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

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

Day 160

Just why are we doing this thing called writing?

…

It’s a long-standing joke that the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of an express train coming right at you.

Metaphorically speaking, this is quite often true if you are a pessimist, but since I’ve converted to being an optimist, a bit like changing religions, I think I’ve seen the ‘light’.

It’s a lot like coming up from the bottom of a deep pool, breaking the surface and taking that first long gulp of air.

Along with that elated feeling that you’re not going to drown.

What’s this got to do with anything, you ask?

Perhaps nothing.

As an allegory, it represents, to me, a time when l finally got over a period of self-doubt, a period where a series of events started to make me question why l wanted to be a writer.

I mean, why put yourself through rejections, sometimes scathing criticism, and then have the people whom you thought were your friends suddenly start questioning your choices after initially wholeheartedly supporting them?

Are we only successful or supportable if we are earning a sufficient wage?

Or sold a million copies?

Is this why so many people don’t give up their day job and then find themselves plying the ‘other’ trade into the dark hours of the night, only to find themselves being criticised for other but no less disparaging reasons?

It seems like a no-win situation, but these are the times when your mettle is tested severely.  But, in the end, it is worth it when the book is finished and published, even if it is only on Amazon.

You can sit back and say with pride, I did that.

That metaphorical light, you may ask…

When you get that first ‘we’re publishing your story’ letter!

Day 160

Just why are we doing this thing called writing?

…

It’s a long-standing joke that the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlight of an express train coming right at you.

Metaphorically speaking, this is quite often true if you are a pessimist, but since I’ve converted to being an optimist, a bit like changing religions, I think I’ve seen the ‘light’.

It’s a lot like coming up from the bottom of a deep pool, breaking the surface and taking that first long gulp of air.

Along with that elated feeling that you’re not going to drown.

What’s this got to do with anything, you ask?

Perhaps nothing.

As an allegory, it represents, to me, a time when l finally got over a period of self-doubt, a period where a series of events started to make me question why l wanted to be a writer.

I mean, why put yourself through rejections, sometimes scathing criticism, and then have the people whom you thought were your friends suddenly start questioning your choices after initially wholeheartedly supporting them?

Are we only successful or supportable if we are earning a sufficient wage?

Or sold a million copies?

Is this why so many people don’t give up their day job and then find themselves plying the ‘other’ trade into the dark hours of the night, only to find themselves being criticised for other but no less disparaging reasons?

It seems like a no-win situation, but these are the times when your mettle is tested severely.  But, in the end, it is worth it when the book is finished and published, even if it is only on Amazon.

You can sit back and say with pride, I did that.

That metaphorical light, you may ask…

When you get that first ‘we’re publishing your story’ letter!

Days 158 and 159

Writing exercise – of four types, a conversational piece, maybe

…

Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times.  Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.

I had stopped turning up at the family residence for the weekly gathering simply because the ritual cross-examination of why I was not like my brothers and sisters, married with three point two children, got too exhausting.

It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.

Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it.  The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.

Only one other sibling had attempted an escape, my younger sister Eileen, but two weeks after she left, she came home.  I knew something bad had happened, but she never said anything and never left again, except for the odd trip to the state capital for work.

But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.

…

I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.

I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.

Yes, I harboured the same hopes and dreams of meeting ‘the one’ as everyone else had, but the idea of subjecting them to the rigours of the family third degree was the single limiting factor.  I could not say I was an orphan, but then I didn’t think it would be a selling point that I was the second youngest of fourteen children, with twelve of the thirteen others married with a collective twenty-six nephews and nieces.

What was probably the worst aspect, this group turned up every Sunday for lunch, all fifty-four of them, unless a major calamity prevented their attendance.  As you can see, with odds of fifty-four to one, the Spanish Inquisition would have been a kindergarten outing by comparison.

But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.

Perhaps they had missed making my life hell, because over the past three years, there had been many phone calls and messages and one visit by my eldest brother, the self-elected spokesman, he said, the peacemaker, who had come to take me home.

It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.

That was a year ago.

Things had changed during that year, though I was not sure whether for the better.  I had met someone, yes, a woman named Catherine, Katerina if I wanted to call her by her Russian name, which I didn’t, one who was perhaps as skittish as I was at the whole dating and sharing your life thing.

Our first meeting was fascinating because her Russian accent was intoxicating, and I told her at the end of the night that she could read me War and Peace, and I would listen to it all night.  I think that I realised she used her Russian heritage to put off potential suitors.  I told her it wouldn’t work with me.

We both started out playing the orphan card, and as the dates piled up and the little pieces of our sad lives leaked out, it became apparent we both had suffered the small-town, large family, endless expectations things.  She had been expected to marry her high school sweetheart until she found out he was secretly cheating on her.

When she told her parents and they confronted him, he denied it and made her look like she was just spiteful because she didn’t want to marry him.  The other girl could have him, and she left on the next bus out.  It was no surprise to learn the other girl hadn’t married him, nor had any other.

From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.

But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.

…

A Saturday morning, not generally a work day and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.

We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.

It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.

She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.

Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.

“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“I say this, and she says, ‘go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’.  So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”

“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have.  They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”

I climbed out of bed and went out.  She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.

I opened the door and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled.  Given the age differences between me and my other siblings, she was the only one I could relate to.

“What the hell, Robert?”

“What the hell, yourself?  Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”

It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand.  He had no sense of humour at all.

“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me.  Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, for fucks sake Robert,” then brushed past inside.

Katerina was watching with a bemused expression.  Perhaps this was her family, too.

I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare.  “Who is she?”

“She is standing right here, and I can hear and see you.  A warning word, my other job is a bouncer at a nightclub, and you may, depending on what you say next, find out how I treat recalcitrant customers.”

That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right.  Katarina was a gym freak.

It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.

Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen.  I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”

Katerina looked her up and down.  “He mentioned all of you, but I think his description may have been a little harsh.  You only seem a little bit bitch from hell.  I am Katarina.  Bigger bitch from Siberia.”

I smiled.  She could be a fascinating companion, more so after a bottle of vodka, and especially when she related tales of being in the Russian army.  I could never tell if they were true and never dared to ask.

Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

Instead, she said, “Wow.  The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”

“And you know that’s never going to happen.  That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing for Katerina.”

She switched her death stare back to me.

“Dad’s dying.  Earlier in the week, the final diagnosis gave him four to six months, if he’s lucky.  We don’t believe he’s lucky.  He has to go to the hospital next week, and I honestly believe he won’t be coming out, Robert.  We gave him a wish, the one thing he wanted most of all, no matter what it was, and we would grant it.  He wants to see you one more time before he dies.”

That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.

“You were there when I left?  He was the one who drove me away.  Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”

“You need to get over it and yourself.  I was not spoiled.  When I left, I made a fool of myself and was raped.  It was the worst experience of my life, and my mother nearly fought a losing battle when I tried to kill myself.  I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing.  Perhaps I should have told you, and you wouldn’t have left.”

Well, if nothing else, it was typical of how my family handled trouble.  My brother could have explained everything when he came, but he chose not to.  He was the same man as my father, uncompromising and a hard task master.  I was sure that if my father, and in turn my eldest brother, could whip us for our sins, he would have.

I shook my head and looked at Katerina.  She went up to Eileen and hugged her. 

“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women.  We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”

“Too late.  God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant.  Leopards and spots, my father says.”

That would be him.  A saying for everything, not a solution.

“There is no God, just karma.  But the story doesn’t change people, as you say, leopards and spots.  Nor does death. They are still the same people as in life.  You need more compelling reasons.  I have the same family, which is why I left Russia.”

Eileen glared at me.  “Who is this woman?”

Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask.  You have delivered a message.”  She went to the door and opened it.  “We will discuss, let you know.”

“Robert?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”

“Good.  I’ll call you.  I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”

Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.

“Is that it?”

“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t answer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.   But I will call you.”

“We can talk now?”

“No.  You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and expect I’m going to drop everything.  I now have a life, one I like, free of all that obligation and expectation.  I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards other than my own and of Katarina, as it should be.”

“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t.  Everyone will be.”

“And there’s the emotional blackmail.  Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”

She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him.  Hatred.

“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”

“You should be asking them, not me.”

A final shake of the head, and she left.  It was not what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do.  Something I had learned while away from home, that decisions were not mine alone when there were others involved, something my father never practised.  It had always been his way or no way.

I leaned against the door and sighed.

“You think her story is true?  She is quite manipulative, as you said.”

“Maybe.  My father taught them well, her especially.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on.  Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news.  It’s up to you, too.”

“It is, after all, your family.”

“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”

“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”

“I’d love to see Siberia.”

She laughed.  “You are funny, boy Robert.  No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians.  Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Days 158 and 159

Writing exercise – of four types, a conversational piece, maybe

…

Sunday lunch could be the best of times or the worst of times.  Any family gathering at my parents’ house was a trial, one that eventually drove me away.

I had stopped turning up at the family residence for the weekly gathering simply because the ritual cross-examination of why I was not like my brothers and sisters, married with three point two children, got too exhausting.

It meant that I rarely, if ever, got to see my nieces and nephews or my brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, and well-meaning but over-the-top parents.

Moving to the other side of the country had a lot to do with it.  The rest of my family had stayed put, making their lives in the one place they all professed they could never leave.

Only one other sibling had attempted an escape, my younger sister Eileen, but two weeks after she left, she came home.  I knew something bad had happened, but she never said anything and never left again, except for the odd trip to the state capital for work.

But like all good things that came to an end, it was approaching that time when I would have to go back, if only once, because it was time.

…

I might have returned home earlier had it not been for an entirely unforeseen event.

I never had any intention of looking for, or becoming involved with, any other person, not to the extent that it would require explanation of my rather odd, to me anyway, circumstances.

Yes, I harboured the same hopes and dreams of meeting ‘the one’ as everyone else had, but the idea of subjecting them to the rigours of the family third degree was the single limiting factor.  I could not say I was an orphan, but then I didn’t think it would be a selling point that I was the second youngest of fourteen children, with twelve of the thirteen others married with a collective twenty-six nephews and nieces.

What was probably the worst aspect, this group turned up every Sunday for lunch, all fifty-four of them, unless a major calamity prevented their attendance.  As you can see, with odds of fifty-four to one, the Spanish Inquisition would have been a kindergarten outing by comparison.

But to say I missed them may have been the case, but that they missed me more was becoming very hard to ignore or put off.

Perhaps they had missed making my life hell, because over the past three years, there had been many phone calls and messages and one visit by my eldest brother, the self-elected spokesman, he said, the peacemaker, who had come to take me home.

It was the last time we spoke. Civilly, anyway.

That was a year ago.

Things had changed during that year, though I was not sure whether for the better.  I had met someone, yes, a woman named Catherine, Katerina if I wanted to call her by her Russian name, which I didn’t, one who was perhaps as skittish as I was at the whole dating and sharing your life thing.

Our first meeting was fascinating because her Russian accent was intoxicating, and I told her at the end of the night that she could read me War and Peace, and I would listen to it all night.  I think that I realised she used her Russian heritage to put off potential suitors.  I told her it wouldn’t work with me.

We both started out playing the orphan card, and as the dates piled up and the little pieces of our sad lives leaked out, it became apparent we both had suffered the small-town, large family, endless expectations things.  She had been expected to marry her high school sweetheart until she found out he was secretly cheating on her.

When she told her parents and they confronted him, he denied it and made her look like she was just spiteful because she didn’t want to marry him.  The other girl could have him, and she left on the next bus out.  It was no surprise to learn the other girl hadn’t married him, nor had any other.

From there, with cards on the table, we just clicked.

But like all good things, it, too, should have ended because I was one of those people who never finished what they started.

…

A Saturday morning, not generally a work day and the day we set aside for everything that couldn’t get done on a weekday, came after an extended evening in the pub.

We rarely stayed beyond a drink or two, but others we knew, just back from a long holiday, dropped in on the off chance we would be there, and it turned into dinner and more drinks.

It never affected Katerina. I was guessing it was something to do with her Russian heritage and vodka, and the explanation I missed when I had to go to the bathroom. I was not so lucky.

She was up and about, and I heard the buzzer, usually someone trying to get in after they forgot to take their key, and I thought no more about it.

Five minutes passed, and then Katerina was standing in the doorway, her half-hostile, annoyed expression glaring at me. It was one of those expressions you could feel.

“Some silly girl at the door says she is your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“I say this, and she says, ‘go tell that annoying bastard Eileen is here’.  So, annoying bastard, who is this Eileen?”

“One of the thirteen other siblings I try very hard not to admit I have.  They’re like debt collectors. You can never really escape them.”

I climbed out of bed and went out.  She stayed back at the door but was still visible from the front.

I opened the door and there was Eileen, my youngest sister, the last born and the most spoiled.  Given the age differences between me and my other siblings, she was the only one I could relate to.

“What the hell, Robert?”

“What the hell, yourself?  Didn’t I make it clear to Prince Walter that I had disappeared through a portal to another dimension?”

It was an attempt at a joke that he couldn’t and wouldn’t understand.  He had no sense of humour at all.

“That dumb shit doesn’t work on me.  Are you going to leave me standing in the passage?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, for fucks sake Robert,” then brushed past inside.

Katerina was watching with a bemused expression.  Perhaps this was her family, too.

I could see Eileen giving her the traditional family female death stare.  “Who is she?”

“She is standing right here, and I can hear and see you.  A warning word, my other job is a bouncer at a nightclub, and you may, depending on what you say next, find out how I treat recalcitrant customers.”

That notion of not wanting to meet her in a dark alley was right.  Katarina was a gym freak.

It was amusing to see Eileen think before she spoke next.

Then, with a glance over my shoulder at Katarina, she said, “As I said at the door, I’m his sister, Eileen.  I’m surprised he didn’t mention me.”

Katerina looked her up and down.  “He mentioned all of you, but I think his description may have been a little harsh.  You only seem a little bit bitch from hell.  I am Katarina.  Bigger bitch from Siberia.”

I smiled.  She could be a fascinating companion, more so after a bottle of vodka, and especially when she related tales of being in the Russian army.  I could never tell if they were true and never dared to ask.

Eileen didn’t know what to do or say at that point. She was a hugger, and for the first time, I saw her hesitate.

Instead, she said, “Wow.  The others are going to shit their pants when they meet Katarina.”

“And you know that’s never going to happen.  That unappreciative, condescending collection of hypocrites doesn’t deserve anything from me and nothing for Katerina.”

She switched her death stare back to me.

“Dad’s dying.  Earlier in the week, the final diagnosis gave him four to six months, if he’s lucky.  We don’t believe he’s lucky.  He has to go to the hospital next week, and I honestly believe he won’t be coming out, Robert.  We gave him a wish, the one thing he wanted most of all, no matter what it was, and we would grant it.  He wants to see you one more time before he dies.”

That was saying something. When I left, he told me I could die in purgatory, after hell froze over, before he wanted to see me again.

“You were there when I left?  He was the one who drove me away.  Along with everyone else, including mother, who, I might add, spent every last breath making you the spoilt brat you are.”

“You need to get over it and yourself.  I was not spoiled.  When I left, I made a fool of myself and was raped.  It was the worst experience of my life, and my mother nearly fought a losing battle when I tried to kill myself.  I thought I knew everything, but I knew nothing.  Perhaps I should have told you, and you wouldn’t have left.”

Well, if nothing else, it was typical of how my family handled trouble.  My brother could have explained everything when he came, but he chose not to.  He was the same man as my father, uncompromising and a hard task master.  I was sure that if my father, and in turn my eldest brother, could whip us for our sins, he would have.

I shook my head and looked at Katerina.  She went up to Eileen and hugged her. 

“It is a terrible thing, what men can do to women.  We go find this lowlife and teach lesson, no?”

“Too late.  God has a way of sorting out these problems. He was killed in a crash, chased by the cops while kidnapping an underage girl he had got pregnant.  Leopards and spots, my father says.”

That would be him.  A saying for everything, not a solution.

“There is no God, just karma.  But the story doesn’t change people, as you say, leopards and spots.  Nor does death. They are still the same people as in life.  You need more compelling reasons.  I have the same family, which is why I left Russia.”

Eileen glared at me.  “Who is this woman?”

Katerina put her angry face on again. “When you live my life, you can dare ask.  You have delivered a message.”  She went to the door and opened it.  “We will discuss, let you know.”

“Robert?”

“Where are you staying?”

“The hotel up the road, not far from here.”

“Good.  I’ll call you.  I assume your cell number hasn’t changed?”

Her annoyance changed to surprise. I was not sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the open door.

“Is that it?”

“Like the rest, your expectation is that I would just fall into line. You could have called me.”

“You wouldn’t answer.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.   But I will call you.”

“We can talk now?”

“No.  You can’t just turn up on my doorstep and expect I’m going to drop everything.  I now have a life, one I like, free of all that obligation and expectation.  I don’t have to meet anyone’s standards other than my own and of Katarina, as it should be.”

“He’ll be very disappointed if you don’t.  Everyone will be.”

“And there’s the emotional blackmail.  Go now before I simply refuse, and you will have wasted your time and money.”

She looked at me with anger and just a little of what my brother had in his eyes the last time I saw him.  Hatred.

“I don’t understand why you hate us so much.”

“You should be asking them, not me.”

A final shake of the head, and she left.  It was not what I wanted, but it was the right thing to do.  Something I had learned while away from home, that decisions were not mine alone when there were others involved, something my father never practised.  It had always been his way or no way.

I leaned against the door and sighed.

“You think her story is true?  She is quite manipulative, as you said.”

“Maybe.  My father taught them well, her especially.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Go back to bed and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Shopping or bed, I know which I prefer, but it doesn’t resolve the problem.”

“Then I make a call to a friend who will know what’s really going on.  Then bed, then we talk, then we take her to dinner and send her back with the good or bad news.  It’s up to you, too.”

“It is, after all, your family.”

“And yours for better or worse, if or when we decide to make this permanent.”

“Does that mean we have to go to Siberia to see mine? It is not something I would ask of you.”

“I’d love to see Siberia.”

She laughed.  “You are funny, boy Robert.  No one loves to go to Siberia, especially Siberians.  Make the call, and then I will make you forget Siberia exists.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

More about my story…

…

Works in progress are ever evolving.

Sometimes, when we start with an unclear mind about how it will end, the pieces eventually fall into place.

When you start with exactly what is supposed to happen in the end, yes, that good old revenge, retribution, payback, call it what you will, it’s not so easy.

Especially when you have a revolution on the side.

I was going to make it far more involved, but the idea of writing a thousand pages, because that’s what it would take, and creating hundreds of characters, is far too time-consuming.

Over halfway, we’ve etched out the characters, who they are, what they supposedly stand for, and what they may do when the time comes.

We had a man of honour in a corrupt regime

We have the puppet president, who is getting less useful by the day

We have the man behind the man behind the corruption

We have an international conference whose subject matter is totally at odds with the state’s ideology

We have a VIP who is temptation personified dressed up as a lawyer

We have a free spirit who is anything but what she seems

We have an axe murderer pretending not to be an axe murderer, but the indispensable assistant

We have a broken spy trying to get through what he’s rapidly recognising as his last assignment

We have mercenaries, just the sort of cannon-fodder any revolution needs

Others are the supporting players

The conference is serious stuff

The revolution is very serious stuff

Why then are we fixating on who the protagonist may or may not have a liaison with?

Simple, heavy stuff is uninteresting, exploring the human condition?

Way more interesting…

More about my story…

…

Works in progress are ever evolving.

Sometimes, when we start with an unclear mind about how it will end, the pieces eventually fall into place.

When you start with exactly what is supposed to happen in the end, yes, that good old revenge, retribution, payback, call it what you will, it’s not so easy.

Especially when you have a revolution on the side.

I was going to make it far more involved, but the idea of writing a thousand pages, because that’s what it would take, and creating hundreds of characters, is far too time-consuming.

Over halfway, we’ve etched out the characters, who they are, what they supposedly stand for, and what they may do when the time comes.

We had a man of honour in a corrupt regime

We have the puppet president, who is getting less useful by the day

We have the man behind the man behind the corruption

We have an international conference whose subject matter is totally at odds with the state’s ideology

We have a VIP who is temptation personified dressed up as a lawyer

We have a free spirit who is anything but what she seems

We have an axe murderer pretending not to be an axe murderer, but the indispensable assistant

We have a broken spy trying to get through what he’s rapidly recognising as his last assignment

We have mercenaries, just the sort of cannon-fodder any revolution needs

Others are the supporting players

The conference is serious stuff

The revolution is very serious stuff

Why then are we fixating on who the protagonist may or may not have a liaison with?

Simple, heavy stuff is uninteresting, exploring the human condition?

Way more interesting…

Day 157

Populism or dedication?

…

So, who wants to be a New York Times No. 1 best-selling author?

Me!

Who wants to be compared to the likes of Dickens, Hemingway, Tolstoy, or any of the classic authors and write a story that is a literary treasure?

Me, too!

Shall the twain ever meet?

Here’s the rub.  If you want to make a living out of writing, you need to write at least one or two books a year, have them become ‘must reads’ like those of James Patterson or Clive Cussler.

That’s writing to a formula and taking the populist path.  It is much easier, to a certain degree, to write a novel like a romance, a war story, a spy story, or a period piece like the Regency romances.

It is a lot more difficult to write a definitive literary novel.  I keep thinking that one day I will, and I even started one about forty years ago.

I happened to read several novels by the author R.F. Delderfield, and one in particular, A Horseman Riding By.  To me, at the time, it was the modern era equivalent of those classics by Dickens or Eliot.

It was a three-volume life history, and it captivated my imagination.  At the time, I was working for a company whose history went back to the late 1800s and had a great many old records of how things were done, particularly mining on a remote island in the Pacific and a shipping line that carried the ore and passengers and stores and supplies.

That first volume ran from the 1930s to the start of the Second World War, and I spent a lot of time studying the people and processes of the time itself.  It was as far as I got, but I still harbour the notion I will get it written.

One day.

Until then, populism rules! 

Day 157

Populism or dedication?

…

So, who wants to be a New York Times No. 1 best-selling author?

Me!

Who wants to be compared to the likes of Dickens, Hemingway, Tolstoy, or any of the classic authors and write a story that is a literary treasure?

Me, too!

Shall the twain ever meet?

Here’s the rub.  If you want to make a living out of writing, you need to write at least one or two books a year, have them become ‘must reads’ like those of James Patterson or Clive Cussler.

That’s writing to a formula and taking the populist path.  It is much easier, to a certain degree, to write a novel like a romance, a war story, a spy story, or a period piece like the Regency romances.

It is a lot more difficult to write a definitive literary novel.  I keep thinking that one day I will, and I even started one about forty years ago.

I happened to read several novels by the author R.F. Delderfield, and one in particular, A Horseman Riding By.  To me, at the time, it was the modern era equivalent of those classics by Dickens or Eliot.

It was a three-volume life history, and it captivated my imagination.  At the time, I was working for a company whose history went back to the late 1800s and had a great many old records of how things were done, particularly mining on a remote island in the Pacific and a shipping line that carried the ore and passengers and stores and supplies.

That first volume ran from the 1930s to the start of the Second World War, and I spent a lot of time studying the people and processes of the time itself.  It was as far as I got, but I still harbour the notion I will get it written.

One day.

Until then, populism rules!