Days 155 and 156

Writing exercise – find new ways of using the words, late, silent, ugly, traditional, and extra and incorporate them all in a novel way…

….

I could have said I was late.  I could, but I didn’t.  I could have said I forgot, and that would have been the truth, but what was the point of telling them what they already knew?

I said I was held up by traffic, which, as everyone knew for that time of day at Trafalgar Square, was a given

They asked why I chose that time of day when I knew what the traffic was like, and I said it suited my mother, which it did, and no one was going to argue with that.

She was the one at the head of the table and looked very severe.  Come to think of it, she was always looking very severe.

The only time I’d seen her smile was the day my father died.  He left everything to her.  I’d smile to if it happened to me.

“Now that we,” with an especially withering glare in my direction, fortunately at the other end of a long boardroom table, “are all here, shall we begin?”

Depending on her mood, it could last five minutes or five hours.  Judging by the phone call I got at seven minutes past five this morning, it might last a week.

It was only three words long.  “The game’s afoot.”

I tracked down the meaning, one of several other reasons I was so tardy, to Sherlock Holmes, an expression he used when a new case presented itself.

I didn’t get the inference. My mother thought I would be better off learning Latin than English Literature.

“How is the lavender case?”  Her eyes roamed around the table and stopped on the rather fearful Alex, an intern who had finally got her first case.

I convinced Mother she was ready.  I might have made a mistake.

“There has been no communication with the proprietors of the lavender factory, so I went down to Dorchester to get a first-hand response.  The factory is closed, and a ‘For Sale’ sign is on the door.”

This was relayed in a somewhat halting a week voice, brought on by my mother’s intimidating glare.

What she meant to say but wouldn’t was, there was a collective silence from everyone from the top to the bottom.

Silence would not have done in this case.  My mother doesn’t like any form of silence.

“There were a hundred and fifty people in that factory.  Are you saying an alien spaceship beamed them up and took them away?”

My mother could be scathing using what little humour she had.

And Alex could have said, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened’, but she didn’t.  She did say, “I found an open door at the rear of the premises, went up to the offices, and got a recent staff listing.  Interviews begin tomorrow.”

“Very good, Alex.  Just try to he a bit more assertive.”

Exactly what I told her.

“Next.”  Her eyes went around the table and stopped at William.  “How is the Ferg case proceeding?”

The Ferg case was one where an employer’s representative had maligned an employee on the grounds of their appearance.

It could be said they had called her ugly, and because beauty was a necessity in the promotion of their product, the fact that our client had suffered disfigurement in an accident, caused by employer negligence, we were suing said employer.

“They are willing to pay out 450,000 pounds in compensation.  The papers will be signed next week.”

“Excellent work.”

It was indeed our fee would be big, very big.  At least the client will be getting more than the original offer of 20,000 pounds.

“Next,” the eyes travelled the circumference of the table and landed on Wendy. 

Wendy was my favourite, the one who least noticed me and who was more focused on a career than anything else. 

She said so the first day we were introduced, and I decided to forget about her.  I think I realised soon enough that because I was the boss’s son, I was not someone to get involved with, and to be honest, I agreed with them.

“As I understand it, you need more resources.”

I saw the memo.  She wanted one extra investigator, but when approaching someone like my mother, who was against ‘throwing a pile of people into a project just to fall over each other’, asking for help was the same as admitting defeat.

Hence, the verbosity around using the word resources.  It was clever.

“Sam can help you if and when he’s free.”

Sam was me.  She never offered my services to anyone, so what was she up to?

Wendy looked at me and smiled.

I got the distinct impression my body was going to be found washed up in the lower reaches of the Thames, if not tomorrow, the next day.

“Any other business?”

Everyone knew better than to say there was.

“I have just one item.  This business was built on a solid foundation of hard work and getting results.  My husband, the late Mr Forster, his father, and his father before him set the standards, the methodology, and the systems that drive us towards the objective of being the best of the best.  Please remember that as you all go about your business.”

She stood, took a last look around the faces of the company, then left.

What she failed to say was that we had traditions, that we were a traditional company.  She, like my father, hated change, but only change was going to save us.

The trouble was, I did not dare tell her.

Then I realised the room was empty and Wendy was standing next to me.

“Sam.”

I said nothing.  She had that ability to turn me into a gibbering idiot.

“Can you drop by my office in an hour.  I have a job I would like you to do.”

“Sure.  In an hour.”

“Yes.  See you then.”

After she left the room, I sighed.  I think I knew what my mother meant with her enigmatic three words.  She knew I liked Wendy.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

More about my story

Sometimes it’s not so much about the main characters, it’s the extras, any one of which could steal the show…

…

In every story, TV series, and movie, there is always a character who sometimes inadvertently steals the show, or at the very least, every scene he or she is in.

It could be a cute dog.  I’ve seen a few of those.

I had a cat, his name was Chester, and he was a proverbial pain in the butt.  I still write him into stories because his antics were high jinks.  He could look at you, and you would swear you knew exactly what he was thinking, and it wasn’t complimentary.

Every now and then, I get the chance to add a character, generally someone I knew or saw, a cameo.

In this story, it’s the woman in white, though she gets to play a genuine role in the end, all the way through, she crops up at the least expected time to add a little humour and distraction for the main protagonist.

Just like the Inspector, Delacrat.  He doesn’t need to be there all the time; he just needs to be on the mind of the protagonist, making sure that he keeps his mind on the job.  A few mind games along the way help.

Then there’s Fitzherbert, an aver the top politician, not a man who has the refinement and learning of a university student, but a rough and tumble ex-union organiser who is more at home making noise rather than using diplomacy.

We have, in Australia, a comedian who died recently, but had created as one of the many caricatures of gregarious quintessential Australian characters, named Sir Les Patterson.  He was, to my mind, horrible, but he was more life-like than anyone could imagine.  That was Fitzherbert.

There are others, and they might get a mention later on.

More about my story

Sometimes it’s not so much about the main characters, it’s the extras, any one of which could steal the show…

…

In every story, TV series, and movie, there is always a character who sometimes inadvertently steals the show, or at the very least, every scene he or she is in.

It could be a cute dog.  I’ve seen a few of those.

I had a cat, his name was Chester, and he was a proverbial pain in the butt.  I still write him into stories because his antics were high jinks.  He could look at you, and you would swear you knew exactly what he was thinking, and it wasn’t complimentary.

Every now and then, I get the chance to add a character, generally someone I knew or saw, a cameo.

In this story, it’s the woman in white, though she gets to play a genuine role in the end, all the way through, she crops up at the least expected time to add a little humour and distraction for the main protagonist.

Just like the Inspector, Delacrat.  He doesn’t need to be there all the time; he just needs to be on the mind of the protagonist, making sure that he keeps his mind on the job.  A few mind games along the way help.

Then there’s Fitzherbert, an aver the top politician, not a man who has the refinement and learning of a university student, but a rough and tumble ex-union organiser who is more at home making noise rather than using diplomacy.

We have, in Australia, a comedian who died recently, but had created as one of the many caricatures of gregarious quintessential Australian characters, named Sir Les Patterson.  He was, to my mind, horrible, but he was more life-like than anyone could imagine.  That was Fitzherbert.

There are others, and they might get a mention later on.

Day 164

Writing exercise – who, what, where, when, and why?

…

There’s the hell of it. When the planets line up, it’s easy, but like mathematical equations, when you’re missing one basic element, a solution can be as far away as the moon, or, in this case, Pluto.

It was how this story stacked up, in the end, because it was not so much the clues, but those interpreting the clues and a very clever criminal that no one would ever have picked on first sight.

So much so that even when the perpetrator confessed, nobody believed them.

But…

I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day started like any other, sitting in the middle of the bull pen with twenty other journalists looking for that story that was going to win them a Pulitzer prize.

Of course, my chances were less than zero.  I’d let the story of the century slip through my fingers because I took a humanitarian stand to save the victim.  Someone else broke the story, and it was given a lecture and one more chance.

Then…

Like all investigations, great or small, it starts with the boss coming out of his office and yelling out a name.

“Curruthers?”

It was usually a raised voice so it could pierce through the hubbub of the pit, sometimes quiet because of the lack of participants, but today it was a full house, making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Today, he yelled, and instantly, the noise stopped.

Someone was for it, and that someone was Curruthers.

That someone was me.

I stood, but being five feet, something didn’t make much difference.

“Sir?”

“My office, now.”

Never keep an angry man waiting.  Since the boss was always angry, I all but ran.

“Shut the door.”

There was a difference between it and really for it.  The closed door…

I waited for the bollocking. I could see he was trying to find the words…

“The Spenser Building, a body in the penthouse, found by the Russian maid, stabbed a dozen, maybe more times, cops haven’t ruled out the lover, still there, blood on his hands, fresh, she was still alive when the maid found her, now deceased.  This has got sensation written all over it.  Daniels is the detective. You and her…get on it now.”

“Sir.”

I was going to say Detective Louisa Daniels and I had split up a year ago, but that would have ensured someone else got the story.  This was too good to pass up.

I was out the door before he could change his mind.

…

I arrived breathlessly at the front entrance to the Spenser Building at the same time as Detective Louisa Daniels, with her usual partner in crime, Detective Burns.  He had a first name, Oliver, but no one used it.

She was walking towards the front entrance where Gary, the front doorman, was stationed.  Ropes had been erected, and the police were there keeping the public back.

I was the public, in that moment, until Gary saw me arguing with a police officer and came over.  It stopped Louisa, who also turned to see what the commotion was about.

“He lives here, officer.”

The officer let it go and went back to his station.

I thanked him, and we headed back to the door.  Louisa stepped in front of me.  “Joseph.  I forgot you live here.”

“You’re here for the Eleanor Spencer murder.”

“Yes.”

Detective Burns came over. “Joseph? What are you doing here?”

“The editor sent me over to cover the story.”

“There’s nothing to cover.  We just got here,” he said.

“You can’t be here, Joe,” Louisa said.  “I thought you were covering the obits.  You certainly added a bit of life to their stories.”

She never did give me much credit as a journalist, even when I did as she’d asked and all but ruined my career.  It was basically the reason we broke up.

“I can help with this case.”

Detective Burns didn’t like me.  He had never liked me and had warned Louisa that I would betray her confidence.  I didn’t, but I suspected he had to another reporter, a rival reporter working for another newspaper.  He glared at me, “You’re a hack, Bateman.”

I wondered if Louisa remembered what I had told her about why I was living in the Spenser Building.  It was a long time ago, and she had always been preoccupied with becoming the best detective in the police department.

A measure of that was proved by her assignment to such a high-profile case.

She turned to Burns, “You go up and find out where forensics are, and if the medical examiner is on site.”

“You don’t think this fool knows anything?”

“Go.  I’ll be there directly.”  Back to me, she said, as we watched him go through the front entrance, “He thinks you told another reporter, but I knew Jaimie was playing him.  I think you did, too, but I didn’t believe for a minute it was you. There was nothing I could do.  I’m sorry.  In more ways than one.  Walk with me.”

We went into the building, heading for the elevator lobby.

If I remember correctly, and it was a moment when we were both a lot tipsy, a woman came to the front door, invited you to a gallery showing or some such, and when I asked who it was, you said it was your mother.”

“I might have said something silly like that.”

“I also remember seeing her in a magazine a week later with you in the background, and it was our victim, Mrs Spenser.  I also dismissed what you said because your name was Bateman, not Spenser.”

“That is true.”

“If you are who you say you are, then how did you get the name Bateman?”

“My adoptive parents, the Batemans.

“But if you are her child, how?”

“Born to a mother who got pregnant a year before her first marriage, out of wedlock, and sent to a foster home.  She is my mother.  Later, she spent a fortune to find me, then kept our secret.  However, that’s just grist to the mill.  You need to know that I was one of three people to see her alive.  There was a dinner party with eight guests, and when I left, there was only one other person, the lover.  I have information and want to help.”

“Is your apartment the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will look at the crime scene and then come and see you.  It will be strictly off the record.  OK. Oh, and if you killed her, you will feel the full weight of my wrath.”

“Fine.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 164

Writing exercise – who, what, where, when, and why?

…

There’s the hell of it. When the planets line up, it’s easy, but like mathematical equations, when you’re missing one basic element, a solution can be as far away as the moon, or, in this case, Pluto.

It was how this story stacked up, in the end, because it was not so much the clues, but those interpreting the clues and a very clever criminal that no one would ever have picked on first sight.

So much so that even when the perpetrator confessed, nobody believed them.

But…

I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day started like any other, sitting in the middle of the bull pen with twenty other journalists looking for that story that was going to win them a Pulitzer prize.

Of course, my chances were less than zero.  I’d let the story of the century slip through my fingers because I took a humanitarian stand to save the victim.  Someone else broke the story, and it was given a lecture and one more chance.

Then…

Like all investigations, great or small, it starts with the boss coming out of his office and yelling out a name.

“Curruthers?”

It was usually a raised voice so it could pierce through the hubbub of the pit, sometimes quiet because of the lack of participants, but today it was a full house, making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Today, he yelled, and instantly, the noise stopped.

Someone was for it, and that someone was Curruthers.

That someone was me.

I stood, but being five feet, something didn’t make much difference.

“Sir?”

“My office, now.”

Never keep an angry man waiting.  Since the boss was always angry, I all but ran.

“Shut the door.”

There was a difference between it and really for it.  The closed door…

I waited for the bollocking. I could see he was trying to find the words…

“The Spenser Building, a body in the penthouse, found by the Russian maid, stabbed a dozen, maybe more times, cops haven’t ruled out the lover, still there, blood on his hands, fresh, she was still alive when the maid found her, now deceased.  This has got sensation written all over it.  Daniels is the detective. You and her…get on it now.”

“Sir.”

I was going to say Detective Louisa Daniels and I had split up a year ago, but that would have ensured someone else got the story.  This was too good to pass up.

I was out the door before he could change his mind.

…

I arrived breathlessly at the front entrance to the Spenser Building at the same time as Detective Louisa Daniels, with her usual partner in crime, Detective Burns.  He had a first name, Oliver, but no one used it.

She was walking towards the front entrance where Gary, the front doorman, was stationed.  Ropes had been erected, and the police were there keeping the public back.

I was the public, in that moment, until Gary saw me arguing with a police officer and came over.  It stopped Louisa, who also turned to see what the commotion was about.

“He lives here, officer.”

The officer let it go and went back to his station.

I thanked him, and we headed back to the door.  Louisa stepped in front of me.  “Joseph.  I forgot you live here.”

“You’re here for the Eleanor Spencer murder.”

“Yes.”

Detective Burns came over. “Joseph? What are you doing here?”

“The editor sent me over to cover the story.”

“There’s nothing to cover.  We just got here,” he said.

“You can’t be here, Joe,” Louisa said.  “I thought you were covering the obits.  You certainly added a bit of life to their stories.”

She never did give me much credit as a journalist, even when I did as she’d asked and all but ruined my career.  It was basically the reason we broke up.

“I can help with this case.”

Detective Burns didn’t like me.  He had never liked me and had warned Louisa that I would betray her confidence.  I didn’t, but I suspected he had to another reporter, a rival reporter working for another newspaper.  He glared at me, “You’re a hack, Bateman.”

I wondered if Louisa remembered what I had told her about why I was living in the Spenser Building.  It was a long time ago, and she had always been preoccupied with becoming the best detective in the police department.

A measure of that was proved by her assignment to such a high-profile case.

She turned to Burns, “You go up and find out where forensics are, and if the medical examiner is on site.”

“You don’t think this fool knows anything?”

“Go.  I’ll be there directly.”  Back to me, she said, as we watched him go through the front entrance, “He thinks you told another reporter, but I knew Jaimie was playing him.  I think you did, too, but I didn’t believe for a minute it was you. There was nothing I could do.  I’m sorry.  In more ways than one.  Walk with me.”

We went into the building, heading for the elevator lobby.

If I remember correctly, and it was a moment when we were both a lot tipsy, a woman came to the front door, invited you to a gallery showing or some such, and when I asked who it was, you said it was your mother.”

“I might have said something silly like that.”

“I also remember seeing her in a magazine a week later with you in the background, and it was our victim, Mrs Spenser.  I also dismissed what you said because your name was Bateman, not Spenser.”

“That is true.”

“If you are who you say you are, then how did you get the name Bateman?”

“My adoptive parents, the Batemans.

“But if you are her child, how?”

“Born to a mother who got pregnant a year before her first marriage, out of wedlock, and sent to a foster home.  She is my mother.  Later, she spent a fortune to find me, then kept our secret.  However, that’s just grist to the mill.  You need to know that I was one of three people to see her alive.  There was a dinner party with eight guests, and when I left, there was only one other person, the lover.  I have information and want to help.”

“Is your apartment the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will look at the crime scene and then come and see you.  It will be strictly off the record.  OK. Oh, and if you killed her, you will feel the full weight of my wrath.”

“Fine.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 163

Some days are just an explosion of ideas, and you find yourself working on many stories at once

…

I’m a case in point…

There is more going on in the story front, and just to keep my mind active, or tortured, as the case may be, there are several other stories I’m working on.

In the first instance, there is the story with the tag line –

“What happens after an action-packed start…”

Quite a lot.

In part one, the protagonist is shot out of the sky, captured, and interrogated – but for what reason

In part two, the protagonist and a select team of misfits are flown into northern Nigeria, before crossing into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in search of two men being held to ransom.

Previous attempts to rescue them had failed; this one had to succeed. It’s a matter of dealing with local militias who are tricky to deal with, and then getting out of the country after effecting the rescue.

At times, while writing it, looking at a map and using Google Earth to see what it is like, I felt like I was there looking down the barrel of a gun, and then, in the helter-skelter of getting to the evacuation point, I’m sure my heart rate had lifted considerably, particularly when the battered DC3 was about to be shot at with air to air missiles.

Just imagine this …

A DC3 versus a very maneuverable helicopter.

I was on the edge of my seat.

Next is the surveillance story where nothing is as it seems, which in the espionage business is nothing unusual. Nor is the fact that you cannot trust anyone.

It starts out as a routine surveillance operation until a shop front explodes a moment or two after the target passes it. In the ensuing mayhem, the target reappears, now in fear for his life, and our main character tracks him to an alley where he is murdered before his eyes.

Soon after, the two men whom the protagonist is working for appear and start asking questions that make our main character think that they had perpetrated a hit on the victim, and he decides that something is not right.

From there, the deeper he probes, the more interesting the characters and developments. Who was the target? What was he doing that got him killed? What does he have that everyone wants?

I’m about to start on the next phase of this story…

Then there is what I like to call comic light relief, the writing of stories inspired by photographs I’ve taken. Some, however, have exceeded the 1,000-word limit that I’ve set, only because I want to explore the story more, and some are spread over several stories.

They are titled: A picture is worth a thousand words … more or less

The first book of stories, 1 to 50, is to be published soon. Currently, I’m working on number 148 of the third volume of stories, but number 88 is my favourite so far, simply because it involves a starship.

But the overarching point to all of this is that ideas and stories can come in swarms, and unless you have the ability to focus on one, which I cannot, it is a juggling act, and one that I love being in the middle of.

And, you guessed it, I just saw an article on my news feed about how lifelike robots are getting, and an idea for a story just popped into my head.

What if you couldn’t tell the difference and … gotta run.

Day 163

Some days are just an explosion of ideas, and you find yourself working on many stories at once

…

I’m a case in point…

There is more going on in the story front, and just to keep my mind active, or tortured, as the case may be, there are several other stories I’m working on.

In the first instance, there is the story with the tag line –

“What happens after an action-packed start…”

Quite a lot.

In part one, the protagonist is shot out of the sky, captured, and interrogated – but for what reason

In part two, the protagonist and a select team of misfits are flown into northern Nigeria, before crossing into the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in search of two men being held to ransom.

Previous attempts to rescue them had failed; this one had to succeed. It’s a matter of dealing with local militias who are tricky to deal with, and then getting out of the country after effecting the rescue.

At times, while writing it, looking at a map and using Google Earth to see what it is like, I felt like I was there looking down the barrel of a gun, and then, in the helter-skelter of getting to the evacuation point, I’m sure my heart rate had lifted considerably, particularly when the battered DC3 was about to be shot at with air to air missiles.

Just imagine this …

A DC3 versus a very maneuverable helicopter.

I was on the edge of my seat.

Next is the surveillance story where nothing is as it seems, which in the espionage business is nothing unusual. Nor is the fact that you cannot trust anyone.

It starts out as a routine surveillance operation until a shop front explodes a moment or two after the target passes it. In the ensuing mayhem, the target reappears, now in fear for his life, and our main character tracks him to an alley where he is murdered before his eyes.

Soon after, the two men whom the protagonist is working for appear and start asking questions that make our main character think that they had perpetrated a hit on the victim, and he decides that something is not right.

From there, the deeper he probes, the more interesting the characters and developments. Who was the target? What was he doing that got him killed? What does he have that everyone wants?

I’m about to start on the next phase of this story…

Then there is what I like to call comic light relief, the writing of stories inspired by photographs I’ve taken. Some, however, have exceeded the 1,000-word limit that I’ve set, only because I want to explore the story more, and some are spread over several stories.

They are titled: A picture is worth a thousand words … more or less

The first book of stories, 1 to 50, is to be published soon. Currently, I’m working on number 148 of the third volume of stories, but number 88 is my favourite so far, simply because it involves a starship.

But the overarching point to all of this is that ideas and stories can come in swarms, and unless you have the ability to focus on one, which I cannot, it is a juggling act, and one that I love being in the middle of.

And, you guessed it, I just saw an article on my news feed about how lifelike robots are getting, and an idea for a story just popped into my head.

What if you couldn’t tell the difference and … gotta run.

Day 162

Journalism is a great learning ground for writers

…

It comes as no surprise that many writers, when they are asked about how they got into writing, say they were once journalists.

This is because journalism is a great background. You learn to get to the crux of any story in one paragraph, asking five basic questions: who, what, where, when, and why.

In the commission of any story, sooner or later, you ask the question: at what point does a writer become a journalist?

Quite often, journalists become writers because of their vast experience in observing and writing about the news, sometimes in the category of ‘truth is stranger than fiction’.

I did journalism at university and thought I would never get to use it.  I had to interview people, write articles, and act as an editor.  The hardest part was the headlines. Thank God that’s usually a problem for the editor. It’s about as much fun as coming up with a title for the book.

But, for example…

Several opportunities arose over the last few months to dig out the journalist hat, put it on, and go to work.

Where?

Hospital.  I’ve had to go there a few times more in the last few months than I have in recent years.

And I’d forgotten just how hospitals are interesting places, especially the waiting room in the Emergency department.

After the second or third visit, I began observing the people who were waiting and ran through various scenarios as to the reason for their visit.  None may have been true, but it certainly was an exercise in creative writing, or would make an excellent article.

Similarly, once we got inside the inner sanctum where the real work is done, there were any number of crises and operations going on, and plenty of material for when I might need to include a hospital scene in one of my stories.

Or I could write a volume in praise of the people who work there and what they have to endure.  Tending the sick, injured and badly injured is not a job for the faint-hearted.

Research, which is one of the most important tools a journalist uses, if it could be called a ‘tool’, turns up in the unlikeliest of places.  Doctors who answer questions, not necessarily about the malady, nurses who tell you about what it’s like in Emergency on nights you really don’t want to be there, and other patients and their families, all having a perspective, amd a story to tell, while waiting patiently for a diagnosis and then treatment so they can go home.

We get to go this time at about four in the morning.  Everyone is tired.  More people are waiting.  Outside, it is cool, and the first rays of light are coming over the horizon as dawn is about to break.

I ponder the question without an answer, a question one of the nurses asked a youngish doctor, tossed out in conversation, but was there more intent to it, what he was doing on Saturday night?

He didn’t answer.  Another crisis, another patient.

I suspect he was about to say, where else would he be, but on duty in the Emergency.

Day 162

Journalism is a great learning ground for writers

…

It comes as no surprise that many writers, when they are asked about how they got into writing, say they were once journalists.

This is because journalism is a great background. You learn to get to the crux of any story in one paragraph, asking five basic questions: who, what, where, when, and why.

In the commission of any story, sooner or later, you ask the question: at what point does a writer become a journalist?

Quite often, journalists become writers because of their vast experience in observing and writing about the news, sometimes in the category of ‘truth is stranger than fiction’.

I did journalism at university and thought I would never get to use it.  I had to interview people, write articles, and act as an editor.  The hardest part was the headlines. Thank God that’s usually a problem for the editor. It’s about as much fun as coming up with a title for the book.

But, for example…

Several opportunities arose over the last few months to dig out the journalist hat, put it on, and go to work.

Where?

Hospital.  I’ve had to go there a few times more in the last few months than I have in recent years.

And I’d forgotten just how hospitals are interesting places, especially the waiting room in the Emergency department.

After the second or third visit, I began observing the people who were waiting and ran through various scenarios as to the reason for their visit.  None may have been true, but it certainly was an exercise in creative writing, or would make an excellent article.

Similarly, once we got inside the inner sanctum where the real work is done, there were any number of crises and operations going on, and plenty of material for when I might need to include a hospital scene in one of my stories.

Or I could write a volume in praise of the people who work there and what they have to endure.  Tending the sick, injured and badly injured is not a job for the faint-hearted.

Research, which is one of the most important tools a journalist uses, if it could be called a ‘tool’, turns up in the unlikeliest of places.  Doctors who answer questions, not necessarily about the malady, nurses who tell you about what it’s like in Emergency on nights you really don’t want to be there, and other patients and their families, all having a perspective, amd a story to tell, while waiting patiently for a diagnosis and then treatment so they can go home.

We get to go this time at about four in the morning.  Everyone is tired.  More people are waiting.  Outside, it is cool, and the first rays of light are coming over the horizon as dawn is about to break.

I ponder the question without an answer, a question one of the nurses asked a youngish doctor, tossed out in conversation, but was there more intent to it, what he was doing on Saturday night?

He didn’t answer.  Another crisis, another patient.

I suspect he was about to say, where else would he be, but on duty in the Emergency.

Day 161

Writing exercise

…

The street was quieter than usual that Friday.

I wasn’t a believer of omens, but walking down the left side of the street, it seemed to me people were hurrying along a little bit faster than usual.

Not being in a hurry, it felt like I was left behind a surging tide. 

Was it because of some event coming up the next day that people had to get home and then away, like the holidays?  Then, the street was less busy but not by much, and this felt different.

A search for events involving this part of the city and its streets showed nothing unusual.  It was just a normal Friday night.

I ducked into the pub not far from the underground station outlet, a place where, if I didn’t want to get home too early, I would have a pint or two and something to eat.

Usually, Friday was one of the two days I would treat myself to restaurant food rather than cook for myself.  My cooking skills were not great.

In the corner, another resident of my building was also taking a refreshment.  We ran into each other sometimes in the morning, if she was early, or, like now, in the pub.

Susannah, last name unknown, had been a resident of the building for about eleven months now, and I had seen her two or three times a month, enough to say hello, and once, last week, in the pub which she confessed she had only just discovered.

She was a personal assistant to a cranky female boss, her words, and I was an accounts clerk, a dull-as-ditchwater job, my words.  But we had not talked about work, but another of the building’s residents, Rory.

He was, of all things, a male model, extremely good-looking, and I had seen once or twice his effect on women.  And now, Susannah.

I had harboured a secret desire to woo her, if that’s the right name for it these days, and had gone to cast the first overture when she asked about Rory’s availability.

Hiding my disappointment, I had to answer truthfully, and that was I didn’t know.  He brought women home from time to time, female models, I thought, but that was the extent of it.

I said I would ask if I ran into him, had asked him even though it was none of my business, and he responded with an emphatic no.  Afterwards, I realised he must have thought I was interested, which I wasn’t, and he was probably avoiding me.

Passing it on, with those sentiments, she laughed.  She thought he definitely wasn’t gay.  I wasn’t so sure.  I had to say I had friends who were, and they never advertised, to the extent that if they hadn’t told me, I would never know.

I didn’t tell them I didn’t want to know.

She looked up as I came in and waved.  I was not sure what that meant, so I went to the bar, had a brief conversation with the bartender, then sat on a stool down the end.

A few minutes later, she joined me.  Perhaps I’d misread the signal.

“A bit quieter than usual,” she said

She was right.  The bar generally had customers spilling out onto the path outside.  Tonight, it was rather sparse with spare seats inside.

A flow on from the lack of foot traffic?

“It seems so.  Maybe a lot of people moved, and we failed to see them go.”

“Not in our building.  Another family of six got Bernie’s old flat on the third floor.  The lift was out, and they all had to trudge upstairs.”

The lifts were always malfunctioning.  The landlord refused to pay for anything.  His idea was if the tenants used it, the tenants paid. 

Her rooms were opposite the elevator shaft, and she had to listen to the creaking and groaning of the two old lifts day and night.  I was lucky to be further away.

‘That flat barely fitted Bernie by himself.  How does it fit six?”

“With great difficulty.” 

She finished her drink, and I motioned to the bartender.  “Another,” I asked as he approached.

“Why not.  All that’s waiting for me is a noisy, lonely flat.”

Was that an opening to ask her out, perhaps on a date, or perhaps just to eat dinner with someone else?

“Two more,” I said, and he went away.

“Have you had dinner yet?” she asked.

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“By the way,” she added, “I ran into Rory earlier in the week.  He asked me out to dinner when I was free, which was last night. I’m at the restaurant at the appointed time, and he stood me up.  I’m not happy at all.”

That, to me, was surprising because Suzannah was quite beautiful, with what I thought were the attributes for being a model herself. I was saved from making a comment when the drinks arrived.

I was debating with myself whether I should ask and had all but decided not to, when she asked, “What do you do with your Friday nights?”

“Find new restaurants and try something I’ve not had before.  It’s not always the surprise I’m expecting.”

“Tonight?”

“Yet another voyage of discovery into the great unknown of culinary experiences.”

“Want a fellow diner.  I don’t want to go home, and I don’t think you do either.”

I didn’t, but I was a little irked that I couldn’t find the courage to ask her.

“I do not. You’re quite welcome.  What are your preferences?”

“None.  I’m one of those rare few who can and will try anything.”

“Then why not?

Was it an omen, perhaps, but it was not a bad one.  If it hadn’t been for the lack of people, this would never have happened.  On the other hand, it still didn’t mean it was going to be plain sailing.  It would be the first time in ages I’d dined with a woman, on my own, on what could be called a date.

And anything could and possibly would go wrong.

All I could do was hope it didn’t. 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025