and wonder how young does a child have to be to understand what a lie is or be able to keep a secret.

“We were told that you would be collecting us today, that’s all.”

A question then for whoever is at home when I drop them off.

I notice a rather prolonged look from the younger girl, perhaps searching for a truth of her own in my expression, or that she was trying to read my thoughts.  Whatever she saw, she asked, “Do you still go to work?”

“In a manner of speaking.  I work for myself these days.”

“With computers?”

“Not anymore.  I thought I might try writing a novel.  Before, there never seemed to be enough time in a day to do anything, but now things are a little easier.”

Then the older girl chimed in, “Nanna says that it’s a bit late for you to become a writer.”

Yes, I can see it now, the rest of the family sitting around the dinner table saying that I’d finally lost my marbles doing what I always wanted to rather than what I had to.

And my ex had always said I would be wasting my time from the very first time I’d mentioned it to her.  So much for confiding your hopes and dreams in your so-called lifelong partner who is supposed to support you.  I know I had supported her through various career changes, no matter what the consequences.

“What do you think I should do?”

It would be interesting to get their perspective.

“If you don’t have a real job, how do you pay the bills?”

A practical question.  Just the sort my ex would have posed if she was here.

“You’d be surprised what you can do when you put your mind to it.  I manage.”

There was no doubt a dozen other questions to be asked, but the capacity for a child to remember was about three or four.  And then they had to remember my answers so they could relay them.

Hopefully, the interrogation was over.

In a word: Saw or Sore or Soar

In the first or is the second instance of the word Sore, we all know this malady can sometimes fester into something a lot worse.

Or that a person could be a sore loser

Or after spending an hour on the obstacle course, they come off very sore and sorry.  I never quite understood why they should be sorry because no one ever apologises to inanimate object.  Or do they?

Or perhaps he was sore at his friend for not telling him the truth.

Then, there’s another meaning, saw, which can mean the past tense of seeing, that is, I saw them down by the pool.

I could also use a saw, you know, that thing that custs through wood, steel, plastic, almost anything.  And yes, it’s possible someone might actually saw through a loaf of bread.

There are hand saws, electric saws, band saws, coping saws, even a bread knife, all of these have one thing in common, a serrated edge with teeth of different sizes, designed to cut, smoothly or roughly depending on the size.

Add it to bones, and you have Captain Kirk’s description of his medical officer on the Enterprise.  I’m not sure any doctor would like to be addressed as saw-bones.

But then, confusingly in the way only English can do, there’s another word that sounds exactly the same, soar

This, of course, means hovering up there in the heavens, with or without propulsion or oxygen.

Yes, it’s difficult to soar with eagles when you work with turkeys.  I’ve always liked this expression though most of the time people don’t quite understand what it means.

 

Searching for locations: Arezzo, Italy

There’s nothing like being a few days early or a few days late for a major festival.

We have the dubious honor of being able to both without thinking. I guess this is why you should try to plan your holiday around events, if possible.

We love Italy.

We’ve been a number of times, but the last visit was the best. Of course, it was not without a lot of hiccups just getting there, but in the end, later than we expected, actually about five minutes before they closed Florence airport, we made it.

So, little did we know there was such a thing as Calcio Fiorentino an early form of football and rugby that originated in 16th-century Italy and thought to have started in the Piazza Santa Croce in Florence. But we were in Florence, at the right time, and even got to see the procession through the streets of Florence.

You can read more about the game and rules at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calcio_Fiorentino

We were not so lucky in Siena where we were about a week early for the Palio di Siena which was to take place on 2nd July.

Nor were we in Arezzo at the right time for the Saracen Joust which was held on the penultimate Saturday in June. It is held at the Piazza Grande in the heart of Arezzo and is one of the most beautiful piazzas in Tuscany.

The Piazza Della Liberta and the Town Hall tower

The Piazza Grande, also known as Piazza Vasari, is said to be situated on the site of the ancient Roman Forum.  Here, it is being set up for the coming Joust.

A different view of Arezzo Cathedral | Cattedrale dei Santi Pietro e Donato

Writing about writing a book – Day 13

Life impinges on the idyllic

There’s the expectation and then there’s reality.

My idea of shutting myself away in my lonely garret and writing, coming out into the fresh air every now and then, just to make sure neither North Korea or the United States haven’t turned the world into a nuclear holocaust, was simply a pipe dream.

Being single again doesn’t abrogate you of the same responsibilities you have before you became single.  You still had children, and those children have children, and, yes, you can see where this is going.

The mobile phone, so silent for the past few days, makes the unusual sound it makes when a message arrives.

Thank heaven for tech-savvy granddaughters!

And before you say, quite casually, that I would be better off without technology, after all, all Hemingway had was a typewriter, I’m afraid to say there is no Luddite in me.

In fact, do Luddites still exist?

So, as I said, the phone dings, and as I’m not expecting anything, I try to ignore it.  Three minutes later it dings again, and it’s a warning.  The Gods are getting impatient.

It’s a message to pick up the grandchildren from school and deliver them home.  It’s something I haven’t done in a while, but it’s an opportunity to see them, and they always have words of wisdom as only a thirteen and ten-year-old can.

It’s a while since I have.  I suspect my involvement had been curtailed somewhat because their nanna had been available, and the more preferred option.

Or maybe they had just asked their mother to get me to pick them up so I could see them.  I had said, a while back, I was relatively reluctant to go around to see them because of how awkward it might be, and to give them time to adjust to the new arrangement the divorce had brought about.

And since I’ve been spending all my time recently immersed in conspiracies, was this one perpetrated by my daughter in law?

I’ll soon find out.

In a word: Leg

Aside from the fact it is one of those necessary items to walk with, and the fact we can have two or four for most humans and animals, there are a few other uses for the word ‘leg’.

Like…

‘You haven’t got a leg to stand on’, doesn’t necessarily mean you have no legs, but that you are in a precarious position.

“the table had ornate legs’, yes, even non-living objects can have legs, like tables and chairs.

“It was the fifth leg of the race’, meaning it can be a stage of a race.

“He was legless’, meaning that he was too drunk to stand up.  Some might think being legless is a badge of honour, but I suspect those people have been drinking a long time and the alcohol has destroyed most of their brain cells.

“leg it!’, meaning get the hell out of here before you’re caught.

Then, finally, ‘he’s on his last legs’, meaning that he’s exhausted, or about to die.

I’m sure there’s more but that’ll do for now.

I have to use my legs to get some exercise, of which the first leg is to the tripod to check if its legs are stable, and the second leg is to come back to the table and replace one of the legs which is broken.  Then I’ll leg it to the pub where hopefully I won’t become legless.

Hmm…

Writing about writing a book – Day 12 continues

Digging deeper into the war.

There is always something to be found that can be very interesting, and sometimes, when following more obscure links in web pages, you can either finish up having your computer trashed, or you find a gem.

As you can imagine, when I saw the CIA, I thought, OK, this fits my penchant for conspiracies and subterfuge, and when I stumbled across this thing called the Phoenix Program.  Whether it existed or not, one can never sure when reading about CIA activities, its premise gives me an avenue to attach a few shady characters and let them run with it.

Then, of course, there was a film which I noticed was on cable TV, so I watched it.  Air America, and whether that was true or not, it gave me another idea, and so the characterization of Colonel Davenport will fit into both these scenarios.

I suspect there may have been one or two more enterprising officers who saw an opportunity to not only appear to fulfill the parameters of their mission, but also make a little money on the side, setting up an operation within an operation, whether its to moved into a black market arms supply, or moving and selling drugs from what was called the golden triangle that may or may not have included Cambodia.

That also lends itself to Davenport, when Bill finally catches on to what he is up to, arranging for his capture and removal to a prisoner of war campo over the border in Cambodia.  It could also probably have been in Laos, at the CIA may or may not have been running an operation there as well.

There is so much now to consider.

I now have to find out about air bases and personnel, come up with a suitable band of misfits, find out what sort of aircraft and land transport could be involved in moving the contraband, and a little more about Saigon back in the mid-sixties.

 

Past conversations with my cat – 38

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This is Chester.  We’re back to discussing topics of interest on the internet.

I’m not sure why, because yesterday, after a few minutes he yawned and went to sleep.

Today, it seems, he’s prepared to show more interest.

There seems, I said, a lot of discussion around writer’s block.

You mean, those lumps of wood you keep putting on the fire, he says.  And, while we’re at it, why haven’t you got one going today.  It’s cold.

I thought we were on the same page, injured elbow, can’t use the axe.

A slight shake of the head, as if to say, I can’t remember everything you say.

OK, moving on.  Writer’s block is not about wood.

Come to think of it, haven’t we got a shed full of wood, you cut it up last year.

Enough with the wood already.  Writer’s block.  The only block I can see that’s preventing me from writing is you.

Yawn.

Yep, conversation over.

Time to make some tea.  He doesn’t like that.  I wonder if the makers of the tea would want to know it makes an excellent cat repellant?

Conversations with my cat – 76

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This is Chester.  He’s resting after a rather traumatic morning.

He came down sometime during the morning, into the office, and found me asleep in my chair.

After a long night last night, working on one of my stories, the plotline stretched well into the night and the creative juices were flowing.

It was very late when I got to bed, and I was surprised that he was not on the bed waiting for me like he usually is.

He’s one of those cats, very hard to move, and very difficult to work around when you try to stretch your legs,  And, being summer, he tends to jump around thinking it’s prey, and bites.

However…

He came down, saw me asleep and decided that I might be dead or something worse.

First, he jumped for the desk to my lap.  I didn’t move.

Second, he used a paw to tap on my arm.  I didn’t feel it.

Third, he did one of those hideous cat screams, and that nearly did give me a heart attack.

What is it they say, the cure is worse than the disease?

“What the hell is the matter with you,” I ask when finally my heart rate is back to under 200.

“I thought you were dead.”

“Isn’t that what you want, to become master of the house?”

“I’m already that, I just need a servant.  Don’t do that again.  Good servants are hard to find.”

With that, he jumps down and goes back to his lair, plotting, no doubt, the next lot of mischief he can get into.