There’s a reason why I am reluctant to give money to a lot of charities.
Quite often when you see them on TV, or in the papers, it’s usually someone very familiar to you, a movie star, or a TV star, a person people would respect, making a pitch for donations.
These people are usually very well paid for their services, with all manner of perks.
So, in reality, for every dollar you give, a large percentage goes into this person’s pocket, another large slice for the administration, and in the end, the people who are supposed to get it, get nothing.
You could argue without them there would be nothing anyway.
On the other hand, a lot of famous people do donate their time, and help raise funds that mostly go to those who need it. I give to those.
What I would like to know is what motivates these people.
Enough pontificating.
Our girl gets to go with her boy to the charity to help, firstly to peel potatoes, then to hand out food to the needy. It’s an experience that brings her to tears.
It doesn’t help that it is the reductions and downsizing in her father’s company that put the people she is serving in their situation.
Instead of making a grand entrance, arriving in style and being greeted by important dignitaries, we are slinking in via an airplane, late at night. It’s hardly the entrance I’d envisaged. At 9:56 the plane touches down on the runway. Outside the plane, it is dark and gloomy and from what I could see, it had been raining. That could, of course, simply be condensation.
Once on the ground, everyone was frantically gathering together everything from seat pockets and sending pillows and blankets to the floor. A few were turning their mobile phones back on, and checking for a signal, and, perhaps, looking for messages sent to them during the last 12 hours. Or perhaps they were just suffering from mobile phone deprivation.
It took 10 minutes for the plane to arrive at the gate. That’s when everyone moves into overdrive, unbuckling belts, some before the seatbelt sign goes off, and are first out of their seats and into the overhead lockers. Most are not taking care that their luggage may have moved, but fortunately, no bags fall out onto someone’s head. The flight had been relatively turbulent free.
When as many people and bags have squeezed into that impossibly small aisle space, we wait for the door to open, and then the privileged few business and first-class passengers to depart before we can begin to leave. As we are somewhere near the middle of the plane, our wait will not be as long as it usually is. This time we avoided being at the back of the plane. Perhaps that privilege awaits us on the return trip.
Once off the plane, it is a matter of following the signs, some of which are not as clear as they could be. It’s why it took another 30 odd minutes to get through immigration, but that was not necessarily without a few hiccups along the way. We got sidetracked at the fingerprint machines, which seemed to have a problem if your fingers were not straight, not in the center of the glass, and then if it was generally cranky, which ours were, continue to tell you to try again, and again, and again, and again…That took 10 to 15 minutes before we joined an incredibly long queue of other arrivals,
A glance at the time, and suddenly it’s nearly an hour from the moment we left the plane.
And…
That’s when we got to the immigration officer, and it became apparent we were going to have to do the fingerprints yet again. Fortunately this time, it didn’t take as long. Once that done, we collected our bags, cleared customs by putting our bags through a huge x-ray machine, and it was off to find our tour guide.
We found several tour guides with their trip-a-deal flags waiting for us to come out of the arrivals hall. It wasn’t a difficult process in the end. We were in the blue group. Other people we had met on the plane were in the red group or the yellow group. The tour guide found, or as it turned out she found us, it was simply a matter of waiting for the rest of the group, of which there were eventually 28.Gathered together we were told we would be taking the bags to one place and then ourselves to the bus in another. A glance in the direction of the bus park, there were a lot of busses.
Here’s a thought, imagine being told your bus is the white one with blue writing on the side.
Yes, yours is, and 25 others because all of the tourist coaches are the same. An early reminder, so that you do not get lost, or, God forbid, get on the wrong bus, for the three days in Beijing, is to get the last five numbers of the bus registration plate and commit them to memory. It’s important. Failing that, the guide’s name is in the front passenger window.
Also, don’t be alarmed if your baggage goes in one direction, and you go in another. In a rather peculiar set up the bags are taken to the hotel by what the guide called the baggage porter. It is an opportunity to see how baggage handlers treat your luggage; much better than the airlines it appears.
That said, if you’re staying at the Beijing Friendship Hotel, be prepared for a long drive from the airport. It took us nearly an hour, and bear in mind that it was very late on a Sunday night.
Climbing out of the bus after what seemed a convoluted drive through a park with buildings, we arrive at the building that will be our hotel for the next three days. From the outside, it looks quite good, and once inside the foyer, that first impression is good. Lots of space, marble, and glass. If you are not already exhausted by the time you arrive, the next task is to get your room key, find your bags, get to your room, and try to get to be ready the next morning at a reasonable hour.
Sorry, that boat has sailed.
We were lucky, we were told, that our plane arrived on time, and we still arrived at the hotel at 12:52. Imagine if the incoming plane is late.
This was taken the following morning. It didn’t look half as bland late at night.
This is the back entrance to Building No 4 but is quite representative of the whole foyer, made completely of marble and glass. It all looked very impressive under the artificial lights, but not so much in the cold hard light of early morning.
This the foyer of the floor our room was on. Marble with interesting carpet designs. Those first impressions of it being a plush hotel were slowly dissipating as we got nearer and nearer to the room. From the elevator, it was a long, long walk.
So…Did I tell you about the bathroom in our room?
The shower and the toilet both share the same space with no divide and the shower curtain doesn’t reach to the floor. Water pressure is phenomenal. Having a shower floods the whole shower plus toilet area so when you go to the toilet you’re basically underwater.
Don’t leave your book or magazine on the floor or it will end up a watery mess.
And the water pressure is so hard that it could cut you in half. Only a small turn of the tap is required to get that tingling sensation going.
Instead of making a grand entrance, arriving in style and being greeted by important dignitaries, we are slinking in via an airplane, late at night. It’s hardly the entrance I’d envisaged. At 9:56 the plane touches down on the runway. Outside the plane, it is dark and gloomy and from what I could see, it had been raining. That could, of course, simply be condensation.
Once on the ground, everyone was frantically gathering together everything from seat pockets and sending pillows and blankets to the floor. A few were turning their mobile phones back on, and checking for a signal, and, perhaps, looking for messages sent to them during the last 12 hours. Or perhaps they were just suffering from mobile phone deprivation.
It took 10 minutes for the plane to arrive at the gate. That’s when everyone moves into overdrive, unbuckling belts, some before the seatbelt sign goes off, and are first out of their seats and into the overhead lockers. Most are not taking care that their luggage may have moved, but fortunately, no bags fall out onto someone’s head. The flight had been relatively turbulent free.
When as many people and bags have squeezed into that impossibly small aisle space, we wait for the door to open, and then the privileged few business and first-class passengers to depart before we can begin to leave. As we are somewhere near the middle of the plane, our wait will not be as long as it usually is. This time we avoided being at the back of the plane. Perhaps that privilege awaits us on the return trip.
Once off the plane, it is a matter of following the signs, some of which are not as clear as they could be. It’s why it took another 30 odd minutes to get through immigration, but that was not necessarily without a few hiccups along the way. We got sidetracked at the fingerprint machines, which seemed to have a problem if your fingers were not straight, not in the center of the glass, and then if it was generally cranky, which ours were, continue to tell you to try again, and again, and again, and again…That took 10 to 15 minutes before we joined an incredibly long queue of other arrivals,
A glance at the time, and suddenly it’s nearly an hour from the moment we left the plane.
And…
That’s when we got to the immigration officer, and it became apparent we were going to have to do the fingerprints yet again. Fortunately this time, it didn’t take as long. Once that done, we collected our bags, cleared customs by putting our bags through a huge x-ray machine, and it was off to find our tour guide.
We found several tour guides with their trip-a-deal flags waiting for us to come out of the arrivals hall. It wasn’t a difficult process in the end. We were in the blue group. Other people we had met on the plane were in the red group or the yellow group. The tour guide found, or as it turned out she found us, it was simply a matter of waiting for the rest of the group, of which there were eventually 28.Gathered together we were told we would be taking the bags to one place and then ourselves to the bus in another. A glance in the direction of the bus park, there were a lot of busses.
Here’s a thought, imagine being told your bus is the white one with blue writing on the side.
Yes, yours is, and 25 others because all of the tourist coaches are the same. An early reminder, so that you do not get lost, or, God forbid, get on the wrong bus, for the three days in Beijing, is to get the last five numbers of the bus registration plate and commit them to memory. It’s important. Failing that, the guide’s name is in the front passenger window.
Also, don’t be alarmed if your baggage goes in one direction, and you go in another. In a rather peculiar set up the bags are taken to the hotel by what the guide called the baggage porter. It is an opportunity to see how baggage handlers treat your luggage; much better than the airlines it appears.
That said, if you’re staying at the Beijing Friendship Hotel, be prepared for a long drive from the airport. It took us nearly an hour, and bear in mind that it was very late on a Sunday night.
Climbing out of the bus after what seemed a convoluted drive through a park with buildings, we arrive at the building that will be our hotel for the next three days. From the outside, it looks quite good, and once inside the foyer, that first impression is good. Lots of space, marble, and glass. If you are not already exhausted by the time you arrive, the next task is to get your room key, find your bags, get to your room, and try to get to be ready the next morning at a reasonable hour.
Sorry, that boat has sailed.
We were lucky, we were told, that our plane arrived on time, and we still arrived at the hotel at 12:52. Imagine if the incoming plane is late.
This was taken the following morning. It didn’t look half as bland late at night.
This is the back entrance to Building No 4 but is quite representative of the whole foyer, made completely of marble and glass. It all looked very impressive under the artificial lights, but not so much in the cold hard light of early morning.
This the foyer of the floor our room was on. Marble with interesting carpet designs. Those first impressions of it being a plush hotel were slowly dissipating as we got nearer and nearer to the room. From the elevator, it was a long, long walk.
So…Did I tell you about the bathroom in our room?
The shower and the toilet both share the same space with no divide and the shower curtain doesn’t reach to the floor. Water pressure is phenomenal. Having a shower floods the whole shower plus toilet area so when you go to the toilet you’re basically underwater.
Don’t leave your book or magazine on the floor or it will end up a watery mess.
And the water pressure is so hard that it could cut you in half. Only a small turn of the tap is required to get that tingling sensation going.
You know how it is when you’re working away, an idea comes to you, but the problem is, it cannot come out of nowhere.
There has to be a previous reference to it so that when the reader gets to that point in the story, they can say, oh, yes, I read about that two chapters back, and that was what it was about…
So, back I go, in my time machine and re-write history.
Just to be clear, I didn’t write myself out of existence, which I often wonder in these shows on TV where you can go back, that they do not alter their own timelines.
Of course, I keep forgetting when we watch these shows we’re supposed to suspend belief for the hour. If we could do that in reality, how many of us would make the same mistake, or create a whole new timeline?
Going to volunteer at a charity is not the place to be wearing shoes that are more expensive than the daily food budget. This is the task our boy is given, to take her with him as another volunteer.
Of course, how to break that news to a girl whose old clothes are probably more expensive than his car.
He goes to pick her up and there he discovers just what the work staff think of him. Not the sort of people they expect at Daddy’s company. Emily comes to his rescue.
Then there is convincing her he was not going to be able to take her in $5,000 Gucci dresses and Prada shoes. They were going to Walmart, a different type of shopping spree.
Of course, that’s not without its problems, the staff are members of the school she used to go to and people she tormented and treated badly. People seem to have long memories.
If only life was simpler.
That hurdle negotiated, more by luck than good fortune, they move to the next.
Our boy takes her home to his place, and when you live in a castle, literally, well…
Who can sleep when you’re stressing over whether the girl of your dreams is or isn’t the girl of your dreams? Yes, it can be that confusing.
It’s obvious the father doesn’t think it’s over, yet.
And when he gets the call, in the dead of night, it’s a ridiculous question to ask him if he’s still awake, especially when he answers the phone.
Yes, the heart does flutter at the sound of her voice.
And a meeting, in the middle of the night. At the diner. A diner that was once a den of iniquity and now just an empty reminder of what the city was before it was bypassed with the new interstate.
Looking for the chauffeur he figures she hasn’t arrived. He doesn’t believe she drove herself.
Does that come under the category, you learn new things every day?
He finds her already there, nursing coffee, and looking like an unmade bed. In other words, she is definitely the most beautiful girl he has ever met.
And the kiss tells him this thing is far from over.
Perhaps it’s worth it when he tells her she will be coming with him, and learning the ropes.
I’m sure I’ve been down this road more than once, and with the same novel, but whereas the last edit, which was probably the second or third, finished up in the pile, then forgotten.
I’m doing an active update to all my works in progress, and sending them to the editor, after going through the manuscript once again, with a view to publishing. Hopefully, before the year is out.
…
There is something bittersweet about writing those fateful last two words on your manuscript, ‘The End’.
That’s because it’s not. Oh, no. It’s just the beginning.
However daunting the next phase of the writing process is, it’s a huge sigh of relief to finally finish the NaNoWriMo project for this year.
The ending only changed a dozen times, the most recent version yesterday, when finally in possession of all the facts, we make discoveries that we really wished we hadn’t.
Certainly, the story lives up to the tentative book title ‘Betrayed’ though I’m not sure if I might use ‘Betrayal’ instead. But a decision on that is a long way off.
Now it’s time to finish editing the manuscript, at the moment running to over 80,000 words, and stop tinkering. The line has been drawn in the sand.
Having parked two or three other projects so I could concentrate on this, now I can go back and continue with my episodic stories, and, at last, find myself able to progress at least one.
But, let me say this, it’s a hell of a way to write a novel in a short space of time.
Now it’s off to the editor for the last round of changes, if any, and hopefully, it can be published this year.
How many people have been in limbo, wondering whether the last conversation was actually the last conversation?
Relationships that are in the early stages are always on a knife edge.
The boy knows that it’s possible this relationship has a use-by date, that while the father seems to think his daughter is benefitting from them being together, it might just be possible to spend some time with the girl of his dreams.
What will happen when reality sets in?
It seems the father of the girl is impressed with the boy and asks to meet him, but once again the PA is sent to fetch him. Since it is her father our boy makes an exception.
Wondering what he wants…
It seems she wants to start a proper charity foundation and run it. Of course, being so young she cannot start at the top, so she has to learn the ropes, so to speak. And he knows the boy does charity work.
We all know what that means, taking the once spoilt brat to a place where people would judge her for what she was, not entirely because she’s from a rich family, but more because of the fact she was, and maybe still is a brat?
I’m sure I’ve been down this road more than once, and with the same novel, but whereas the last edit, which was probably the second or third, finished up in the pile, then forgotten.
I’m doing an active update to all my works in progress, and sending them to the editor, after going through the manuscript once again, with a view to publishing. Hopefully, before the year is out.
…
There is something bittersweet about writing those fateful last two words on your manuscript, ‘The End’.
That’s because it’s not. Oh, no. It’s just the beginning.
However daunting the next phase of the writing process is, it’s a huge sigh of relief to finally finish the NaNoWriMo project for this year.
The ending only changed a dozen times, the most recent version yesterday, when finally in possession of all the facts, we make discoveries that we really wished we hadn’t.
Certainly, the story lives up to the tentative book title ‘Betrayed’ though I’m not sure if I might use ‘Betrayal’ instead. But a decision on that is a long way off.
Now it’s time to finish editing the manuscript, at the moment running to over 80,000 words, and stop tinkering. The line has been drawn in the sand.
Having parked two or three other projects so I could concentrate on this, now I can go back and continue with my episodic stories, and, at last, find myself able to progress at least one.
But, let me say this, it’s a hell of a way to write a novel in a short space of time.
Now it’s off to the editor for the last round of changes, if any, and hopefully, it can be published this year.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
I was a fool for thinking that I could help Nadia when the whole time she was playing me. There didn’t look like any tension between them, and nothing that would convince me that he had any sort of hold over her.
I cursed myself for my own stupidity.
With a shake of the head, I went over to the bar attached to the beachside restaurant and order a cold beer, then another. The bartender gave me a long measured look as if trying to gauge my age, but I was old enough and had the ID card to prove it.
It was a curse to look so young for that reason, but I suppose, like more old men, I would eventually curse being old. At least, that’s what my mother said, along with the warning I should not be so eager to start drinking booze.
At least I didn’t smoke, though that hadn’t always been the case, and, at times, it was hard not to reach for a cigarette in moments of anguish or anger, like now.
I was on my fourth bottle when I heard someone sit on the stool next to mine. About the same time I recognised the perfume wafting my way.
Nadia.
“So, this is where you’re hiding?”
I looked sideways at her. My first thought was to tell her exactly what I thought of her. That passed quickly. No telling how many of her friends were here, and the thought of facing Vince was not something I wanted to do, any time.
“What do you want?”
“I thought I saw you on the pier?”
“I like to see how the other half live. What’s your excuse?” OK, that didn’t come out exactly how I wanted it to.
I could feel her glaring at me. She knew exactly what I was talking about. At least she wasn’t going to dodge the issue.
“I do what I have to. If it means I have to cosy up to a rattlesnake, then I will.” Delivered barely above a whisper, but spat out with a great deal of venom. “What happened out there?”
“Rico got busted for having a dead body on his boat. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“I didn’t put it there if that’s what you mean.”
“Alex?”
“He hasn’t got the brains for something like that. Not in plain sight.”
That was an odd thing to say, in plain sight. Did that mean they were in full view of Rico’s boat the whole time he was not on it?
“Why do you say that?” I looked sideways at her. Slightly sunburned on the top of her cheeks. No makeup, and surprisingly, she looked very different, not as grown-up.
“The yacht was parked three bays down. Engines were not working again and Alex had to come back and just made it into the dock. Sent down a couple of divers to check the propellers or something.”
“You see Rico on his boat?”
“Briefly. He was with a couple of Benderby’s thugs. They left the boat, and about ten minutes later we left the dock. Alex said some fishing line had fouled the propeller.”
“What happened then?”
“We went down below to have lunch. The Captain took it for a run, everything seemed to be working, and we came back. That’s when I saw you and Rico on the dock and all the police. You in some sort of trouble?”
“No. The FBI has taken over the investigation, and told Johnson to let us go.”
“I’m sure Johnson is absolutely thrilled the feds took over his ticket to becoming the next Sherriff.”
“Why? Is he in the Cossatino’s back pocket?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. This will put a dent in your plan to help me out with Alex. I can’t pretend to like the bastard for much longer, and I swear if he touches me again, I’ll kill him.”
I guess it was easy, for a minute, to forget that her brother was exactly the same with other women, and, when we’d been at school, girls too frightened to say no. Perhaps it was the Cossatino blood running through her veins, that it was alright in some cases, and not in others. “That’s ironic after what Vince has done, and probably still does, don’t you think?”
The bartender stopped and put a half-full glass of straight bourbon in front of her. A nod and the bill was paid.
She looked at me, picked it up and drunk the contents straight down, then said, “You’re a bastard smidge. You know I could crush you like the insignificant bug you are, but I’m not going to. You see, I like you, no matter what you think of me. Just call me once you’ve got over your bout of smug superiority.”
A smile, or a grimace, I wasn’t sure what it was, she slid off the stool and left.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 