My story 4

Most spies are loners.  They don’t like help, except in rare circumstances, and certainly don’t want a partner that could at any time be used for leverage.

Those are the rules, be responsible for or to anyone else, no permanent home, and with the motto, by any and all means available.

Oh, and the one attribute that makes them look like everyone else, that ability to blend in, anywhere, and not look like exactly what they are.

I personally have that down to a fine art.  No one notices me, even when I stand at the bar waiting to get a drink.  People seem to not see me, or there are too many other distractions to get their attention.

This time our protagonist is going to be on the way back from a disastrous mission that almost killed him.  After a year of rehabilitation, the aches and pains are still there, and the mental scars have not healed.

There are questions, so far with no answers, and that will be a thread we’ll be following.

Of course, if the protagonist is male, then the partner is female, and, of course, is the type that commands the attention of every male in a crowded bar.

Whatever happened to ordinary women?

Well, this is the spy business.  We don’t do ordinary.

But…

There’s always a first time.

I’m thinking; the proverbial shy and reserved librarian, conservatively dressed, hair always in a severe bun, glasses, and ten years off the pace for fashion trends.

Clever, and dangerous, the type of woman who goes hang gliding, or parachuting, just for the hell of it.

Maybe this time we might make a slight adjustment, she was once a librarian, one that fell for a chap from the wrong side of the tracks.  He escaped and she got five years in jail.

And there’s nothing like jail to take the innocence away and leave something very savage behind.

It’s not beyond the realms of possibility she will have fake blonde hair with green streaks.

Day 45

Time management, or not so much time management, to set a daily routine so a project can be completed.

It’s not so hard, really.  After all, to build underground railways or any multi-billion-dollar project, they trot out a project management tool and plan it from start to finish.

For me, I use the simplistic method of planning a novel based on the fact that I’m trying to write 50,000 words a day for 30 days in November.

Yes, you guessed it – NANOWRIMO.

That’s 1,633 words a day, and that’s easy, isn’t it?.

Well, over time, I have managed to get the hang of writing a novel every November.  I will admit that I
Start thinking about the process much earlier than just sitting down on November I and start writing.

The reason for that it I tried the first time and like any novel written from the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants method, you can only go so far before the ideas dry up and suddenly with pressure mounting writer’s block sets in.

I still don’t necessarily plan every detail, but I do have the start, which is usually a short story written in April as part of the A to Z month.

And in the period between April and November, a few more stories might appear, basically giving me a head start.  So despite the fact I say I’m what they call a panther, I really do some sort of planning before I tackle a novel.

Of course, that is not the only novel I write for the year, there is my series of books, long and short, The Cinema of my Dreams, and series like those involving Zoe the Assassin.  They take longer, and a few years to write, in between everything else.

However, what works for me may not work for you.  It’s just a starting point, and over time, you will find your groove. 

Day 45

Time management, or not so much time management, to set a daily routine so a 4oject can be completed.

It’s not so hard, really.  After all, to build underground railways or any multi-billion dollar project, they trot out a project management tool and plan it from start to finish.

For me, I use the simplistic method of planning a novel based on the fact that I’m trying to write 50,000 words a day for 30 days in November.

Yes, you guessed it – NANOWRIMO.

That’s 1,633 words a day, and that’s easy, isn’t it?.

Well, over time, I have managed to get the hang of writing a novel every November.  I will admit that I
Start thinking about the process much earlier than just sitting down on November I and start writing.

The reason for that it I tried the first time and like any novel written from the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants method, you can only go so far before the ideas dry up and suddenly with pressure mounting writer’s block sets in.

I still don’t necessarily plan every detail, but I do have the start, which is usually a short story written in April as part of the A to Z month.

And in the period between April and November, a few more stories might appear, basically giving me a head start.  So despite the fact I say I’m what they call a panther, I really do some sort of planning before I tackle a novel.

Of course, that is not the only novel I write for the year, there is my series of books, long and short, The Cinema of my Dreams, and series like those involving Zoe the Assassin.  They take longer, and a few years to write, in between everything else.

However, what works for me may not work for you.  It’s just a starting point, and over time, you will find your groove. 

Day 44

Why do we do it?

That’s the eternal question asked of nearly every writer/author whether successful or not.

Of course for the successful writer, though it’s hard to put a correct label on what constitutes successful, it’s either because we can make an adequate living out of it, and if it’s not that, for me anyway, it is the life of writing and the joy when someone reads a piece and leaves s review that makes it all worthwhile.

It’s not always about the money.

Most writers have a day job and squirrel themselves away in a variety of places they call their writing space and yoil long into the night, or over the weekends, trying to fit in everything else.

For most out happy times are when we are constructing a story, lost in another world, away from the everyday hustle bustle and problems usually left behind when the kids go to sleep.

I’m sure I would like to travel the world but it would only to be in search of locations of my stories, there is no such thing as a holiday that is just a holiday, and there’s a reason why Venice is a favoured location, as is London, as is New York.

These days when my other half is visiting doctors, hospitals, and specialists, those long hours in the waiting room are spent conjuring up new stories, working on current projects and just dreaming.

We spend a lot of time in these places, and she gets to read and I get to write. I’m sure a lot of the others wonder what it is that I am up to. Our GP whom we visit at least once a month and the wait can be up to about an hour has noticed when he comes out to call us in, and always asks what I’m up to.

If I didn’t have something to write, I think I would go bonkers.

Day 44

Why do we do it?

That’s the eternal question asked of nearly every writer/author whether successful or not.

Of course for the successful writer, though it’s hard to put a correct label on what constitutes successful, it’s either because we can make an adequate living out of it, and if it’s not that, for me anyway, it is the life of writing and the joy when someone reads a piece and leaves s review that makes it all worthwhile.

It’s not always about the money.

Most writers have a day job and squirrel themselves away in a variety of places they call their writing space and yoil long into the night, or over the weekends, trying to fit in everything else.

For most out happy times are when we are constructing a story, lost in another world, away from the everyday hustle bustle and problems usually left behind when the kids go to sleep.

I’m sure I would like to travel the world but it would only to be in search of locations of my stories, there is no such thing as a holiday that is just a holiday, and there’s a reason why Venice is a favoured location, as is London, as is New York.

These days when my other half is visiting doctors, hospitals, and specialists, those long hours in the waiting room are spent conjuring up new stories, working on current projects and just dreaming.

We spend a lot of time in these places, and she gets to read and I get to write. I’m sure a lot of the others wonder what it is that I am up to. Our GP whom we visit at least once a month and the wait can be up to about an hour has noticed when he comes out to call us in, and always asks what I’m up to.

If I didn’t have something to write, I think I would go bonkers.

Day 43

When a short story becomes a novel

It Started as an A to Z blog post and took NaNoWriMo to make it happen

…

Of late, I have been writing this year’s A to Z blog, which, since 2019, have been 26 short stories themed on the alphabet.

Last year, when I was writing a particular story, when I finished it, it seemed like there was more.

That’s when an idea hit me, and I started writing.  Some years, a particular story captures my attention, and I write another, which will come another of the 26, and rarely, I will write a third.

The thing is, it turned out to be a more interesting subject that had a larger story and do it began, adding chapters as the story developed in my mind, so that by the time November, and NANOWRIMO arrived it was almost a full length novel.

By the way, NANOWRIMO is short for National November Writers Month.  It has a website site, and the Writing Task, it is not a competition, is to write a novel of over 50,000 words over the 39 days of November.

I have done this for the last seven or eight years and managed to complete at least seven full-length novels.

Two of them so far have started as short stories, and I think there will be another this year.

The A to Z blog event is held in April and runs for 26 days, excluding Sundays.  Each blog entry is about a letter, starting with A.

In the first year, I did it with words. From then on, I decided to write short stories, starting with A is for: along with the title of the story.

So far, I have written nearly 250 short stories, of which about 20 have become what I call long short stories.

Day 43

When a short story becomes a novel

It Started as an A to Z blog post and took NaNoWriMo to make it happen

…

Of late, I have been writing this year’s A to Z blog, which, since 2019, have been 26 short stories themed on the alphabet.

Last year, when I was writing a particular story, when I finished it, it seemed like there was more.

That’s when an idea hit me, and I started writing.  Some years, a particular story captures my attention, and I write another, which will come another of the 26, and rarely, I will write a third.

The thing is, it turned out to be a more interesting subject that had a larger story and do it began, adding chapters as the story developed in my mind, so that by the time November, and NANOWRIMO arrived it was almost a full length novel.

By the way, NANOWRIMO is short for National November Writers Month.  It has a website site, and the Writing Task, it is not a competition, is to write a novel of over 50,000 words over the 39 days of November.

I have done this for the last seven or eight years and managed to complete at least seven full-length novels.

Two of them so far have started as short stories, and I think there will be another this year.

The A to Z blog event is held in April and runs for 26 days, excluding Sundays.  Each blog entry is about a letter, starting with A.

In the first year, I did it with words. From then on, I decided to write short stories, starting with A is for: along with the title of the story.

So far, I have written nearly 250 short stories, of which about 20 have become what I call long short stories.

Day 42

A writing exercise

…

She spent the first weekend of the month dreaming about the things she was too afraid of doing every other weekend of every other month of her life.

And those dreams did not include her using her real name Doris, but of someone more sophisticated, Delores, or Delilah, or Darcy, the name she was going to use for her firstborn daughter, not that it was ever going to happen.

It was just another one of those dreams, of dressing up, going out to a bar, sitting at the counter sipping on a long cool cocktail when a tall dark mysterious handsome man slipped into the seat beside her…

“Doris!”

The grating sound that resembled her name came from another room, a voice that was the product of a lifetime of smoking 50 cigarettes a day, a voice belonging to her mother, the woman who was stealing the very days of her life away from her.

Doris was never going to see 30, we’ll 35, alright then 41, again.

“What?”

She should not have yelled back, but it was the umpteenth time that day, and she was tired.  Her mother’s harking cough had kept her awake all night, and it wasn’t getting better.  She refused to go into palliative care where they could look after her, preferring to burden her youngest daughter with her care.  Payback, she said, for all the years she had to look after Doris.

Not the two older sisters who were married with children, who also got the same care as Doris, which basically amounted to zero.  The other two couldn’t wait to get away from home knowing what was going to happen.

“I need my pills.  Where are they?”

“In the yellow bottle next to the bed.”

The old woman knew exactly where they were.

“There isn’t any cold water!”

Doris shrugged.  It would be the third time she had refilled the water bottle.  What was she doing with it?

She waited another minute and then went to the refrigerator and got the jug of water, then went into the room.

It was hot and stuffy, and the window closed.  When she had last been in the room, it had been open.  There was also a slight hint of cigarette smoke in the room.  She had been smoking again, very much against doctors’ orders.

It meant her mother could move around and quite easily have come out.  Certainly, she could go to the window and put her head out, attempting to disperse smoke outside.

Doris filled the bottle.  “Next time, come out yourself.  You’re quite capable of walking and the exercise will do you good.”

“You heard the doctor.  No excessive movement.”

“Doesn’t stop you from breaking the rules and smoking.  You have emphysema, and smoking won’t help it.”

“I’m dying anyway. What do you care what I do?”

“More than you can obviously comprehend.  Do whatever you’re going to anyway.”

She turned and walked towards the door.  This battle of wills was never going to end, and she knew neither of them was going to win.

“What’s for dinner?”

She stopped and turned around.  At first, she was sympathetic, but that was before she realised her mother could be very manipulative.   “What do you care.  You won’t eat it anyway.”

“That’s because it tastes horrible.”

“That’s because of your treatment.  I’m just giving you what the doctor and dietician recommended.”

“Then I’d rather starve to death.”

Doris gave her a glare and left.  There was no point arguing with her.  All that would do was upset them both.

Respite came once a month when Doris was able to escape for a weekend, which inevitably ended up just staying at a small hotel not far from home, dining in the restaurant, and rising late to have breakfast in bed.

Just not having to wake to the barked sound of her name, “Doris,” reverberating through the passageways of their tiny house was reward enough.

But, there she gave free rein to her imagination and wondered what adventures she could get up to in just the course of one day.

This Saturday, she had arrived at the hotel and the proprietor, Jason Prederfield greeted her in his usual cheery manner, asked her the same question she had no doubt she asked all the guests on arrival then gave her the key to the room.

It was the same room each week, overlooking the park and playing fields, which in summer were hosting cricket matches and in winter soccer matches.  Sometimes she should go over and watch, but more often, just sat in the very comfortable old leather lounger chair near the window and read.

She was an avid reader of Mills and Boon romance novels and had brought three with her. 

More than once, she had wished that her life would be like a Mills and Boon, but there was no fairy godmother as there wasn’t a three-wish-granting genie.

If only there was.

She woke with a start, the sound of the book plopping on the ground after it slipped out of her hands waking her.

It was just beginning to get dark, and soon night would set in.  Time to dress for dinner.  This time, instead of going down to the hotel dining room, she was going to treat herself at an upmarket fish restaurant not far from the hotel.

She had seen in when out on a morning walk the last few weeks and decided it was time for something different.

She showered, went through the rigorous of applying her ‘face’ more carefully, added style to her email, then brought her special occasion dress, her version of a little black dress that was less revealing than it could be but just enough to make her feel at least five years younger.

An examination of the finishing product in the mirror told her that her life was not over yet, and maybe something might just happen.

And, even if it didn’t, she had, at the very least, felt a spark of excitement she hadn’t for a long time.

At the bottom of the stairs, she collected her coat from the rack and Jason helped her put it on and said that he had not seen her look better, in a tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

At the restaurant, she had made the booking in the name of Delores Sparks, using her surname but a change in the first.  Doris sounded plain, the name of a woman who would never frequent this restaurant.

While being escorted to her table, she noticed there were about a dozen other diners, married or not, couples, and she could feel the eyes of the men on her.

She ordered a glass of French Champagne, Bollinger, one she had seen advertised, and perused the menu.  For some odd reason, it was written in French, perhaps a mistake, but she smiled to herself.

She had taught herself French back in school and was now fluent.  One of those dreams was to visit France, but she never quite found the courage to go alone. 

Perhaps, after tonight…

The waitresses came, stood beside her, and waited patiently.  She gave her order in French and then had a quick conversation with the waiter, surprisingly able to speak the language.

It seemed to captivate some of the people around her.

A few minutes later, the maitre’d came over.  “Excuse me, madam.”

She looked up, wondering what the problem could be.

“We have a slight problem which you may be able to help us with.  We are fully booked and just realised we have a regular guest whom we can not accommodate…”

She glanced over to the front door and saw a middle-aged well-dressed man who looked on her opinion, either a banker, a lawyer, or an accountant.  He was a rather good-looking man at that.  Probably married, the good ones she discovered early on were always taken.

“Would it be possible to share a table?  He says he is prepared to pay for your dinner.  I will be happy to cover your drinks.  He has been here many times and I can vouch for his good character.”

Another glance, then back to the maitre’d.

“Of course.  I accept your kind offer.”

“Very good.  This will not be forgotten Madam, when you return.”

She deliberately didn’t turn around to watch as he was escorted to the table but as he appeared in front of her she rose to greet him.  In that moment she felt a little weakness in her knees, a strange reaction indeed.

“I must thank you, Miss, Mrs…”

“Just call me Delores.”

“Delores, what an interesting name.  My name is Jackson Courtney, Jack for short.”

They shook hands, a rather peculiar thing to do for her, perhaps not him, but the touch of hands was almost electric.  She had to quell her imagination or she might start blushing.

“Please, sit.”

They did and the waitresses came over for his drink order.

“I’ll have what Delores is having.”

The waiter nodded and left.

Delores smiled inwardly, noticing how he pronounced her name had that edge to it that might give a little shiver.

“What brings you to this restaurant?  I have to say I am somewhat surprised that you are dining alone.”

Oh, God.  She hadn’t quite thought that far ahead that she would have to give a proper and sensible conversation, one that didn’t include her telling him she was a full-time carer for her sick mother.

Delores was far more sophisticated.  She took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled.  “I try to find a small hotel and a different restaurant every so often after the hustle and bustle of London.”

“There’s no Mr Delores?”

“Is there no Mrs Courtney?”  Better to answer a question with a question and work on that air of mystery.

He smiled and it made all the difference to his expression.  Tanned, signs of being an outdoor type, hair lightly receding, but no greying.  There was more but that would do for now.

“Touche.  We should not dance on the boundaries.  Do you prefer the weather or our health as suitable topics?”

A sense of humour.  “Latest movies perhaps, a book, news that doesn’t involve politics, religion or that swamp on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“You don’t like America?”

“Oh, I love the country, I just don’t like half the people.  But that’s a woman’s perspective.  I suspect a man’s opinion would be different.”

And she swore to herself she was not going to talk politics.  “Sorry.  My personal opinions are mine and best left in my head.  Sometimes I speak without thinking, or perhaps it sounded better in my head.”

“You and me both.  I can and have put my foot in my mouth.”

His champagne came and they decided to focus on the menu.  He didn’t speak French.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

Day 42

A writing exercise

…

She spent the first weekend of the month dreaming about the things she was too afraid of doing every other weekend of every other month of her life.

And those dreams did not include her using her real name Doris, but of someone more sophisticated, Delores, or Delilah, or Darcy, the name she was going to use for her firstborn daughter, not that it was ever going to happen.

It was just another one of those dreams, of dressing up, going out to a bar, sitting at the counter sipping on a long cool cocktail when a tall dark mysterious handsome man slipped into the seat beside her…

“Doris!”

The grating sound that resembled her name came from another room, a voice that was the product of a lifetime of smoking 50 cigarettes a day, a voice belonging to her mother, the woman who was stealing the very days of her life away from her.

Doris was never going to see 30, we’ll 35, alright then 41, again.

“What?”

She should not have yelled back, but it was the umpteenth time that day, and she was tired.  Her mother’s harking cough had kept her awake all night, and it wasn’t getting better.  She refused to go into palliative care where they could look after her, preferring to burden her youngest daughter with her care.  Payback, she said, for all the years she had to look after Doris.

Not the two older sisters who were married with children, who also got the same care as Doris, which basically amounted to zero.  The other two couldn’t wait to get away from home knowing what was going to happen.

“I need my pills.  Where are they?”

“In the yellow bottle next to the bed.”

The old woman knew exactly where they were.

“There isn’t any cold water!”

Doris shrugged.  It would be the third time she had refilled the water bottle.  What was she doing with it?

She waited another minute and then went to the refrigerator and got the jug of water, then went into the room.

It was hot and stuffy, and the window closed.  When she had last been in the room, it had been open.  There was also a slight hint of cigarette smoke in the room.  She had been smoking again, very much against doctors’ orders.

It meant her mother could move around and quite easily have come out.  Certainly, she could go to the window and put her head out, attempting to disperse smoke outside.

Doris filled the bottle.  “Next time, come out yourself.  You’re quite capable of walking and the exercise will do you good.”

“You heard the doctor.  No excessive movement.”

“Doesn’t stop you from breaking the rules and smoking.  You have emphysema, and smoking won’t help it.”

“I’m dying anyway. What do you care what I do?”

“More than you can obviously comprehend.  Do whatever you’re going to anyway.”

She turned and walked towards the door.  This battle of wills was never going to end, and she knew neither of them was going to win.

“What’s for dinner?”

She stopped and turned around.  At first, she was sympathetic, but that was before she realised her mother could be very manipulative.   “What do you care.  You won’t eat it anyway.”

“That’s because it tastes horrible.”

“That’s because of your treatment.  I’m just giving you what the doctor and dietician recommended.”

“Then I’d rather starve to death.”

Doris gave her a glare and left.  There was no point arguing with her.  All that would do was upset them both.

Respite came once a month when Doris was able to escape for a weekend, which inevitably ended up just staying at a small hotel not far from home, dining in the restaurant, and rising late to have breakfast in bed.

Just not having to wake to the barked sound of her name, “Doris,” reverberating through the passageways of their tiny house was reward enough.

But, there she gave free rein to her imagination and wondered what adventures she could get up to in just the course of one day.

This Saturday, she had arrived at the hotel and the proprietor, Jason Prederfield greeted her in his usual cheery manner, asked her the same question she had no doubt she asked all the guests on arrival then gave her the key to the room.

It was the same room each week, overlooking the park and playing fields, which in summer were hosting cricket matches and in winter soccer matches.  Sometimes she should go over and watch, but more often, just sat in the very comfortable old leather lounger chair near the window and read.

She was an avid reader of Mills and Boon romance novels and had brought three with her. 

More than once, she had wished that her life would be like a Mills and Boon, but there was no fairy godmother as there wasn’t a three-wish-granting genie.

If only there was.

She woke with a start, the sound of the book plopping on the ground after it slipped out of her hands waking her.

It was just beginning to get dark, and soon night would set in.  Time to dress for dinner.  This time, instead of going down to the hotel dining room, she was going to treat herself at an upmarket fish restaurant not far from the hotel.

She had seen in when out on a morning walk the last few weeks and decided it was time for something different.

She showered, went through the rigorous of applying her ‘face’ more carefully, added style to her email, then brought her special occasion dress, her version of a little black dress that was less revealing than it could be but just enough to make her feel at least five years younger.

An examination of the finishing product in the mirror told her that her life was not over yet, and maybe something might just happen.

And, even if it didn’t, she had, at the very least, felt a spark of excitement she hadn’t for a long time.

At the bottom of the stairs, she collected her coat from the rack and Jason helped her put it on and said that he had not seen her look better, in a tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

At the restaurant, she had made the booking in the name of Delores Sparks, using her surname but a change in the first.  Doris sounded plain, the name of a woman who would never frequent this restaurant.

While being escorted to her table, she noticed there were about a dozen other diners, married or not, couples, and she could feel the eyes of the men on her.

She ordered a glass of French Champagne, Bollinger, one she had seen advertised, and perused the menu.  For some odd reason, it was written in French, perhaps a mistake, but she smiled to herself.

She had taught herself French back in school and was now fluent.  One of those dreams was to visit France, but she never quite found the courage to go alone. 

Perhaps, after tonight…

The waitresses came, stood beside her, and waited patiently.  She gave her order in French and then had a quick conversation with the waiter, surprisingly able to speak the language.

It seemed to captivate some of the people around her.

A few minutes later, the maitre’d came over.  “Excuse me, madam.”

She looked up, wondering what the problem could be.

“We have a slight problem which you may be able to help us with.  We are fully booked and just realised we have a regular guest whom we can not accommodate…”

She glanced over to the front door and saw a middle-aged well-dressed man who looked on her opinion, either a banker, a lawyer, or an accountant.  He was a rather good-looking man at that.  Probably married, the good ones she discovered early on were always taken.

“Would it be possible to share a table?  He says he is prepared to pay for your dinner.  I will be happy to cover your drinks.  He has been here many times and I can vouch for his good character.”

Another glance, then back to the maitre’d.

“Of course.  I accept your kind offer.”

“Very good.  This will not be forgotten Madam, when you return.”

She deliberately didn’t turn around to watch as he was escorted to the table but as he appeared in front of her she rose to greet him.  In that moment she felt a little weakness in her knees, a strange reaction indeed.

“I must thank you, Miss, Mrs…”

“Just call me Delores.”

“Delores, what an interesting name.  My name is Jackson Courtney, Jack for short.”

They shook hands, a rather peculiar thing to do for her, perhaps not him, but the touch of hands was almost electric.  She had to quell her imagination or she might start blushing.

“Please, sit.”

They did and the waitresses came over for his drink order.

“I’ll have what Delores is having.”

The waiter nodded and left.

Delores smiled inwardly, noticing how he pronounced her name had that edge to it that might give a little shiver.

“What brings you to this restaurant?  I have to say I am somewhat surprised that you are dining alone.”

Oh, God.  She hadn’t quite thought that far ahead that she would have to give a proper and sensible conversation, one that didn’t include her telling him she was a full-time carer for her sick mother.

Delores was far more sophisticated.  She took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled.  “I try to find a small hotel and a different restaurant every so often after the hustle and bustle of London.”

“There’s no Mr Delores?”

“Is there no Mrs Courtney?”  Better to answer a question with a question and work on that air of mystery.

He smiled and it made all the difference to his expression.  Tanned, signs of being an outdoor type, hair lightly receding, but no greying.  There was more but that would do for now.

“Touche.  We should not dance on the boundaries.  Do you prefer the weather or our health as suitable topics?”

A sense of humour.  “Latest movies perhaps, a book, news that doesn’t involve politics, religion or that swamp on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“You don’t like America?”

“Oh, I love the country, I just don’t like half the people.  But that’s a woman’s perspective.  I suspect a man’s opinion would be different.”

And she swore to herself she was not going to talk politics.  “Sorry.  My personal opinions are mine and best left in my head.  Sometimes I speak without thinking, or perhaps it sounded better in my head.”

“You and me both.  I can and have put my foot in my mouth.”

His champagne came and they decided to focus on the menu.  He didn’t speak French.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025