Nobody really did notice her. She was just there, always. Dependable, trustworthy Laura, who never got sick, or complained.

If something needed to be done, Laura did it. If anyone needed to be helped, Laura helped them.

Time went by, as it always does, and Laura noticed one day a little leaf hanging on her sweater. She picked it up and studied it, wondering where she might have picked it up. Her commute did not involve any green spaces.

In the next weeks, Laura was annoyed to find even more leaves around her desk, and a strange almond smell seemed to follow her everywhere.

‘Somebody must be playing around …’, she told herself while quickly sweeping the leaves away for fear somebody might notice.

Laura continued doing her work, being there every time she was needed, giving it her best day in and day out.

Soon, the leaves became too many to just hide away, but to her surprise, Laura found out that nobody around her noticed them. They did not notice her.

They sent her emails and messages, and asked her for this or for that, but they did not actually acknowledge her physical presence.

One morning, Laura was stunned to find that, while combing her hair, little white flowers fell into the sink. Also, on her way to work, try as she might, she was not able to get rid of an annoying bee.

Life followed its course unperturbed while Laura started to struggle more and more with the changes she was going through.

‘Grin and bear it!’, she encouraged herself. ‘You can do whatever you need to do!’

‘You have to!’

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Laura worked hard to keep it together, to deal with all the strange things happening to her and the disappointment that no matter how much she had changed nobody seemed to notice, nobody seemed to care.

One day, while working on her laptop and with bees buzzing around, with a little bird chirping in her ear, and a hedgehog hiding under her feet, Laura got a message reminding her of a task she was meant to deliver asap.

That was the moment when she felt so alone, the most alone she had ever felt in her life, and tears flowed down her face.

Laura got up quickly, embarrassed, and went outside to the park right across from where she worked. Here she found a bench and sat down, curling up and crying.

Crying, letting it all out, made Laura calm down a bit, and from her curled-up position, she had a great view into a huge Cherry Laurel hedge growing unhindered right next to the bench.

Looking at it Laura saw the bees, the flowers, the birds nesting, and she also saw the might of the hedge, the strong trunk well established in the ground, how well it recovered when it was pushed this way or the other by the wind, the beauty of its shiny leaves and all the life it sustained, plus the protection it provided the bench she was on.

That was when she had this thought:

‘I am like the hedge, and like it, I don’t really get noticed …’

The hedge did not look like it cared about that; it had so much life in itself, it did so much for the world, it was strong and kind, and it did not need the passersby to admire it. It knew what it was and what was important, and it drew its satisfaction from the support it gave to all the other beings relying on it.

‘I am like the hedge’, Laura muttered to herself while getting up.

‘And I like it …’

That was when Laura understood she liked to be needed, to be asked to do things, she just did not like not being seen, but that was something she was going to change.

Back at her desk, Laura found she was a bit euphoric and a lot relieved.

She flew through her tasks and then, with a trusty notebook, she sat herself in front of the window to have a good view of the impressive Cherry Laurel hedge and started to formulate a plan.

Plan to Be Seen:

Step one:

…

WIP

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The leaf had kept him company from the center of town almost as far as his home.

At first he had noticed, with the corner of his eye, a slight movement somewhere to his right, on the ground. He thought it might be a mouse or, God forbid, a rat, so he turned to look quickly and with a bit of fear in his chest.

When he saw it was a leaf jumping and twirling in the wind he was amused. It was very pretty and quite funny the way it moved.

‘Autumn is here…’ he told himself and walked on.

After just a few steps, he noticed the leaf had joined his walk and accompanied him, bouncing and floating on the slight breeze.

‘Aren’t you pretty!’, and quickly followed it by: ‘I am going mad, talking to a leaf …’, he shook his head in disapproval and moved on.

As he was walking, something in him kept wanting to check what the leaf was doing. Was it still there? Was it still walking on the wind?

He stopped to do up his laces, although after a quick check, they were just fine. He did spot the leaf though, advancing slowly, so he sat on a low, stone boundary wall to catch his breath.

He was surprisingly pleased when the leaf caught up with him. His companion was a bit slow, but it was there, and that was what mattered.

Together they made their way forward, enjoying the autumn breeze and the spectacular colors. He kept tabs on the leaf and encouraged it when needed. He waited for it and spoke to it under his breath so the other passersby didn’t think he was totally mad.

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He had to make a hard choice when he was forced to turn the corner to his house. Go on and forget about his buddy or something else.

He went on, but something in him was sad. After a few steps, he stopped short and turned back, walking quickly to where he had seen the leaf last. He found it! Thank God!

He picked it up gently and held it with extreme care until he got home, where he put it in the kitchen behind the glass pane of a cupboard.

He was pleased he had picked up the leaf and it made him smile every time he saw it there in the cupboard. Soon, though, the leaf started curling and drying out and he knew it would soon become brittle and most likely disintegrate.

He could not let that happen so he did some research on how to best preserve it. It did not take him long until he had everything he needed to preserve it in resin.

When it was done, the leaf looked amazing in its protective resin case, and he could not help but share it online. It was the first time he had actually done something like that, and he felt a strange feeling of accomplishment and contentment.

One of his co-workers asked if they could have one also. He had lots of resin left so he agreed. He went out and hunted for some fallen, good-looking leaves, his colleague chose the one they wanted and that was that.

Soon, he found that he also wanted to preserve flowers and fallen cones. He learned more and experimented more. Soon, he had a pretty nice collection, and at the suggestion of one of his colleagues, he took photos of them and put them online for sale.

Some would sell, some not. He did not become extremely rich, but he did gain a lot in peace of mind and self-worth. Plus, he was surprised to find out there was a club of people with this pastime, and sometimes he would pass the time with them work-shopping on zoom.

All this because he had made friends with a leaf.

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In the warm waters of a faraway land lived a well-meaning manatee.

For those of you who do not know what a manatee is, let me tell you. Manatees are big swimmers, devout vegans, and firm believers in the family unit. They love a spot of warm water, and when they are not busy eating, resting, or taking care of their family, they love a good nose around other animals’ business.

Manatees are very well behaved and have a good disposition, and are, in general, quite happy with their lot. But, as always, there is an event to rock the proverbial boat.

So, it happened that, one warm, balmy day, when our main character manatee, called Mindy was gently floating around, she found herself under attack with tiny little shells. They did not hurt her proper but they were annoying nevertheless.

Mindy shyly peered from under the surface of the water to see that the creature throwing the shells at her was a stunning-looking mermaid with long, fire-red flowing hair, a shiny yellow fish tail, and the most beautiful, blue eyes. The entire being of the mermaid seemed to catch the sun and reflect it all around her, so much so, that Mindy felt blinded by the shiny mermaid and made a gesture to go under, and about her business.

Unhappy with the reaction, the mermaid swiftly went into the water and, in no time, she was right next to a very surprised Mindy. The mermaid waved excitedly and swam around the large manatee, almost three times her size.

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Soon, Mindy had to concede defeat and swam to the surface to see what the pestering mermaid wanted.

‘Hello …’, she said in a very distrusting tone.

The mermaid looked as if she had never entered the water. She was sparkling and gorgeous.

‘Heeyyyy! You are a manatee, riiiight???’, and without waiting for an answer, the mermaid went on. ‘Do you know we are related? We are both from the Sirenia clan.’

‘Oh!?!…’, Mindy did not know, and looking at the mermaid, she hardly thought it possible there was any type of relation between them.

Mindy was about two meters and a bit long, and was aaaa … significant weight. The mermaid was well put together, too, but compared to Mindy, she was tiny.

Mindy was starting to feel uncomfortable and desperately wanted to leave.

‘What do you want?’, she sounded gruff, although it was difficult for her to make her usually squeaky, manatee voice sound tough.

The mermaid put on a seductive smile.

‘Oh, nothing! I just wanted to meet my long-lost cousins! I wanted to see how you are! There is a story that we, the mermaids, as you see us now, have been, in a very distant past, more similar to you. We changed, though, over the years, we put in the effort, and bettered ourselves, becoming what you see today!’

And the mermaid gave an unexpected, gracious twirl in the air, letting out sparkles of light reflected from her scaly tail, almost blinding poor Mindy with her spectacle.

A beautiful song could be heard in the distance, and the mermaid left in a hurry, waving back to the speechless Mindy.

‘Gotta dash!’, she sang on a breath.

When the mermaid was gone, Mindy found that her world felt darker, devoid of warmth and color.

While swimming in the shallow waters, Mindy started to ruminate on the things the mermaid had said. Was it possible that manatees could become mermaids? They were indeed related, she had looked it up. They were all a part of the same family, the Sirenia family.

So, this meant that, if Mindy worked really hard, she too could become like the mermaid. With the image of the sparkling mermaid imprinted on her mind’s eye, Mindy decided to do whatever she had to do to bring out in herself all the things that were similar to the mermaid.

First things first. Mindy was too big, so she stopped eating.

Second, Mindy had no fish-scales, so she scoured the shops at the bottom of the sea, until she found a tattoo parlor where a big, shifty crab promised he could draw on her skin such realistic scales that nobody would tell the difference.

Mindy agreed, and, in no time, half of her body was covered in bright, colorful, inky patches.

‘It just needs to heal!’ The crab said and quickly went away!

Mindy was not feeling very well, and because she was not nourishing her body, the wounds on her skin did not heal, but started to grow into strange bubbles.

Mindy’s mother found her almost unconscious on the seabed.

Young manatees spend a long time with their mothers, learning from them where to find food, where the warm water is, so their bond is very strong.

‘What did you do, you stupid child?’, Mindy’s mother whispered while lovingly taking care of her.

Shortly, Mindy was back to swimming and, in secret, trying to devise other ways to turn herself into a spectacular mermaid.

Mindy had read the research that said you can be whatever you want to be, you can accomplish whatever you set your mind to, if you are disciplined and you work hard enough, nothing can stop you from achieving your goals! It was written so!

Not eating was not an option, so Mindy started to swim for hours on end to build strength and lose weight. In a few short weeks, Mindy discovered that although she hadn’t lost any weight, she enjoyed swimming even more and had become significantly faster. She felt that brought her closer to the mermaid, and it pleased her.

On one of her long swimming trips, Mindy stumbled on a dark, deep, corner of water. Manatees don’t like cold water, so Mindy was about to turn back, when she heard a strange singing muffled by the water. Carefully, she explored a bit more.

Because manatees mostly glide when swimming, Mindy was able to get close to a scary scene without being noticed.

A mermaid, a different one than the one she had met previously, was surrounded by a school of menacing fish. Fish with sharp teeth that shone like boat propellers in the dark water.

The mermaid was cooked! Without thinking too much about it, Mindy moved in, spinning and making lots of waves, confusing the fish with her massive body. She signaled to the mermaid, and they both swam away. They swam as fast as they could, and they only stopped when they were in Mindy’s very quiet neighborhood.

‘Are you ok?’, Mindy asked the unbelievably beautiful mermaid. She had very curly, fluffy hair, and she was the most delicate creature Mindy had ever seen.

‘I am, thank you so much for saving me! You are a hero!’ Mindy could sense in her words that she really meant it.

‘Oh no, anyone would have done that!’, Mindy really did not think it was much, it was just normal to help someone in need.

‘I am so grateful you were passing by! You must be a very brave manatee. I know your kind don’t venture that far out.’

Mindy did not want to tell her that she was training, hoping to become a mermaid. The role of brave manatee suited her just fine.

The next day, the mermaid brought her parents to thank Mindy, and her mother was so proud of her little girl, although part of her was worried that something bad might have happened.

Mindy found that she was very happy and comfortable in her skin of skilled manatee, and happily signed up to support younger manatees to learn how to be great swimmers and fighters too.

Sometimes, while admiring the scars on her skin (the tattooist crab had been a liar, they had never healed into beautiful scales, but just turned into little black marks on her body), Mindy thought about how, in her quest to become more like the mermaid, she had actually become a better manatee, and that was what it was all about. Becoming a better version of yourself, not similar to somebody else.

Mindy was grateful for the experience, and for the lesson, and you know what? It turns out mermaids make great friends, as Mindy was happy to learn.

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For some reason, he was never able to find a place of his own. Something inside him just pushed him forward, and he never stood still long enough to build something, to make something of himself or for himself.

So now, at sixty-something years old, Fionn was back in his home country after traveling the world. He was almost penniless, but not quite, he still had some relatives, but not quite, and quite surely he had no idea what to do with his life.

Old age was looming ugly over his future days.

Fionn had always been a tough man. Strong by nature, he stood at 6 foot 4, or 193 cm as he told them in other places when they asked. He was never particularly well groomed, but was always washed and had clean clothes.

If he remembered something from his upbringing, it was the respect for cleanliness, and although he was not necessarily very tidy, he was a stickler for cleanliness.

Now, with his hair growing in all directions and a big grey beard, he looked like an ogre most of the time. An ogre in need of work that is.

The few euros he had, he was guarding well, trying hard to make them stretch to the maximum.

Fionn did not even remember all the jobs he had done in his life, but now he had to take into consideration a new factor, something that he had never thought about before. His getting older. Now he could not lift as much as he used to, or stand on his feet for hours on end as he had done on countless building sites around the world.

To be fair, Fionn did not even know what job would work for him now, as almost all the jobs he was good at before, or he could do, not sure about good, seemed to be unsuitable now.

A ship marooned on the shore, its wood drying out, decaying, forced to stare at the sea, contemplating what was, what is, and what will never be.

Sometimes he would think of all the people he’d met, of all the hopes he had, of how it was all gone, and now he was here, unsure of what to do with himself in this great, big world.

Fionn had found a room in a big house split into many tiny rooms. He was grateful for it. He was too old to share and also, over the years, he had become very wary of sleeping in a room with other people. More than once they tried to steal his things, and a few times they even managed, until he got into the habit of putting all his precious belongings in a pouch around his neck and his backpack, which, while sleeping, he would hug tightly as a mother would her baby.

His room here was the definition of tiny. He had a bed, a small nightstand and one of those fabric wardrobes from Ikea, but most importantly, it had a window. A window he could use to look out and check the weather, a window he could watch the stars through when the nights were clear. A room of his own.

Money was tight though, and Fionn was desperate to find something to do and earn something. He had tried construction, but he was useless, plus he got laughed at so much by the young workers, seemingly unaware of their human condition, that he was now firmly convinced that the chapter was over for him.

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One day, deep in his thoughts, unaware of the rain seeping into his clothes, Fionn walked the streets of Dublin looking for something, anything, and what he found was totally unexpected.

An old man, older even than Fionn, was on his knees on the sidewalk, gathering some spilled books and putting them in a box. The man was wearing a tattered suit and had a bright dignity about himself there in the pouring rain, on his knees on the dirty sidewalk, gathering books and trying to protect them from the rain.

Fionn knelt and quickly helped him gather the rest of the books and supported him to stand up. The box seemed way too big for the frail man to carry, so Fionn picked it up and waited for the man to lead the way.

They understood each other without words, and walked quickly, well, as fast as they could, on the slippery sidewalk, then on a small alleyway, stopping in front of a little shop front. The old man unlocked the door and motioned Fionn to follow him inside.

The interior was unlike anything Fionn had ever seen before. Walls covered from floor to ceiling in shelves bent under the weight of books. Books, books everywhere, more books than Fionn thought existed in the world.

‘Put that here, please!’, Fionn snapped out of his fascination and did as he was told.

In the soft light of the bookshop the old man seemed to have transformed, and from where before he looked very old and frail, now he seemed quite well, not young, but not old either. Even his suit was now seemingly made out of a sparkly kind of tweed that moved with elegance at every little gesture.

‘Ogma, nice to meet you!’, by the extended hand Fionn understood that, that was the man’s name.

‘Oh, hello! Fionn, nice to meet you too! You have so many books … I don’t think I have ever seen so many books in one place …’, and with his eyes wide open, he spun in place to look all around.

Ogma was obviously very pleased by the admiration elicited in his guest by the rows and rows of books.

‘And you should see the warehouse!’, he added in a proud parent tone.

‘There are more? Did you read them all???’, Fionn was genuinely interested.

Ogma laughed, a strange, resounding laugh.

‘Well no, not all. That is not really my job. I love to read, and I only read the ones I like. Many are not really to my taste … I am more old school you know …’ and a cheeky smile flourished at the corner of his mouth.

Because of all the books lining the walls, the place was quiet and peaceful, also it smelled pleasant of old books, of incense of some sort and a flowery scent that Fionn understood the source of when Ogma brought him a steaming cup of tea that smelled more like perfume than anything else.

Ogma must have understood the dismay on his face.

‘Oh, sorry! You don’t drink this! I am sure I have some builder’s tea somewhere!’, and flustered, he disappeared behind a curtain in the back of the shop.

Fionn sat down in the armchair he was directed to and found it to be the most comfortable thing he had sat on for a long time. It somehow molded around his body, supporting him just right so that his back did not hurt and his neck was comfortable. Oh, if only he had an armchair like that. Maybe he would even read! And he chuckled to himself.

‘What is funny?’, Ogma seemed to have just materialized next to him.

Without time to invent a lie, Fionn told him what he had thought about.

‘If you come work for me, you can sit in it all you like!’ Ogma smiled, relaxed, while sipping his soap-smelling tea.

Fionn was completely taken by surprise. A job! Yes! Any job! Especially one with a very comfortable armchair!

‘What job?’, he was playing it cool.

‘I need help with all these books, sorting them, moving them from place to place, dusting them, carrying new ones in … you saw what happened today … if you hadn’t helped me, all the books would have been destroyed, and my job is to keep them safe.’

They sat there talking well into the evening, when dinner time came, Ogma invited Fionn to have dinner with him. They had colcannon with ham, which Fionn though was the best food he had had in a very long time.

The job sounded much too good to be true, it came with an en-suite room upstairs where a small kitchen also provided all the needful for proper living.

Ogma explained that he lived somewhere in town and he would come every day to the shop, but that Fionn would take charge of the day-to-day management, of opening and closing, of dealing with the customers. Of course, Ogma would help in the beginning but later on he planned to take some time off for himself, so Fionn would be ‘the main man’. Ogma had never traveled much, and the sun was calling.

Fionn was very wary of good deeds, yeah, he had met plenty of good people in his path across the world, but he had learned that most often there was a hidden catch, always, without fail.

He was too old and too poor though to pass up such an offer, so he accepted, but kept his tiny room as a backup for a long enough time, until he was convinced he was not being scammed.

The job proved easier than he thought, and most importantly, it turned out to be more pleasant than he imagined. Fionn had never been a big reader, so up till then his interaction with books had been minimal, but now he discovered that they were actually interesting. Some of them at least.

He discovered, to his utter surprise, that he himself had a lot in common with the Stoics. Ogma had given him to read a big, beautifully illustrated book, with big writing and the most amazing, light-catching paper. The object was almost as wonderful as the content. He loved all of it.

In the shortest time, Fionn found that he felt at home in the cozy shop that seemed to contain all the books in the world, and those that it did not Ogma would send him out to find in charity shops, house clearances, and old bookstores. And although they brought in so many new books, there always seemed to be space on the shelves.

In the warmth and safety of the bookshop, Fionn felt stronger and healthier. When he got glasses for the first time, he laughed at himself in the mirror.

‘That is it! I have turned! I became one of them!’

Them were the people who came into the shop and who picked up books with quivering fingers and were almost teary-eyed when they found a book they had been looking for, for a long time.

Sometimes, sitting in his comfy armchair, Fionn also got teary-eyed for the chance he got to spend his life there, among books, among those people, alive and not so much.

Fionn had spent his life looking for somewhere to go, and now, he finally had somewhere to stay. A place with infinite worlds in it.

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In my long career of non-writer I have started and not finished many books. Many I have even forgotten. But, I am anything if not perseverant, so, here we go again!

I am starting yet another book. It is a book that I have started and dropped a few times in the past, but, now, it is time for a new beginning.

How will this time be different than all the others?

Well, for one, I will divide the work in small, manageable tasks I will perform each day. I have a full time brain consuming job, so I often find my mind just freezes when I want to write. I also lack self-confidence, and every little thing becomes a distraction just so I avoid facing my perceived inability.

Plus I find it difficult to start things so they need to be so easy to start that it is impossible for me to find any excuse to not do them.

So, my master plan is to have a task to do every day linked to the book, of course, structured and organized, not chaotic, so it all makes sense in the end when I finish my first draft.

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What have I learnt in my long career of non-writer:

• every little bit helps

• if you think it is bad it does not mean others will think the same

• although you complain so much, actually writing brings you joy and a singular feeling of fulfillment

• books, stories, are not born perfect, you work at them after the first draft

• you need to find something that works for you

• there will always be people that do not like what you write and that is ok

• most people won’t care about what you write and that is fine also

• you find your voice by writing and not by trying to please others

• be true to yourself because fashions come and go but you are the constant in your life

• do things that make you happy (and don’t hurt others of course)

• read what you like

• don’t let other people tell you who you are or how you should be

• time passes no matter what you do so best do what makes you happy

• your attention is priceless so use it wisely

This list is already too long! I had not realized I had learned so much!

I don’t know if this book will happen but what I do know is that now, right now, I am willing to put in the work, in my style, to make it happen.

And if I manage you will be the first to know! Till then I will continue to write my little stories and I will keep you updated on how I get on!

Now, for those of you who have already written a book, what were the things that most supported you during the process? Any tips and tricks to an old beginner?

Here I go again!

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He was walking through the dense forest, hands in his pockets, wondering where it had all gone wrong. He reviewed in his mind’s eye all the events, and it proved impossible for him to identify what he could have done differently to change the outcome.

He had no esprit d’escalier, no esprit de nothing. He had done what he had done thinking, then and now, that it was the thing to do. The only thing that had given him a faint idea that something was up was this vague shift in mood, barely perceptible, like the flutter of tiny wings just moving the air in a gentle way, but enough to make the intimate candles lighting the table flicker, changing the atmosphere.

Was it fair though? Was it fair for him to be struck out of the group for something that he did not even know he had done? He felt the goalposts were being moved all the time, while he never got the chance to fully grasp what was happening.

He remembered the last dinner well. They were all sitting around the big oval table, chatting as you do with the people sat closest to you, it was always a lottery where you ended up. The hot topic at the time was games of power and manipulation. It was all generic and noncommittal, until he heard himself say out of the blue:

‘Even here, for us, it feels like a testosterone contest!’, and he chuckled. He did not read the ensuing silence, but he thought they did not hear him well, so he said it again, a bit louder, to make sure they all heard him. ‘Yeah, even with us it feels like an ongoing testosterone contest!’, he was very pleased with himself and did not notice how his comment was glossed over, followed by sideways glances from his male and female fellow diners.

He let out a big sigh and replaced the heavy air in his lungs with fresh, woody-smelling air. If only he could take it back, not say anything, just sit there enjoying the place, the people, the food, the event. He was so frustrated with himself!

He reviewed all sorts of scenarios in which he could make things better and get accepted back into the group, but he did not find any that was fit for purpose. What was done, was done, he just had to learn from it and deal with it.

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‘Move on!’, he told himself while walking on the soft, leafy ground.

It felt strange to regret something he was complaining about before. Maybe that is what he had done, he had self-sabotaged because he was not enjoying the dinners. But he was … in a strange, difficult to explain way, he would have rather been there and be able to complain, than not be there at all.

Without paying any attention to his environment, he now woke up like from a dream and found he was in a part of the forest he had never been in before. The trees were so high that when he looked up, he was not able to see the sky or the sun. Fintan took out his phone and was surprised to see he had no signal. That was impossible, he could not remember the last time he had no signal. He always had a signal. His breathing got a bit erratic, and he felt anxiety rising in him.

He should go back. But where was back? He had gone in circles with his phone high up towards the sky, trying to find a signal and, now he was unsure where he had come from. All directions looked the same into the fading light.

‘Where do I go from here?’, he felt like crying but as he was all alone and there was nobody to take over or comfort him, he didn’t, he could not afford the meltdown. He needed to make a decision and stick with it.

‘I am strong! I can do this!’, he whispered to the fear taking hold of him and randomly chose a direction, walking very fast so he could not hear the strange noises the wood made.

It took him close to thirty minutes of fast, determined walking until he felt his phone vibrate in his hand with notifications. He could not focus on reading anything but the map with instructions on how to get out to the parking lot.

When Fintan finally saw his car it was the most beautiful sight he had seen in years. He quickly got in, locked the doors, and was able to relax at last with tears of relief silently going down his cheeks. The longest thirty minutes of his life… so far.

The phone kept on buzzing faintly in his hand. When he checked what was happening, Fintan was surprised to see that there were messages on the group chat about an upcoming dinner, and he was being asked to join.

His tears flowed even more generously. Tears of joy and double relief. They wanted him there, too! He was so happy! He made a promise to himself to keep his big mouth shut!

Of course, except for the bit where he would tell them how he got himself lost … in the woods.

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When I was around eleven or twelve, one of my teachers gave me to read an old edition of a book on Greek mythology. She let me have the book over the summer holidays, and I hold such fond memories of spending time reading the book on our bright balcony, somewhere in middle-Romania.

Sadly, I had to give the book back as it was a prized edition, but I always remembered it and the stories that filled that summer. I was over the moon when my wonderful better half actually managed to find it for me in an old books, bookshop a few years back. Now this is one of my most prized possessions.

Ever since those early years, I have loved mythology. The book I read that summer was The Legends of Olympus, written in the 1960s by the Romanian author Alexandru Mitru. In it, he retold the ancient myths in an engaging, easy-to-follow way, making them accessible to a whole new audience of young readers and story-loving adults.

The stories of the Gods and of the Heroes are wonderfully entertaining, and having them retold in a language that was easier to follow by modern audiences was, and is, a great accomplishment. Sometimes the events in the myths can be a bit too… much for young readers, but they were masterfully integrated by Mitru in the stories.

Reading Stephen Fry’s own retelling of the myths in Mythos made me think of the Romanian book, and although they are different works, from different eras separated by almost half a century, they both want to accomplish the same thing, make the myths accessible and current.

When I first started reading Stephen Fry’s retelling, I was a bit put off by the too colloquial references he made, but then the stories got so engaging that I kind of brushed over them.

I have lost count of the number of books I have about myths and mythology, stories from different countries, not just Greek, and I am fascinated by how some of them overlap and how very different peoples can have similar beliefs.

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I was chatting with a colleague from Egypt, and by accident, I said another person’s name. I explained that in Romania, when you do that, we think that the person is thinking about you. My colleague said that it is the same thing in Egypt; they also believe that when you say somebody’s name by accident, it means that the person is thinking about you.

I found that fascinating, that a people from Southeastern and Central Europe would have the same old belief as the people of Egypt.

I loved stories a lot ever since I was a child, and even now, I love picking up a book of short stories, or legends or myths, and opening it at random and reading something new and unexpected, or something I had read before and forgot the details.

The myths will always hold a special fascination for me, though, because of their impact on our development and because they are part of our development.

I sometimes think about writing some stories with gods living nowadays (I have the same fantasy with witches, see My Mythology section), something along the lines of American Gods the TV series based on Neil Gaiman’s novel, but different of course. Maybe when the time comes that is something that I will do.

I was thinking about that today, about writing and how it seems everything was done, but what I can say for sure is that it wasn’t done by me, so it is worth having a crack at it! This and other projects, but I digress.

Mythology is great, and I think the biggest lesson we can learn from it is that humans have been humans for thousands of years, drawn and moved by the same things, made happy or miserable by the same events, loved, lost, feared, yearned … and that, when it comes to humans, we don’t really change, not nearly as much as we think anyway.

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Frieda opened the door of her little, red cottage and stared at the hot sun.

Another scorcher!, she thought to herself while brining up her long, grayish pony tail to make up a high bun.

With her flowy gauze blouse and the wide legged trousers she had the air of a woman beamed down from the Victorian era. Her trousers were so wide that it was difficult to be sure they were not a full skirt. Frieda looked down on her neighbor prancing about in short shorts.

‘I would walk naked if I could!’, she used to share when they crossed paths on the sidewalk. Frieda would nod and smile, wondering if maybe the heat had messed up the other woman’s brains.

With John away on business Frieda found that she was not sure what to do with herself. She did not need to cook, she had a way about her of living in the house that it needed minimal cleaning, and she had already did all the things you are supposed to do in retirement.

Gardening- tick, knitting- tick, try to write her memoir- tick, she had cleaned and sorted out the house a few times, she did not like the gym, the women’s committee, the church group … so, not many other options left.

Sometimes she would go into town and drive past her old office. She had been a public servant for more than forty years moving between departments and roles, Frieda now had a better understanding of the inner working of the government and public system than most active ministers.

‘Bye gone is bye gone!’, she would sigh muttering to herself.

Frieda went back in the house. The heat made it unpleasant to go out so, she decided she will spend her day at home doing … not sure what she was going to do, but anything was better than being suffocated by the hot sun.

They had moved in the red cottage about twenty years before. The city had gotten too busy, too hectic for them, and both their careers allowed them to work partially from home. Weren’t they happy they had moved when Covid came?!? They were ecstatic! They had been so lucky! She shuddered only at the thought of spending all those lockdowns in their small, stuffed and stuffy, balcony-less apartment in Dublin.

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Frieda sat at the kitchen table with her coffee and her small journal. She had never kept a journal when she was young, but now, as time moved on without her being ready for its passing, she felt the need to leave a trace of herself. People that had children did not have this issue, they left bits of themselves in actual humans, but her and John never had children. It had never been a good time, and when they finally started to talk about it they were so settled in their ways, had so many things to do, that they just did not do it.

Frieda knew though why she hadn’t had children. She had been too afraid. Afraid of losing herself in another person, afraid of not being capable and able to be a good mother. Plus, it was such a great responsibility, caring for another human being, for their development, their well-being! No, Frieda had been too afraid knowing that if anything had happened to a potential child of hers, her life would be finished, she would never survive the pain.

Frieda shook her head to chase away the painful prospect. No, much better here with her beautiful notebook, only she had nothing to write. Nothing had happened in her day worth mentioning.

‘Today is so hot! Yesterday it was hot too…’, she put down her pen in frustration. Before she could start to berate herself a knock on the door made her jump. She looked at the clock as if that would tell her if she should open the door or not. She did not get any clarification, so she went to the door when a new knock, a bit more forceful could be heard.

‘Hello?’, Freida asked timidly.

‘Frieda! It’s me Jane! Open please!’

With a sigh of relief Frieda went and opened the door to her often bothersome neighbor. Frieda almost screamed when she saw the other woman. She was wearing a big towel bathrobe, had no shoes on and her usual thick make up was smudged across her face.

‘My God Jane, what happened to you! Are you ok?’

Without replying the woman grabbed her hand and dragged Frieda towards her house.

‘You have to help me Frieda! There is nobody else!’, it was clear Jane was in a heightened state of distress.

‘Of course, anything you need!’, when she found out what the help needed was Frieda was to reconsider her offer.

‘Come!’

Although well in her sixties Jane climbed the stairs effortlessly. Frieda followed slowly wondering if maybe going to the gym was a much better idea than she thought.

Frieda followed Jane in a large, bright bedroom and stopped short when she saw a young man lying there, naked, on the bed.

Jane was standing at the side of the bed sobbing.

‘He is dead!’, she sounded a bit out of her mind, and who would blame her!

‘What?’, Frieda was seeing everything with her own eyes, but still had difficulties understanding it.

‘Why?’

‘How should I know why? We were … at it … and he just stopped, sighed and … that was it. It was hard to get out from under him. It took me more than ten minutes! I was under a dead man for all that time!’, and she started crying even harder.

‘I need to call the Guards!’, Frieda pulled out her phone, but Jane hit it out of her hands.

‘What are you doing???’, Frieda looked at the woman in disbelief.

‘No, not yet! You need to help me!’

‘With what?!?’, Frieda was starting to doubt the reality of all this. For sure she will wake up shortly.

‘Him!’, and her chin pointed to the naked man on the bed.

Frieda was looking at her with her mouth open … she must have gone mad! She was telling herself.

‘Gerry cannot know, the world cannot know! You need to help me get him dressed and take him down in the Gym! He was here giving me private lessons, so nobody will suspect anything if they find him there …’

‘Jane this is mad, we can’t move him!’

‘Yes we can with Gerry’s stair lift! You have to help me Frieda, he is already dead, we are not doing any harm!’

About half an hour later the Guards were swarming the house taking over the home gym on the ground floor while Frieda was in Jane’s kitchen consoling her.

It all went without a hitch, and the next few days the local papers were full of articles about the effects of performance enhancement drugs on gym goers and athletes. Jane wore long skirts and puffy blouses walking slowly, and hid her hair under a strange old lady straw hat. She was consoled by all the town and when Gerry came back from his fishing trip decided he will stay home for a bit to keep her company and postponed his golfing meet for a week.

Frieda struggled a lot with the urge to write in her diary about it, but years of public service had taught her that certain things are best not put on paper.

She did start going to the gym though, and was shocked to see that even her old, squishy body reacted well to weights and training. Jane had become a friend and would often amuse Frieda to no end with stories from her younger years. Jane had always been just as she was, a fun loving, boundary pushing, messer.

Frieda was content now in her retirement and would sometimes spare a thought for the young man, dead way too soon, and she was grateful for her life, the one that had passed and the one she was still leading.

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Orla had been working for the Corporation for about three years now. She liked it, she liked feeling part of something so big, with so much influence, despite herself being just a lowly PA. She was part of it, she had access to that building, she met those people, and although often enough she did not understand what they were talking about, she nodded her head and smiled pleasantly.

The Corporation was well hated. Too big, too rich, too far reaching. They all were concerned with the size of the Corporation, but nobody gave a thought to the small army of little people that were benefiting from their work there. Should their existence make the Corporation a more benign entity? Orla did not know and did not think about it, she just moved quickly crossing the large corridors, always wanting to prove her usefulness.

The job at the Corporation had given her access to a world that she never thought she could be a part of, and she was intent on keeping it for as long as it was humanly possible.

Orla’s boss was a woman she barely got to see, she was flying all over the world on Corporation business and Orla would sometimes day dream that, in the future, she herself might be in a similar role and fly from place to place, meeting people that were deferential and polite, who would listen to her every word and value her opinions. Those people, they would not correct her every word and would not dispute her every opinion, they would agree and would be amazed by the wonderfully creative solutions she provided to their very difficult problems.

In her twenty-ninth year Orla felt she was where she belonged and knew what she wanted. To belong.

Sometimes, when the Receptionist was busy or needed to do something, Orla would stand in reception enjoying directing people and answering questions. She was this bobblehead of welcome and pleasantries.

On one of these occasions a courier arrived to deliver something in a large, heavy box. He had all the paper work so she signed it in, and when the Receptionist came back she said she will take it upstairs as it was for the PA of all PAs, the CEO’s PA and Orla knew how particular she was.

With the heavy box on a trolley, Orla made her way to the fourth floor and went looking for Lorna, the woman all the other PAs aspired to be like some day.

A in her late fifties Lorna did not look a day over forty. Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, with her hair exquisitely done, you would have been tempted to think she was one of the execs and not a PA. Orla had rehearsed her words, and forced herself to talk slowly and breathe between sentences. She hated it when she got all flustered and sounded like she was having a stroke.

‘Hello!’

Lorna looked up and waited without saying a word.

‘I was in reception downstairs … of course downstairs … there is no upstairs reception … I am sorry.’ Orla felt her face burning.

‘A parcel came???’, Lorna jumped up from her chair and came round her desk.

‘Well yes!’, Orla was puzzled by the unexpected reaction.

‘Oh thank you so much! You saved me! Come, come! The meeting will start in ten minutes!’, Lorna started to walk in impossible high and slim heels. You could see she was a different generation, nobody wore that kind of shoes anymore.

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Walking faster than if she had been in trainers, Lorna hurried Orla in a large meeting room beautifully set up, ready for it’s users. Lorna took out a box cutter from her suit pocket and quickly opened the box. In it, beautifully wrapped in soft, white paper were the most amazing looking project planners.

‘You look through that make sure it is all correct. Check dates, sections, categories, randomly just to make sure they are ok. I ordered these from the end of the world and you never know if they keep to what you instruct them.’, and she shoved one of the beautiful planners in Orla’s hands while she was taking the rest out of the box and distributing them like a machine in front of each seat.

‘Well?’, she asked Orla who was lost in admiration of the wonderful object. Each section had different color pages, there was a calendar, and soft dividers that could be moved around, the outside had a soft feel, like velvet, and on the back a large pocket for whatever you would need to put in it.

‘It is wonderful!’, her voice soft and velvety, reflected her opinion.

‘Amazing!’, the briskness in the other woman’s voice made Orla snap out of her awe.

‘Can I help?’

‘No, no, all done!’, Lorna fanned her hand showing off the perfectly set table, now complete with the planners beautifully arranged.

‘Come on, we need to leave they will be coming soon! You can keep that!’, and Lorna nodded towards the planner Orla was holding. ‘And take this trolley down please! Thank you!’, and off she went on her unbelievable high heels walking as Orla would walk when she was wearing her Skechers, confident and comfortable.

Back at her desk, Orla hid her wonderful gift in the drawer, and went about her duties with her thoughts going back to it and rejoicing of the happiness of owning it.

In the evening she took it home feeling a bit like a thief although it had been given to her. Maybe it was for work … but she wanted it home, to take care of it and treasure it. When the weekend came Orla took out the planner and looked at it. The paper had this strange, milky texture, different than normal paper, and in different lights the pages seemed to change color.

On the back she read that it was stone paper, she had never seen that, she looked it up online and was amazed. For a split second she was tempted to try and see if it was indeed water proof and tear proof, but then she changed her mind, the planner was too beautiful to risk it.

Having the planner did something strange to Orla’s mind. She started to have all these plans in her head, plans that she thought about and how they would be put into action with the help of the wonderful planner, but when it came to writing in it Orla could not do it. It was just too wonderful to ruin with her scribbling and far fetched ideas.

So, the projects remained just plans in Orla’s head, until, pushed out by other pressing thoughts, they became lost memories.

To protect the wonderful object Orla wrapped it into plastic film, so now it became an inaccessible little bundle, well protected from dust and mold, and of course from touch. Because it was so well wrapped Orla would not look at it anymore, she just enjoyed secretly at the thought of possessing it.

Another day, maybe more than one year later, it was one of those rare occasions when her Boss was in the office and Orla was ready to fulfill all demands.

‘Bring me my stuff from the desk.’, the DM popped up on Orla’s phone.

Orla jumped from her desk and heard her laptop make a sound again.

‘Basement library.’

She went to the desk and picked up her Boss’s laptop and on top of it there was a planner, just like the one she had at home. Orla felt a wave of warmth sweep over her at the thought that she possessed something that her Boss also had. On the elevator ride though she noticed something very different between the two planners.

The one she was now carrying to its owner was well used, had tired corners and a scuffed cover.

‘The poor planner!’, Orla thought, and smiled to the mental image of her pristine planner, nicely wrapped in her desk at home.

The basement library was exactly what it was called, a library in the basement, but as it belonged to the Corporation it was like something from a movie set. Actual books stood in their thousands on shiny metal shelves, while comfy reading spots were sprinkled all over the place.

In the beautifully lit place Orla found her boss at a large reading table surrounded by open books.

‘Oh thank you! I needed my planner!’, she took it from Orla and opened it expertly to a section filled with notes and charts drawn by hand.

‘Nothing beats writing things down by yourself, even though I am horrible at drawing.’

It was then that Orla could see the extent of the usage of the planner. It had become thicker with additional inserts and it was like a large book itself.

‘Are you ok, Orla? You look a bit pale.’, the woman’s voice expressed concern.

‘Yes … I was just surprised to see your planner, I was sure everything is on the laptop nowadays …’

The woman laughed.

‘Well yeah, everything gets to the laptop in the end, but for the thought process, to build, I find that I do it better offline as it were … my brain seems to like writing by hand, and even my crooked drawing. I get loads done like this, in silence and solitude …’

‘Oh! Of course! Do you want some tea or anything?’, Orla got the gentle hint.

‘Not right now, no, thank you!’, and she returned to her planner.

The next few days Orla could not stop thinking about her planner and the well used one, somehow the one with actual plans it in seemed to her so much more beautiful now, and a part of her wanted to see hers the same. But, she herself, she had no plans, no projects … no prospects.

That was when Orla remembered how she had felt as a little girl, pretending to look for jobs in the newspaper. She was pretending, but she was extremely serious in her pretense.

She would do the same now. She took out the planner from its plastic cover and although she had nothing to plan she wrote in it. The first day a bit, then the more she thought about it, a bit more. Orla started to create mini projects for herself detailing the steps she needed to take to accomplish them, and she started to get creative with her tasks, with her free time, with her life.

The Project Planner became her tracker, her journal and her guide, and Orla found that she was blossoming and was more content than ever.

When the email came Orla read it in one breath and could barely contain a happy dance. Her Boss needed her on one of her trips to Japan, they would travel in two weeks.

Orla confidently took out her planner expertly starting a new project, knowing exactly what steps she needed to figure it out, or what to do to figure out the steps she needed.

So: Japan Trip! (1st of many :) )

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I have started my Substack more than two years ago. I have 256 posts written, 86 drafts, 301 subscribers, out of which one paid, thank you for your kind support over this time.

I love my substack and it has been a great motivation for me to write, as I am so easily distracted. It is always easier to do the ‘bad’ thing, than the right one, like write, exercise, eat well, not buy clothes … And while most often I can come up with a story or an idea, sometimes, like now, I draw a blank. Sometimes stories just play hard to get, so, at times I am stuck!

I still want to write something though, I don’t want my substack and my subscribers to feel abandoned, so, as this week I don’t have a story I thought to write about my substack and the experience of having my substack.

I have been writing since forever, and over the years my stories, my poems (yes, there were some of them too!), even a play, got lost in the transit of life, so one thing that my substack did was that it allowed me to keep in one place all that I have written these past few years, which is an amazing thing for me.

To have written 256 pieces of something and to have them in one place is truly great, and it enabled my wonderful better half to create a selection and actually print a short story book for me. As a birthday present, no ISBN or anything, but so wonderful to hold a book in my hands and to know it is mine. I hoped, but never truly believed that is possible.

To be able to share my writing so easily, is another amazing opportunity my substack gave me. It is such a wonderful world we live in, in which a writer can create something and then, a few minutes later, share it with their readership. Mind boggling!

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I am grateful for all the likes, dislikes and comments I received. I write because it is what comes naturally to me to do, I don’t do it for the money or the glory, I don’t do it for any other reason than that I need to write, I want to write, and, sometimes, I even enjoy it.

I like that my substack forced me to some kind of discipline to produce something, anything each week, because otherwise I know for sure my output would have been much lower, and some really great stories would not have seen the light of day.

Some of my stories are good, some are bad, all of them could be better, and writing each week for sure improved my writing, and also made me a bit more confident in my craft.

More than ten years ago I went through a phase when I was writing quite a few therapeutic stories, and recently I had the chance to read some of them. They were so good! And I was surprised, as, I remember when I was writing them, I always felt they were so bad.

I am hoping it might be the same now. I think what I write is not good, but actually it is decent.

I still have a book or two in me, and they are such wonderful hopes and dreams.

Thank you all for reading my stories and my thoughts and here is to many more to come!

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He’d bought the shacket in a charity shop. He had loved that term and had repeated the word shacket ad nauseam, until his wife could no longer take it and snapped at him.

He did not mind, he was aware it must not be easy to hear the same word repeated a million times in different tones of voice. He loved her and she loved him, so, snapping was well within bounds.

As soon as he got home with it, she took it away and washed it, and only after that he got the chance to really inspect it. This is when he discovered the inner pocket. Oh the joy!

As David discovered, the shacket had an inner pocket, but what made it extraordinary was the fact that it was extremely large. So large actually that it seemed to be hidden because it could be confused with the lining of the garment, but it was not the lining, it was just a very large, well thought out, inner, secret pocket.

David was thrilled!

So thrilled in fact that he started to put all his bits and pieces in the large, hidden pocket, and because of the way it was sewn you could barely notice it, even when it was bulging with all David’s must have objects.

This was how the shacket became, not only the favorite piece of clothing, but also, a necessity because of all the things it contained in its pocket.

When it needed washing, which was often because it was worn so much, the wife would take all the things from the pocket and put them in a small basket, and once it was dried she would carefully put them all back, even used candy wrappers, as David was the one that needed to tidy them when needed. She was the only one that truly understood and respected his way of being.

David loved his job as a Visual Merchandiser for one of the large shopping centers, and each morning he would take the bus 122 that dropped him meters away from the employee entrance of the shopping centre.

David was very particular about symmetry and had an uncanny vision about how to arrange objects so they create an image, funny or unusual. He did it all in his head, and then with a pencil on big pieces of paper, so his team understood his vision and brought it to life. David loved his job, and was immensely proud when they created a big tomato out of tins of tomato soup, it was even featured in the local paper. A job well done!

David was very happy in his life, but had one particular trait that made it difficult at times for him. David was very anxious, very afraid, and he spotted dangers everywhere he went. Before seeing the beauty of something, David first saw its dangers, and sometimes, he would get so hung up on them that it took out all the joy of the experience.

As David got older and wiser, and with the support of his wife, he became better at containing these invasive thoughts, but sometimes, especially when he was tired, or a bit sick, or in a very new situation, they would get the better of him and he would just get overwhelmed by fear, that is when he needed the most the amazing things he carried around in his pocket.

This is how David felt one late evening, 10 pm maybe, when he was on the 122 on his way back home. It was much later than David would be out usually, but they had a huge display to finish for a new shop opening. David tried to make his bulky person as small as possible in one of the back seats of the bus, just wishing the trip away and surveying his environment.

That was when a loud bunch of people got on, quarreling about something, sounded like somebody owed money to someone else, and they wouldn’t give it back. Part of the group was siding with the borrower and it was a very noisy argument, made even louder by the confined space of the bus.

David decided he would rather walk the last two stops, than be there so he got up and rang for the next stop. At the same time the bus driver hit the brakes for some reason, and the stressed David bumped forcefully in the conversing crowd. One of them pushed him back, at the same time David reached out for his inner pocket. When David, big and untidy looking, did that, out of nowhere the man reacted and punched him squarely in the face.

The blow was so great that, it pushed David and he fell on his back in between the bus seats. For a moment he was so confused that he did not really understand what happened, but when he did, he decided he best stay down there until the storm passes.

He could hear voices in his proximity.

‘What did you do you idiot?!’

‘I thought he had a knife …’

‘Good, now you are on the bus camera hitting a bloke. God grief, I could not write this!’

The second person’s voice was heard again.

‘Gerry, I’d better not see this scene in one of your shows!!! What do we do?’

‘Check on him! Help him up! What do you mean what do we do???’

David closed his eyes quickly pretending to still be out.

‘Hey … guy … I am so sorry … are you ok?’, the man leaned over and David could smell a nice perfume. That smell in a way signaled him to open his eyes.

David accepted the offer to get up and sat on one of the many seats available to him.

By now the bus was fully stopped, the crowd was gawking, some people were filming, impromptu show … with a very unwilling star.

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‘I need to go home! Please let me pass!’

It was like a spring was activated and David was trying to find his way out through the crowd. Somehow he managed, and, when he was finally out on the sidewalk, he saw that the man that had punched him was right behind him.

‘Wait, I want to apologize!’

David walked even faster without looking back.

‘Listen!’, the man shouted. ‘I was stabbed once and ever since I have this irrational fear … I am so sorry! I really am not a violent person, and I feel so bad for having assumed …’

‘Nessie …’, David stopped and turned around.

‘What?’, the man did not expect the reaction.

David dove into his inner pocket and took out a squishy, colorful, dinosaur looking toy.

‘Nessie! I got her in Scotland! When I get anxious I squish her and it grounds me!’

The man was now beaming and his eyes teared up.

‘You should get one! I cannot give you mine, it is a memento. They sell them in the National Museum of Scotland.’

‘I think she is wonderful!’, the man was clearly touched by the advice.

‘Do you know in Edinburgh all the museums and galleries are free? You can visit all of them for free! And they all have toilets! …’

‘David, David!’, his wife came running towards him and they fell into a loving, all-encompassing hug.

‘What happened to you?’ she was looking at his face pain stricken.

The man came closer.

‘I am so sorry! I did that! I cannot explain how bad I feel!’, he truly did sound sorry. At the same time his friends joined them.

David could recognize the voice of the determined man from earlier. Now he could see he was a tall, extremely good looking man, dressed with great taste.

‘Are you all, all right?’, he more like demanded and answer than inquired for one.

They all nodded. A sense of relief and peace had fallen over the small group gathered on the sidewalk.

‘We will go home now!’, David’s wife announced and turned around.

‘Of course! Please take these tickets to our play, it is at the Gaiety for another two weeks. I would love for you to see it!’, the man, later labelled as the hitter, said.

‘Oh … ok! I love the theatre! We might actually go!’, David took the tickets and smiled broadly to his wife. ‘Won’t we?’

‘To the play of the person that punched you in the face? Sure, why not!?’

In the darkness they had not seen that the tickets were actually VIP tickets that granted them access to a reserved area for VIP guests, where there was free food and drink, and best of all, there were many celebrities that David loved from the telly.

They had a great night, and each time they were asked how they knew the director and the playwright David giddily answered:

‘Well, he punched me!’

And then he would proceed to tell the story all the way from the beginning.

‘I had bought this shacket in a charity shop…’

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‘You are a glorified sex worker!’

As soon as the words left her lips she was sorry. The other woman turned purple with rage.

‘How dare you say anything so hurtful to me?!’

Before the offender had any chance to speak up she went on.

‘I am a married woman! I have a husband!’, her voice was now reaching unusual high pitched levels.

‘Yes, a husband you do not love! You married him for money, for status … ergo…’

‘Don’t you dare ergo me! I did what every woman does. Get married, have a family, take care of them … and son on! You are jealous! Admit it!’

‘Ha!’, of she was not jealous, the offender thought, she would never stoop so low.

The wife went on.

‘You burn with jealousy that you work in the same run down bookshop as you did when we were in college! Coooolllleegggeeeee!’ How old are you now? 42??? Ha indeed!’, she took a deep breath.

‘And you know what, leave my house! I will not stand here and be insulted in my own home!’

She felt like a movie star saying those words which she accompanied by a wide arm movement pointing to the door.

She needed to go, the offender knew it was for the best, so she stifled all her anger, muted all her words, and with her coat trailing on the floor she noisily left the dreaded house.

‘Good bye!’

The reply.

‘And good riddance!’

A few short words ending a friendship lasting more than thirty years.

As the door slammed behind her tears of frustration violently ran down across her face. She had made her do it! With all her lady of the manor airs, her interminable rambling about all the charity work she was doing, with her annoying details of luxurious vacations. Not being able to take the duplicity any longer she had just burst.

That was the moment when she understood that their true friendship, the one they had shared as girls, had turned into a demon they had grown accustomed to, that had been part of their lives for so long that they just tolerated its existence.

They had stopped sharing truthful things about themselves to each other years before. They just met out of habit, made insignificant small talk and gossiped about the fewer and fewer people they both knew.

That was now gone and she felt free, she felt like a huge burden had been taken away. She had no idea she felt so strongly, so negatively about what their friendship had become.

She would always treasure the years of kindness and support they had shared, all the long nights spent studying and talking about their dreams. That would always bond them. Now thought they had become two strangers keeping up a fake friendship for the sake of a long gone one.

Her house felt that bit darker when she got in, but she knew it was just a matter of time until her mood would lift.

That evening she got a long email from her former friend. It talked about all the good times, all the sad times, and it assured her that she can reach out for anything she might need, but that in light of the recent incident and the words spoken it would be best to not see each other.

‘Duhhh! Of course!’, she muttered to herself. ‘Not in a million years!’

And then the tears started to flow again. She was sorry. She was sorry for the words she had said, for the friendship she had lost, for the hurt she knew she had caused.

She was sorry because she knew her friend had been right. She was jealous for the stability and normality the other woman seemed to have.

‘Stop being such a baby!’, she scolded herself.

‘How old are you?!?’

‘42 …’

There was once upon a time, in the rocky mountains of a fairy tale country, a cement factory. As the name indicates, humans produced cement there, and this was well before the times of air filters, so all the dust generated during the cement production process went up the huge furnaces and out in the atmosphere, sticking to and settling on every object and surface in their path.

All the plants, all the animals, everything around the cement factory was covered in a grey film of dust giving the scenery an eerie aspect of being a huge cement sculpture.

The people had gotten used to the strange appearance of the scenery around the factory, and, as their livelihoods depended on it, they did not pay attention to it. It was a small price to pay for being able to take care of their families, feed their children, support them to get an education.

The humans avoided thinking too much about the impact of the grey dust covering everything, and they never dared look up at the huge, grey clouds towering above the factory, completely obscuring the sun. The only light that managed to come through was milky and powdery, giving the entire scenery a doomed aspect.

The thick dust pushed in the atmosphere through the large furnaces had a strange effect on the clouds, it made them stuck, they could no longer float freely across they sky as they are meant to, but they became stationary above the factory absorbing more and more cement dust with every passing day.

The momma and papa clouds tried to protect their baby clouds as much as they could by sheltering them, covering them as much as possible with their own cloudy, billowing beings. However, despite their efforts, the baby clouds were also exposed to the ever-present and all-pervading cement dust, and they too became covered and clogged with the grey powder.

Years passed and the cloud family got heavier with dust while the scenery looked like it had been burnt and now ash was all that was left. The humans could not ignore the issue any longer. They could no longer pretend there were birds in the sky, animals roaming the ashen fields, or flowers blooming as they once had in the lush countryside.

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So, scientists set to work and in a short while they created air filters for the furnaces. Air filters that trapped all the grey dust and prevented it from escaping and settling on the world outside.

When the air filters were installed it was like a miracle had taken place. The air became fresher, the clouds started to clean themselves and the world beneath them with life giving rain.

The cloud family was also beyond happy, and the parents felt that they can unwrap themselves from around their children and allow them to grow and develop. What they did not expect was that the baby clouds would be carried away by the wind so quickly, before they got the chance to say good bye properly.

It was ok though, the hard part was over, they had managed to survive the horrible dust of the cement factory, now they could become their own fluffy beings.

When the wind carried away Timmy, the eldest, he was taken over by an ecstatic feeling of freedom. He could move, he could travel, he could roam the skies and discover all the world had to offer. He would miss his family of course, but he had been waiting for it for so long, that all he could think about were all the wonderous things to come.

And they did, Timmy travelled the skies far and wide, he met all sorts of other clouds, he saw all sorts of other things, but somehow, something inside him prevented him from really belonging to anywhere. Because he had been stuck for so long, he seemed incapable of building a world of his own.

As time went by, Timothy, as he was known now, longed to have his own place in the too wide and too large sky, and, as luck would have it, sometime later he found it next to Persida, a personable Cumulus Congestus cloud.

Timothy and Persida created their own cluster of clouds and would float peacefully across the sky. All was great until, from time to time, Timothy would spew out grey dust, covering everything in their peaceful world with pain and fear.

They were far, far away from the cement factory and its suffocating dust, but somehow, Timothy had internalized it so much that when the skies were blue and the ride smooth, he felt the need to shake it up, to darken and bring it down a notch.

Sometimes, in spring, when the smell of the flowers was so strong that it reached even the highest cloud, Timothy would tell stories of his difficult childhood and all the sacrifices his parents had to make. His cloudy children would shake off their fluffy sides in exasperation. ‘Not again with those stories!’

Persida understood and listened. Timothy was the cloud he was in his wholeness, the bright, airy parts, and the dusty, dark sides, it was just a pity that he did not fully realize that the darkness of the cement factory was well in the past …

When evening came, after Timothy had fallen asleep, Persida drifted silently through their little cluster. She washed the grey dust from the children’s soft white bodies with a gentle rain.

When she looked back, Timothy was sleeping peacefully, but even in his sleep, sometimes, faint, tiny wisps of grey escaped from him and dissolved into the night sky.

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I fell into watching this series totally by accident. I was browsing through the channels and I caught an episode from the second series on TV.

I was hooked. I really enjoyed the imagery, the storytelling, the characters.

I was lucky to have access to the entire series during these past few weeks, and whenever time allowed it, I watched an episode or two. Starting from the first series getting to know the characters and see them develop really made me fond of them.

I don’t think I enjoyed a series this much for a long time, maybe from Silo.

I enjoy a lot the mix of religion and contemporary issues and devices. I found it so funny how the demons have names like Bob or Howard. This mix of the comedic and the horror, makes the series easier to take, as sometimes it can be quite scary.

The episodes are so well written and the way it mixes science with the supernatural is truly inspired. I really liked how it never fully says something can be totally explained or not, there is always a bit of mystery and magic, which is lovely.

Also, the characters themselves are so well created, with their very human flaws and strengths. I don’t think there is a character that is poorly constructed. The fact that Leland makes me dislike him just goes to show how well he is played.

Sheryl and Sister Andrea are also great characters and companions to the main ones. The four daughters are so fun. I am quite enjoying the series. I have not finished it yet, still have season four to go, but I did look up online what happens with the characters.

I am curious like that.

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I think a big part of the draw of the show for me is the imagery and the blend of supernatural with the reality. It has a fairy tale look about it at times, and also the demons are scary but sometimes also funny.

I found myself laughing out loud when Sheryl visited the Manager and he was a devil like looking creature (middle-manager), smelling badly like a goat, worried about his weight (he was on an elliptical cross trainer exercising during a remote meeting), and he has a weakness for shortbread.

The other demons are also so well made and scary. I looked it up online about them and it seems they were not just computer generated, there was an actual actor wearing make-up and giving them life. That makes sense because you can actually see the difference, the demons are there in the room, real and scary.

George, a night terror demon that was really scary in the first series, later on becomes like a kind of mascot for the show and he is actually funny at times.

I enjoyed so many individual scenes and stories that, all of them combined led me to really fall for the series. Just such a great combination of well built characters, strong imagery, beautifully weaved stories combined with an interesting topic! Rarely accomplished but exquisite when done!

The warmth of the show is for sure one of its strengths. The friendship between Kristen, Ben and David, the love she has for her daughters, the love Sheryl has for them. The sister- brother relationship between Ben and Karima. Sister Andrea is both serious and funny. The four girls and their relationship, they feel authentic and not just prop children. This mix of the human heart and the dark forces that surround our existence is also very well brought into the picture and it makes the series even more relatable and enjoyable.

I enjoyed the series a lot, still am, and most likely still will, I like to rewatch certain series or movies sometimes. If you give it a try, or have already seen it, I would love to hear what you thought, and what you liked or disliked about it.

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He’d added her in his phone as Charlie Brown. It started as a joke, her name was Charlotte, and when they first met she was wearing a yellow dress with a black, zig-zagged patterned belt. They hit it off right away.

They were in tune. They could make fun of all the other stuffy bankers they worked with. They were the young hip ones, the ones with advanced knowledge of IT systems, and the ones that could spin up a new tool in a few hours, with minimal instructions from the slow, chubby bankers.

They were the golden children and they knew it.

At home they each had partners, he had children, the lot. He had been married for twelve years and was the proud dad of three boys. Secretly he was a bit smug that his genes had won the battle and he had three boys. He never shared it with his wife though, she would have gotten very upset, maybe a bit disappointed, if she knew he held that kind of belief.

Charlie was newly married, had just bought a house, and whenever she got the chance she gushed about her amazing husband. From her descriptions it sounded like he was the be-all and end-all. Sometimes Robert surprised himself being a bit jealous of this amazing super human husband of hers. So, when she let slip bits of dissatisfaction, or alluded to flaws her husband had, he was unexplainably in a good mood for hours on end, sometimes even days.

After a few months she jokingly called herself his work wife. Robert laughed it off, but inside, in the most hidden space of his being, he was unbelievably happy, and that was when he realized his feelings for Charlie were different than those for a co-worker should be. He had no idea how she felt, they were friends, close friends, they texted outside of work, the joked around, sometimes their banter pushed the limits of what was acceptable between two married to other people co-workers, but it never quite passed the line to inappropriate.

That was such a fine line and Robert often fantasied about breaking it, about taking his relationship with Charlie to that next level. They were intimate friends after all, she often confided in him things she confessed she had never told anyone else. Robert had become increasingly distracted, and his wife had begun to notice.

‘Nothing, just work. The economy is kicking our butts!’, his wife understood.

What she did not know was that the economy was working in their favor, other people’s crisis was the bank’s success.

The bubble burst when they were invited to visit a newly opened branch in a different city. They were a team, they went everywhere together, always sat next to each other, they were morphing in one very happy entity. They had their own jokes, they knew each other’s thoughts, a gesture told the other everything they needed to know.

The moment had come, it was the perfect time.

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‘Want to come in for a night cup?’, they were standing in the hallway of their four star hotel. His heart was beating so hard it felt like it would break out of his chest.

‘Maybe a tea … sure, I want to talk to you about something anyway…’, her voice sounded nervous and curiosity made Robert hold back.

Once they were sat in the too big room, he prodded her for details.

‘What’s going on?’

‘I have some news…’, she cleared her throat and took a sip of her tea. ‘I am pregnant!’

‘What?’, he was sure he did not hear well.

How could she be pregnant? He could never conceive that she was having sex with her husband. Robert had withdrawn from his wife for months now, he had felt that he could not be with anyone that was not Charlie, not even his wife.

‘I am pregnant! I am so happy! I cannot describe it! We have been trying for so long!’, tears of happiness rolled down her cheeks, and in that moment he could see it, she was indeed pregnant. Her face had gotten rounder, her skin glowed even in the faint light, her hands were plump around the teacup.

‘That is great news!’, he could not recognize his voice as he said the words.

‘I am so happy for you!’, he felt acid rise up in his throat. He hoped she will leave soon, he could not save face for much longer.

‘I will have to go on maternity sooner than later, I want to be really safe. I will miss you!’, and she got up to hug him.

He let her hug him stiff as a board, feeling her as a total stranger, somebody else than the woman she was just a short while before in the hallway.

When she finally left he cried, but he did not cry for her, for the loss of her, her cried for himself, for the pain he felt when he understood he had fallen in love with a person that never existed, Charlie Brown.

Robert changed the name in the phone, and mourned the death of a dream. The death of Charlie Brown.

He called in sick for two weeks, then he took the family on vacation for another two weeks, then some works to the house forced him to work remote for a month and a bit. When he finally got back to the office Charlotte was visibly pregnant, she had gained quite a bit of weight and, to him, she resembled a bopping bee walking around the office.

They spoke briefly, but there was a lot of work to be done. She invited him to dinner, but he had family commitments. He did attend her going on maternity gathering, presenting her with a baby present which, he declared, somewhat ostentatiously, that his wife had to pick for him because he was useless at things like that.

And then, she was gone, and the world turned quiet. His inner turmoil settled and soon he was able to go back to his old self, the one before the delusion.

To himself, Robert explained it as a moment of madness, the fact that it took a few good months had left him scarred and scared. He did not trust in his ability to judge or evaluate relationships.

When his phone rang and her name appeared on the caller ID he was surprised. They hadn’t spoken in months.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, is this Bob?’, a soft, anxious male voice replied.

‘Well, Robert, but yeah some people call me Bob. Who is this?’

‘I am looking for Bob the Builder.’

‘What? Is this a joke?’, Robert was amused.

‘You are in my wife’s phone, Charlotte. You might have done some work for us … We need a builder for an extension, and I saw your contact here and wanted to see if you can help... We’d pay well!’

Robert barely contained a hysteric laugh.

‘Sorry mate, I am all booked up. Best of luck!’

‘Oh, ok, thank you… Do you …?’

‘Sorry gotta go! On a job!’, and he hung up, letting out the strangest laughter that had ever past his lips.

Bob the Builder, go figure!

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The house smelled sweet and musty. In the few, lost rays of light peeping through the drawn curtains, Sheila could see thick flecks of dust rising and falling. Instantly her skin started to itch. She was sure she had a dust allergy, although she never got tested for it.

It was her first house call of the day and she was still fully energized from her morning workout and her acai bowl breakfast. Lunch would be avo on toast with two poached eggs, she needed all the protein she could get, that is how you maintain muscle mass and keep fit.

The woman in front dropped herself into an oversized armchair the size of a small sofa. As she landed a sweet bodily odor hit Sheila who felt the need to close her nostrils, but remembering the dust, she refused to breathe through her mouth so she forced herself to breathe as little as possible.

‘So, what do you want?’, the woman was obviously annoyed by her presence.

Of course, who would not be! A stranger intruding into your home for a so called well-fare check. The cheek!

‘I can take care of myself!’, the woman huffed as if reading her mind.

Sheila took in the cluttered, dusty environment and the woman’s width and wondered about the truth of that statement.

‘I assure you I am here to help. I just wanted to chat to you, see how you are. The neighbors informed us they had not seen you for weeks …’

‘Feking curtain twitchers! Always nosing around!’, the woman’s face took a worrying shade of crimson.

‘They were just concerned …’, Sheila drew on her extensive training to keep her client calm.

‘Would you like a glass of water?’, her voice was sweet as honey.

The woman did not reply but nodded her head slightly.

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Sheila got up with ease and skillfully navigated the stacks of objects, most of them books. Sheila loved books, and was surprised to see the walls lined with books that she herself would have loved to read and possess.

The kitchen was chaos. With difficulty she found a glass, washed it, dried it and then filled it up with water.

‘Here you are!’, she chirped amicably.

‘Give me my blood pressure pills, will you? There, on the table.’, and she pointed a swollen hand towards a table laden with all sorts of knickknacks.

As she sat down Sheila could not help judge the woman in front of her. So fat that her bra strap could barely been seen in the folds of her skin. Imagine being that careless with yourself! Immediately Sheila checked herself! She prided on her tolerance and broad views. As she did not believe in God, she did not have any mighty power to forgive her, so she had to find absolution in herself, which she freely dispensed as often as the situation called it.

‘I am happy to see you are all right. I just need a few details for my notes…’

‘Notes … what notes? I don’t want to be in your notes … who do you think you are coming into my house to take notes on me???’, the woman made a gesture as if she would get up but then gave up faced with the effort of it.

‘Just to … What the …!!!’, Sheila jumped back startled as from nowhere a black cat appeared and deftly jumped into the woman’s generous lap.

She laughed.

‘Don’t be scared! This is William, my best bud! Aren’t YOU lovely!?’, and she addressed in a kind, warm voice to the oversized cat gently purring while watching her with pleased eyes.

Sheila loved cats and instantly fell in love with the black cat which she identified as a Maine Coon. Just then she realized that there was no cat hair in t he house, no smell of cat, and by the looks of the animal, it was much better cared for than its master was.

‘He is so beautiful!’, she was taken in by the bright green eyes of the regal looking cat.

The woman was obviously pleased by the visible effect her cat had on Sheila.

‘Come on! Let’s finish with those questions, I don’t have all day!’

As if … the negativistic Sheila muttered inside. But the positive one quickly banished her away and got back to the task at hand.

They went through the list of well fare questions and, at the end, Sheila had to admit that despite being a recluse the woman was ok, managing many of her affairs on line. Surprising, as many people her age were totally computer illiterate. It takes all sorts …

As she left the low, little cottage Sheila was surprised by a feeling of vague familiarity. There was something there she had recognized, but she was not really able to put her finger on what it was exactly. Weird!

‘I might come back in a few months!’, and she waved good bye to the woman hidden in the shadow of the small house.

As soon as the fresh air hit her Sheila could only think about one thing. The cat. That majestic, wonderful looking cat. She pulled out her phone like an experienced cowboy draws out his gun, and looked up Black Maine Coon cats. Not an easy task but well, she was an experienced searcher.

And then she found one. A tiny, baby cat with the greenest eyes …

Sheila went on her way while absently humming:

“Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down the stream,

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

Life is but a dream.”

‘… rounded with a sleep.’ The wind seemed to whisper on its light breeze.

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They had bought the red pot quite some time before, when they were first setting up house. They did not have much so, a lot of thought and care went into selecting it, matching the size to their hob, making sure it was non stick. Of course, making sure that it had a lid, which came plastic sealed to the top of the pot.

It was perfect and they were very happy with it. The red, non stick pot symbolizing in a way the start of their life together.

When they got home and took the plastic off, they found the pot had an unusual feature, not to call it design flaw. When the lid was off, because the handle so, so heavy and the pot so light, it would fall on the side.

Unacceptable … or maybe not. Because they loved it so much and what it stood for, they found it endearing, although it meant that, every time they used it one of them had to hold the handle, while the other filled the pot with whatever, till the weight balanced and they could let go.

Their pot was a constant source of jokes and laughter, and its flaw turned into a quality.

Years passed, as they do. They changed houses, bought new pots, new hobs, changed habits and then changed them again. Life moved on. The ill balanced pot would follow them around through all these moves, although now it was no longer used, it just stayed in the pantry lost among its more capacious and stylish brethren.

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There came a time in the couple’s life when they were questioning everything.

Themselves, their choices, their status, their relationship, and although they did not officially separate, they started to do it in the day to day, in the small things that make a life together.

They would no longer eat together, watch TV together, do the shopping together. They were going through an identity crisis that made them forget who they had been for a large part of their life.

One day, rummaging through the pantry for a small pot, as he was going on a diet and decided smaller portions were called for, he stumbled over the small red pot. It was perfect! Just the size he needed for his couscous salad.

He took it out and, smiling to himself, he remembered all the times they laughed about its too chunky handle and how it was a pot to be handled by two people. He was upset with her so, he decided he did not need her, he was well able to use the pot by himself.

He boiled the water, measured the couscous, and when he was ready to pour it, in a split second of not paying attention he ended up pouring hot water on his feet with the pot spilled over.

His screams made her come running down the stairs. Without a minute to spare she covered his feet in a cold, wet towel and drove him to the emergency room.

The next few weeks she took care of him making sure he had everything he needed and that he was comfortable. The tops of his feet had been scalded by the boiling water, and were in need of constant care and attention to be protected from infection and to help them heal.

While changing his bandages she sometimes would shake her head disapprovingly and express her sadness that he did not ask her to hold the pot. It was too late though.

In the weirdest way the pot had brought them back together, and when she expressed her wish to just throw it away, he forbid it.

It was the lack of communication and openness that had got them there, not the pot. He should have trusted her, and she should have trusted him to go together through that changing phase of their life.

She smiled and nodded in agreement. She liked being persuaded by him.

The forced inactivity brought them back together. They started watching movies again, have meals together, and long chats about the world and its goings on.

They did not really use the pot now, it was a bit too dangerous, but they did display it in their kitchen as a reminder of their beginning, of their middle, and just as a reminder to make sure their end was also spent together.

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When I walk about my life, doing what people do, I get all these marvelous ideas of fantastic stories that I just know would be outstanding, if only it was a good moment to write. As it was not, most often, I tell to myself I will remember it and easily write one or two stories, just like that.

Well, well, well! Faced with the empty page my mind goes blank and I wonder why am I trying to write in the first place, if I do not have a story in the pipeline. And then, I am run over by the memory of all those stories that could have been, but weren’t because it was not their time.

I find that when I am tired my mind is so uncooperative, it does not want to work with me at all and let me spin a world out of thin air. I am rarely well rested so me coaxing my mind has become the norm. But the urge to write and create is more powerful than my human nature and I trod along doing what I can with what I have.

As I grow older I start to understand the value of joy more and more. The more you advance in your timeline, the more acutely you become aware of the things that you will miss and your joy just crystalizes somehow in you and you start to find joy in the most unexpected things and especially in the things you love.

If before you like gardening, now you have a passion for it. If when you were younger you liked to take walks, now you become an avid walker, and so on.

Maybe this is one good thing about advancing in age that you do start to find joy in your life where before you only found tasks.

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I have started taking notes on my phone when I get ideas out and about, and reading through them just now I find they lacked a bit of context to jolt my memory to what had actually given me the idea. Another thing that holds me back is that often, not always, my ideas are a bit dark and pessimistic, and I want my stories to have a positive spin somehow.

The world is too dark for me to bring any more darkness into it, I want to bring joy and hope and I want to console and encourage. It will be ok.

So I promise to take better notes of my outstanding ideas on the go and I will get better, word by word, sentence by sentence, story by story.

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Her husband never told her she looked nice, or pay her any kind of compliment. For him, she was there and that was where it was normal for her to be. So when the other man came into her life she was literally a sitting duck.

She did not stand a chance. He was kind and thoughtful in a way her husband had never been. He asked if he can help, he seemed to actually listen to her, he looked at her as if she was someone special, someone to be appreciated and adored, not merely tolerated and put in her place.

He was good looking too, in that simple human way not in the soap opera star kind of way. So, without knowing how it happened Fionnuala found herself on the verge of having an affair.

She huffed and laughed at her own ridiculousness. Women like her did not have affairs, she was too old, too provincial and too set in her ways to do anything of the sort. Her husband hadn’t noticed anything, not when they went to the pub, not when they went shopping or went to the church.

He knew the other man, of course he knew him, everybody knew everybody, in their small village, but he was so confident that his wife was his that he never even bothered to question the other man’s niceties.

Who would want her? A middle aged woman, normal, with no exceptional features or talents. Barely knew how to cook, he would laugh, she was a good mother though, he had to give her that. What he would call a mother with a talent for it, she was just amazing with the children, taking care of them, educating them, organizing everything for them.

Of course, it was easy when he provided her with everything, but still, she did well, he had to give her that.

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Three times a week, in the afternoon, Fionnuala would walk to the leisure center and swim for one hour. It was her passion and it was what kept her strong to care for all the people and things that needed to be looked after in her life.

Strong mentally and physically. Water was her element. She would often say that she should have been born a fish … the other man said ‘A mermaid most likely … a beautiful, dazzling mermaid.’

She blushed and swam away quickly. She blushed later when she revisited the memory, snuggled under the duvet and battling insomnia.

She’d known him for a long time, but they never went further than the weather. Just recently he had started to chat to her, to ask her things, show up in church or at community events.

Soon Fionnuala found herself looking out for him in the street. She was surprised how easy she found it to talk to him. He watched some of the same shows as she did, seemed to like to read and was very knowledgeable about some of the things she was interested in.

As the months passed Fionnuala developed a very inappropriate friendship with the other man. Oh no, she did not cheat on her husband, but she thought about the other man and sometimes would wonder. ‘What if?’

The phone rang. A video call from Maureen, a good friend of hers, who was so well connected in the village that she knew everything, sometimes even before it happened. She had a knack for it Maureen.

‘Are you sitting down?

Their conversations were like a continuous one, they never said ‘Hello’ or ‘Good bye’.

‘Maureen!’

The phone laughed at her.

‘Fine! You will absolutely not believe this!’

‘Hmmm …?’, Fionnuala was folding laundry in the kitchen.

‘Siobhan has run away with that pool guy, you know which, the one that swam there, Sean his name is.’ Maureen’s voice was delighted.

Fionnuala had to sit down.

‘What?’

‘They had been having an affair for some time now, it seems they were planning this escape together for months. She took all of her family’s money. Her husband is in bits. I am sure your husband will tell you everything tonight. They are best friends right?’

They chatted for a bit, Fionnuala working hard to hide her true frame of mind and blaming her absentmindedness on a cold. When the phone went silent she burst into tears.

He had been having an affair with another woman all along! She felt so stupid, so ridiculous … so lucky!

The sitting duck had dodged a bullet.

God All Mighty!

When her solid husband came home he was all shook up.

‘You will not believe what happened!’

She pretended she had no idea.

‘What?’

‘Siobhan took all her family’s money and ran away with the electrician. You must know him, he was always there at all the events and church... She just emptied the joint account and ran with him … Can you imagine?!’, it was obvious he couldn’t.

Fionnuala continued to chop vegetables working hard not to give herself away. She startled when he came very close to her and watched her intently.

‘You would never do that, would you?’, he sounded pleading and worried.

‘I mean we have a good life, we love each other, our children …’

Her heart melted and felt so lucky again.

‘Oh come on, don’t be so dramatic! I am not Siobhan! Go wash up! The food will be ready soon …’

He gave her a big hug and went upstairs to change into his house clothes and wash up.

Fionnuala said a quick prayer and felt gratitude for her normal, settled kind of life, and for her unromantic husband she could count on.

Some things are more important than others … or so she thought!

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All sorts of sayings and fragments of things she had read were swirling around in her head throughout the day, while, unconsciously, or not so much, she was evaluating her life.

The soul has started packing a little bag.

She really liked this one, although she was not sure where she had read it. She could see her soul, all dressed up in its traveling outfit, for some reason her soul had a Victorian traveling dress and a big carpet bag in which it had shoved all the things it thought it might need. Her soul was childish and pretended to be ready for an unknown journey.

The mirror cracked from side to side.

This was definitely the lovely Agatha. She could not remember off the top of her head the meaning of the mirror in the story, but for her, for her childish soul it felt like a waking up, like the shine, the light was gone and illusions were shattered.

This is the winter of our discontent.

Shakespeare of course. She did not know if it was accurate but it worked for her. She felt the chill of dissatisfaction while looking around at what she had accomplished, while going through the inventory of all the dreams she had abandoned along the way. No, not content, not content at all.

Just going through the motions.

This was another random, unidentifiable one. She was going though the motions, she was doing what she needed to do, but somehow all she felt was irritation and dissatisfaction.

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She had read in a paper about a celebrity wife, meaning, the woman was the wife of a famous man, she was not famous herself, just by association, so this woman suffered from deep depression, so much so that she got herself into one of those special clinics.

While cleaning the windows the image of the woman floated in front of her eyes. She had seen the woman countless times in the papers and on TV. She was beautiful, she had a gorgeous husband, an amazing house, all the money in the world…

And still even she had to go away for a while …

God works in mysterious ways.

She truly believed that. Many times that saying proved itself to be true. She never spoke about her beliefs, she did not want to have to defend them or explain them. They were hers, private and intimate. She had read, in another paper, about a study that showed that people that had a system of belief, whichever, had less anxiety than people that did not. Makes sense, she thought to herself while putting the vacuum away.

She went to change to go to work. Her body felt like an alien in recent times. The changes of middle age were so fast that her mind could not keep up. But oh well, we go through the motions … no other choice is there? Thank God for our health!

In the little supermarket she worked in she stacked shelves, she swept the floors, she was a cashier, she did what needed to be done. Gladly. She thrived in action, it kept her mind busy … well, of course, except the different random things popping in unexpectedly.

She’d seen this movie with a guy that took early retirement and then found it hard to cope. She imagined she would be like that, and this thought gave her renewed energy to perform her tasks.

You got this.

Sure do!

And she smiled to the unsuspecting customer she was helping with their shopping.

‘You have a good day now!’

‘Thank you you too!’, the customer replied and then on their way out pressed the green, smiling face on the customer satisfaction machine.

She saw that and was pleased beyond measure.

Job well done!

Yaba daba doooo!

Where are youuu?!

I have found you!

Sure have!

And she smiled to the next customer in line.

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