Although it now caused him pain, he’d kept the clock that had saved his life. Often he would go back to that morning in his mind, analyzing every little detail, looking for meaning that just was not there.

Pól had had great difficulty getting up. He could still remember the heaviness of his limbs and the fuzziness of his head. The drinking he had done the night before had left an obvious mark.

He crawled into the bathroom, skipped the shower as it was just too much effort and went into his tiny kitchen for coffee. After the first fuzzy cup and two cigarettes his mind started to slowly turn its inflamed and imbibed cogs.

Through blood shot eyes he looked at the clock. Seven thirty. He still had time for another quick coffee and a cigarette. Pól felt like he was a straw man, and decided he definitely needed the strength that bit of extra caffeine and nicotine would give him. He had time.

He enjoyed his second cup even more than the first, he could savor this one. The first one was about survival, this one was about living.

Finally, feeling more like a functioning human being, Pól stepped out in the cold, Irish rain. The freshness of the morning felt good and it made him that bit better.

The factory Pól worked in was across the small town he lived in, occupying most of a large industrial estate. Pól biked to work, and the cold wind cutting across his face as he pedaled his old Raleigh, helped him sober up.

He was, maybe, five minutes away from the factory gate, when the loudest noise he had heard in his life made him stop short, almost falling off the bike. The noise was followed by a huge flame shooting up to the sky, and then quickly, smoke started to flood the air.

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Pól was in shock, and just stood there, pinned into place, just looking at the enormous blaze which was accompanied by loud crackling noises. Soon screams could be heard and Pól snapped out of it. He got on his bike, and rode straight into the industrial park.

Past the gates he could see that a huge fire had taken over a large section of the factory he was going to. Workers were streaming out covered in dust and soot. Some were screaming and some were obviously hurt.

‘It must be what hell looks like...’ Pól could not help the thought from forming in his mind. He got off the bike and started randomly helping people, trying to get them away from the burning building.

It took the firefighters two whole days to fully put out the fire. Many people were hurt and a few lost their lives. Pól was recognized for his help and selfishness of throwing himself right in there to support his fellow factory workers with no regard for his own safety.

Pól was seen as a hero by everybody but himself. When he got home that evening he saw that the kitchen clock was stuck to seven thirty. The battery had run out. His laziness and drunkenness had saved his life, and it was not fair. Worthy people had lost their lives in that fire, he should have been in their place. Pól sunk into a black pit of depression.

Pól stopped going into town because he could not stand seeing the admiring eyes of the people. He could not answer their niceties. Didn’t they know that he should have been there? That he had cheated death and now he was unworthy of living.

One night, it must have been a good five months after the fire, when Pól could not find any relief in sleep, he put his coat on and went walking about in the cold night, under a beautifully lit sky.

Pól walked and walked on the deserted streets until he got to a small graveyard. He knew the graveyard well, it was so old that most likely there were no more bones under the weather beaten stone crosses. The graveyard used to belong to the old parish church built in the 16th century, now itself just a bunch of ruins.

That was how Pól felt, like the ruin of a human being, and, somehow, his own perceived decrepitude, made him feel connected to the old, crumbling church.

Pól sat on a worn out stone and listened to the wind, looked at the light of the moon falling on the abandoned church, felt the air sweeping over him and for the first time in a long time he felt able to breathe properly. Tears started streaming down his cheeks, and soon, they were accompanied by loud sobs and muttered words.

‘I am not worthy, I should have been there instead of them …’

Pól’s words and sobs were carried away, and his tears dried by the wind. He did not know how long he had sat there, but with the rising of the sun Pól found that his spirits were lifting also. A small, shy voice whispered inside of him:

‘It was just not your time …’, and Pól understood that there was no meaning to be had, it was just that simple.

In the coming days Pól thought a lot about his own time, the one that he had, that he was in, and he felt overwhelmingly lucky. Pól thought a lot about his life and the things he used to enjoy before life’s drudgery had taken over and he had forgotten what joy was.

Pól was determined to make the drudgery bearable, if not even enjoyable. He did not have it in him to become a life coach, or an influencer, or a mindfulness instructor. Pól had to work for his living and that is where his change started.

Pól decided he would be really good at his job so it did not stress him out. Then he decided he would focus on it when he was in work so he would not think about it when he was off work.

When not working, he tackled boredom by taking his old Raleigh on the road and enjoying the beautiful scenery all around him.

And Pól, he would help anyone who needed it, because Pól felt he needed to repay the world for his life.

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Lucy scrolled mindlessly through the ton of beautifully bright photos, from which people of all sizes and occupations were smiling back at her, projecting their happiness and fulfillment on the things they were, obviously, selling.

‘I am not that person …’, Lucy muttered to herself while looking at them being so happy, in jobs they loved, content with their looks and satisfied with their world.

If there was one word, that Lucy would have had to choose to describe herself, that would have been dissatisfied. She put down the phone and looked back in time.

From as long as she could remember she was never happy, or not even content with what she had, the world around her, and most of all her own person. She smiled to herself. For sure there are some good pills for that! Would she want to use them though? Not so sure.

Lucy had been like this for more than forty years, she did not want to turn into somebody else, but sometimes she did wonder, what it was like to just be content with your lot, to be satisfied with life’s little pleasures and just be, without always questioning everything and assuming everything was bad or evil.

Lucy was exhausted of so much introspection. She did not even know why she was bothering with it, it was widely known that it never led to anything good. Just even more heartache. As if life was not already difficult enough!

Sitting on the living room couch, flipping through the channels trying to find something to watch, Lucy heard a little noise at the kitchen door. It was an old door, which she had kept as it looked so antiquy that it gave the kitchen a lovely feeling.

Lucy could not see a person through the little, high window of the door so she assumed it must be the wind or something…

‘It will go away …’, she told herself going back to the TV.

It did not though. The noise became louder and it actually felt like somebody tried to open the door.

In her mind, Lucy went quickly through the possibilities. Her garden was fully enclosed so it was not very likely that a thief was at the door. Lucy knew what she needed to do, go upstairs and look out through the bedroom window to spy what was going on.

Pleased with her own quick thinking, she climbed the stairs and in a heartbeat she was staring at the empty back of the house.

‘This is ridiculous!’

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There was nobody there, but she could have sworn she had heard something and she had seen the door handle move.

‘I am sure there is a pill for that …’, she amused herself while coming down the stairs.

When she turned to go in the living room, she was shocked to see that the back door was wide open and, from the outside, a very bright light was flooding the kitchen.

If she had had heart problems she was sure she would have had a heart attack, but as she did not, Lucy had no other option but to face the strangeness of the situation.

She was not sure what to do. Go back upstairs, lock herself in the bathroom and call the guards? And tell them what? There is this big light in my garden? They might fine her for calling the emergency services without reason or for trying a prank. No, she was on her own, and she was a grown up woman.

Emboldened by the certainty that there was nobody outside, Lucy grabbed a broom and slowly approached the door. With every step she took, she could see better through the light until, when she was fully outside, she saw that it was the sun reflected in a metal bowl that had been knocked over.

Lucy gave out a relieved, embarrassed chuckle.

‘For f***ks sake!’

As she went to the bowl to pick it up, a little kitten came out from behind and started meowing at her.

‘What in the world …?’

Lucy was stunned by the unexpected, tiny apparition.

The kitten was mainly black with just a few white patches on its paws and belly. It seemed so happy to see another being that it just stared at her meowing as if trying to tell her something.

Lucy deeply disliked cats, they were smelly, left hair everywhere, had fleas, ate birds, horrible little creatures. She needed to get rid of it.

‘How did you get in here?’, she asked the little cat talking back at her.

‘You must go!’, somehow Lucy thought that the cat will turn around and just leave, which of course it did not.

She decided that if she went into the house, the cat will have no other option but to go away. Bad plan. As soon as Lucy closed the door the cat positioned itself on the door mat and started meowing even louder.

You guess what happened next. Lucy picked up the cat, wearing gardening gloves of course, and went to throw it over the fence. A loud barking could be heard from the overly excited dog in the next garden.

‘Oh c***p!’, that is when Lucy heard that little voice in her head, while looking into the eyes of the little kitten whose life was literally in her hands.

‘I am not this person!’, and she knew that indeed she was not.

‘Fine, whatever!’

Lucy looked up online the closest animal shelter and, reluctantly she drove there, with the kitten temporarily named Kat.

As they got there they met a family that was looking for a young cat, of course the mother fell in love with the beautiful Kat. She really was a cat lady, she confessed to Lucy proudly.

In the quietness of the living room, while taking out her phone to enjoy a bit of mindless scrolling Lucy thought about the day. She was not one of those people, happy and content, but, with a tiny feeling of well being nestling comfortably in her chest, she realized she was not that bad either.

And she felt just that little bit content.

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There was a world where people were living in rooms. That is all they could afford, just a room somewhere. No houses, no apartments, no flats. Rooms in houses, with one bed and a cupboard. If they were lucky they were old houses and they had a sink in the room too. That was luxury. Those were more expensive of course.

The people wore yellowish shirts and brown suits, the men, and dark, thick dresses, the women. Always their clothes matched their foot wear. They were clean, washed in common bathrooms, and their clothes in common washing machines.

They worked normal, tedious jobs which most of them did not like, but enjoyed. It was a privilege to have a job, to have a paycheck, to have a title. People were called by their title, if they had a job of course, if they did not, out of consideration, they avoided to attach any title at all.

For example, if someone addressed a seamstress they would say:

‘So kind of you Seamstress O’Brien!’

But, if they spoke to a person that did not have a known job, they would say:

‘So kind of you fellow human being!’

Unusual indeed, but the people put so much value in having a productive role that they were openly disapproving of those that, in their view, did not contribute.

They liked artists, they did, but it needed to be art they understood and in line with their sensibilities. For example they would have deeply disliked Picasso and all his phases, too cubic.

The people’s idea of fun was to sit around and talk about their insipid jobs, eating brown food and drinking brown ale.

What characterized the people the most was that they were content, even the fellows (the short for fellow human being), were content. These lived on the fringes of society, but they were safe and had the needful for survival. Whenever a fellow moved over to the other side and found a job, they were genuinely happy for them. A fellow has to do what a fellow has to do!

The people lived in a quiet world, reading event less articles in yellowish news papers. They kept their distance and their decorum, they courted for two years before becoming married, had at least one child, and at the most two (when possible), and they educated their children to become as boring and uninteresting as themselves.

The people cared for each other deeply, they kept promises and were kind. They always assumed positive intent and this shaped their view of the world. They were patient and welcoming. They supported each other and considered it a small personal win if they managed to get a fellow, woman or man, into productive work.

The people were convinced that everyone must contribute and support each other.

As the human being is such an unexpected and uncontrollable force, of course there were people that were born different from their parents. These children would rarely abide by the rules of the sedate world of the quiet people, and would often leave in search for the bright lights of the cities they knew existed.

It happened often that, these children, that had left disgusted by the insignificant and mediocre lives of their parents, would return needing the quiet life to calm their nerves and find a bit of balance, after the demanding world of the big cities, where everything was possible, good or bad.

Their parents would find them a room, help them find employment and would secretly enjoy their return. They loved their children and having them close was a joy.

Sometimes, it happened that these children, now all grown up, would have difficulties adapting to the old life. Sometimes, their parents, out of love, would share with them, secret worlds and places hidden in little boxes or libraries. A beautifully illustrated book, a painting hiding behind a faded family photo, a cake recipe they would cook behind closed doors at very special occasions.

The children were dumbfounded! How had they not known?

‘When you are very young, when you do not know how precious the order of the world is, we could not share with you our secret, you might have blurted it out in the passion of youth!’, they would explain.

Some understood, some did not, but they all rejoiced to find out their parents were not as beige as they thought. Often, having that little secret was enough to support them while finding they way.

The world of the quiet people goes on, slowly spinning around with all the other worlds, on this big, beautiful planet of ours.

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Alfie was woken up by a whiny voice somewhere in his vicinity. It was just too early for that s****t! He snuggled more into his sleeping bag and hoped the person will just go away. They did not!

Alfie cursed having chosen his sleeping spot close to a bench, but there was such good hedge coverage that he could hide right behind it and the base of a large statue and nobody could see him there. He’d snapped up a lovely tent sheet on Moore Street and he’d made a nice, dry, cozy bed, protected by the wind and the rain.

The voice went on. Alfie had no choice but to peek out from behind the statue to see what was going on. He could spot on the bench a tallish man, dressed for work, by that Alfie understood coat and shirt, he was oblivious that nowadays anyone can go dressed almost any way in work.

The man had next to him a steaming cup of coffee and a sausage bap. Alfie’s mouth started watering. He could do with some breakfast and sausage baps were his favorites. Not to mention that coffee was the liquid of the Gods, next to tea of course. Beggars can’t be choosers! Alfie told to himself and laughed inside at his own wittiness.

It was so cozy and warm in the sleeping bag that Alfie decided food was just not worth it right then. A nap would be good! Bap, nap, the essence of the world in a few letters … tea … Alfie’s survivalist stream of consciousness was interrupted by the whiny voice again.

‘I am telling you, I can’t go on like this! I need more respect! They never listen to me in meetings! I am sure they laugh about me behind my back! I can barely get them to do the minimum needed! Such ungrateful little p***s! All of them, the women and the men!’

Alfie was starting to get annoyed.

‘You are an ungrateful little p****k!’, he thought to himself watching from under his sleeping bag, behind the statue. At that angle Alfie could see the man was well dressed, had good shoes, comfy with bouncy soles. Alfie would have loved himself some of those! He wiggled his toes remembering the hurt caused by the a size too small shoes he had now.

If only the man had let him sleep! But instead he went on and on! Now he was doing something like breathing exercises breathing in the noisiest way possible! Alfie could not handle it anymore!

Like a leopard, he sprung from behind the statue, and in a heart beat he was sat on the bench next to the man, now shocked with fear.

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‘Lovely morning we are having!’, Alfie used his most seductive voice and his words sounded almost like a melodic hiss. He could see the man was immobilized by fear, but knew that he will snap out of it quickly, so he needed to take advantage of this suspended moment.

‘You know your coffee smells delicious! Could not help notice! And that bap! Shame to let it go cold!’

As he was talking he expertly picked up the coffee and the bap touching both to make sure there was no doubt about the owner.

‘This is a gooood cup of coffee!’, he let out after having a sip. ‘Want some?’, the sweetness in his voice made it sound like he was very generous to share.

The man, his phone now in his lap, watched Alfie incredulously.

He made to get up, but Alfie was strong and in a fast move pinned him to the bench.

‘Oh no, don’t go! Stay a while!’, Alfie could see the man looking around desperately for support, but it was just too early for that. And anyway, people rarely intervened, most often they would hurry away pretending they did not see anything. Sad, but that was the world they lived in, and Alfie was used to being ignored and avoided.

‘Thanks for that! I always say, breakfast is the most important meal of the day! And lunch, and dinner, and any snacks you can find …’, with the corner of his eye Alfie watched the man and his trembling hands. He felt bad for him! But still what lovely shoes you have grandma ….!

‘So … what do you do?’, Alfie felt it was his duty to ease the man into the events that were to follow.

‘*&^%$£ …’

‘Wha …?’, Alfie wondered if the man was foreign, but no he was not he was just complaining on the phone a few minutes earlier. Alfie decided he did not like the man. No point in dragging it on.

‘I like your shoes! What size are you?’, his voice was now that of a business man doing a transaction.

‘10’, the man was barely able to say the number.

‘Oh!’, Alfie’s eyes lit up with satisfaction. Nothing worse than finding some shoes you like and they are not your size.

‘Would you consider a donation to the poor?’, Alfie hoped no pressure would be required.

‘Ahhhh sure …’, the man made to pull out his wallet and took out a few coins.

Ohhh bless him, he is a bit slow!, Alfie thought to himself and eased his feet out of his old, extremely dirty shoes.

‘Tz-tz! The shoes!’, and he lifted his ugly socked feet so the man was clear about what he wanted.

‘My shoes!?!’

‘And he gets it!’, Alfie started to get bored with the man’s slowness. ‘And faster cause my feet are getting cold!’

Alfie got his feet closer and the man impressed by his size and swiftness undid his shoes and handed them over. Now that he was close Alfie could see the man had a really thick wool coat on.

‘And the coat!’, no more time for niceties.

The man made to run but, Alfie’s grip was so quick and strong that, he was like a fly caught in a net. With his new shoes on and the coat Alfie felt like a new man.

‘Quality stuff this! You’ve got good taste!’, he almost felt like dancing.

He took out the man’s belongings from his pockets. He had no need for his keys, phone or cards. He was not a thief! The clothes were survival tools!

When he was handling the wallet he could not help but see the lovely, orange outline of some fifty euro notes. He took them out.

‘For the poor!’, and he winked.

The man was now trembling and barely could make eye contact. Alfie felt generous.

‘Listen, because you have been so charitable with the less fortunate I will share with you a bit of old Irish man wisdom. It’s not what’s said, it’s what’s heard. Cheers!’

Alfie disappeared behind the statue, picked up his backpack and his sleeping things and off he went. He needed to disappear before the man had the chance to come to his sense and scream for help. As he walked away Alfie did not hear any screams, maybe the guy was slow at that too.

What Alfie did not know was that, the man was still there on the bench in his socked feet, trembling and cold, but somehow at peace. He held his keys, phone and wallet tightly feeling relieved he was still alive.

While Alfie was taking his things the man had gone, in his head, through all the horrible scenarios of potential outcomes. And all the time he could see his family’s faces hurting and in pain. He was relieved for himself and for them. He did not want that kind of trauma for his children or his wife.

‘Said vs heard, that is an interesting point!’, he thought to himself while walking on the damp sidewalk to his car. He put on his gym shoes and climbed in, happy he had gone all out and had bought heated seats. He sat there in his warm, locked car eating the chocolate he kept hidden from his wife and as a bribe for his children. The shops were opening and soon he will head into the office.

New shoes first. He had not felt this kind of joy since he was a teenager and he got his first paycheck for stacking shelves in Dunnes.

‘What an unusual, horrible man …’, he thought about the strong, dirty thief that had robbed him.

A few streets away Alfie was using his easy earned cash to buy himself a proper Irish breakfast. A man’s gotta eat!

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Jimmy’d stopped telling his children about the old days. He was tired of them rolling their eyes at him, of his wife’s disapproving looks.

‘Times are different now! Let it go dad!’, his son would say, briefly looking up from his phone.

Jimmy agreed. Times were different now, but it was important not to forget how different they can be.

Jimmy was worried about his children. He felt they were soft, they had no fight in them, they were all about entitlement and relaxation.

Sometimes Jimmy felt it was his fault, he should have been tougher.

‘No honey! We are privileged that we could provide for them, give them this beautiful childhood! Life is hard enough as it is!’, his wife knew what he meant.

‘I know, I am just worried they will crumble at the first sign of difficulty!’, he sighed with all his might.

‘Well, if that happens we will be there for them …’

‘You know we will die at some point right?’, as he said the words he felt bad.

‘Hey, no need to be snappy! I am just trying to help!’

In moments like that he would withdraw in his shed and would remember the times he survived. Jimmy was so happy he had survived! Even all these years later he could not believe he had! Maybe that should be enough.

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He had made it, he had a family, a place of his own, maybe he should just count his blessings and stop pestering his family with his long past demons.

Maybe if he kept bringing them up, he was just giving them more power over him. Maybe he was afraid to let them go, they had been with him for so long …

Sometimes, he would have a little whiskey from the bottle he had hid in the shed, and he would remember the really bad times, the ones that had made him who he was now.

‘Look at me Ma!’, and he would drink to the memories.

One of the things that had really driven him was the hunger. This was no metaphorical desire for a better life, it was the actual pain of being hungry, when your body screams for something, anything.

Jimmy still felt the taste of the biscuit he was given, and he remembered how he would not bite in the biscuit, he would just munch at the side in tiny bites, making it last as long as possible.

The hunger, the wish for survival, the cold of poverty, that is something he would never be able to forget, and something he would never be able to fully share with his children, maybe not even his wife.

That animal instinct that emerges when all your humanity is stripped away, and all that remains is the will to survive by any means necessary. When you pray to all the gods, to any god, just to carry you through!

His wife was right, he would conclude after enough whiskey, the children were lucky they did not feel that. As little as possible people should have to feel that. Just look at him, fifty years later and his life was still dominated by the hunger he felt as a child. His children were free and that is how life was meant to be lived.

Free from the fear of hunger.

‘Still, they are so soft…’ Jimmy thought.

‘They only care about eating and sleeping!’, he told his wife when she warned him that she wanted a quiet dinner.

‘You have to let them find their own way … as you did yours …’, her voice was calm and relaxed.

‘Fine! I will be in my study!’, he kissed her briefly and left.

‘Find their own way!’, he scoffed at the idea. ‘They couldn’t find their own nose if it wasn’t in the middle of their face!’

He used to live with hunger, now he lived with fear. Fear that his loved ones will not be able to face life’s challenges and cruelty.

‘Maybe they will be lucky … maybe they will not face any challenges and maybe you can help with that …’

Jimmy’s mood shifted. He could make sure his children were lucky, he could support that. He took out a pen, found a notebook and he started to map out the lives of his children, working to identify turning points where a stroke of luck might be needed.

‘This will be a bit of a challenge …’, he whispered to himself enjoying the prospect.

That evening dinner was pleasant for the first time in a long time. Jimmy, uncharacteristically, asked his children questions, listened to them. He seemed to actually take an interest and, taken by surprise, they were happy to share.

Getting to know them was the first step in Jimmy’s plan, and it seemed to work out better than expected. Maybe there was hope yet …

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My reading tastes are quite varied, and I have curated my little library so that it contains something to cater to all my whims. Because for the past few months I had mostly read crime and mystery books, I felt the need for something else.

While browsing through my books I stopped at Patricia Scanlan’s ‘The Liberation of Brigid Dunne’, mainly because I felt the need for an Irish writer and an Irish story, plus a bit of a breather from investigating murders. More recently the book was published under the title ‘A Family Reunion’.

I found my copy of the book in a charity shop and I was over the moon to find a signed one. I love signed copies and have amassed quite a few from various writers I like.

At first, when I started the book I was a bit confused about the structure and the characters, but then, the more I read, it all started to make sense and it became very interesting.

I will not give too many details about the story, as I really want you to read it if you think it is for you, but I do have to touch on some points if I am to write my post about it.

The book revolves around four women and it spans over a long time, from the 1950ies to the 2000. It tells us about their experiences over time, what they faced, how they grew and transformed, shaped by the society they lived in and the expectations made on them.

Now, it is well known the impact the church had on the lives of women in Ireland ( and in many other places I am sure) and how women suffered being subjected to the strict rules of the church and society.

While reading the book, I could not help but think about how women in Romania also suffered during communism, particularly because of the regime’s emphasis on large families and population growth.

During the communist period it was illegal to use contraception or stop a pregnancy. In 1966 Nicolae Ceausescu introduced one of the harshest pronatalist policies in the world with Decree 770. The decree banned and made illegal stopping a pregnancy, eliminated access to contraception and framed reproduction as a duty to the state.

The aim was rapid demographic growth, as a larger population meant more workers and more power, women becoming essentially instruments of state policy. It went so far as women being subjected to mandatory gynecological exams at work, surveillance to detect pregnancy and it was illegal for doctors to assist with stopping pregnancies.

This led to a huge increase in unsafe procedures, thousands of maternal deaths were recorded and a rise in the numbers of abandoned children.

The full story and its details are horrible, and it is a generational trauma that is not spoken about. But we know.

I suppose that’s why Patricia Scanlan’s book resonated with me so strongly. The pressure of society and religion on women is not abstract to me, it’s something I recognize from the lives of the women in my own family, who lived under a system that enforced reproduction and denied them real choice. They had to navigate structures that rarely asked for consent, only obedience. If you did not obey the alternatives were jail or death.

I looked it up and sadly I see the book was not translated in Romanian, I think it would be a good seller in Romania, but it might just be me. Anyway, if anyone wants to publish it I would be more than happy to translate it, let me know.

The book is an interesting read even without the societal and religious interpretations, so I do not want to paint it as a dark novel. It is entertaining and it flows very well. You can see the care that went into it and that it is written by an experienced author. It is confident in tone and structure.

I recommend it as, for me, it strikes a great balance between introspective, informative, and entertaining. I really enjoyed it, and it made me reflect on things long buried, which is exactly what a good book should do.

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They’d arrived at the hotel that afternoon and, of course, there was some mix up with the rooms. They were not given rooms one next to the other, but on different floors. Deborah agreed to take the one on the lower floor, it was her sister’s moment and she wanted to make sure everything was great for her.

After they checked in, it was just a storm of activity, moving things from one room to the other, minding the children who were were naughtier than ever, as they felt the grown ups were not paying attention.

When dinner time came Deborah was exhausted and excited at the same time. The hotel they were staying in was unlike anything she had ever seen, glitz and glamour, but also style and elegance. It felt like a dream that, their little family, from an unknown little town, in a tiny country was there part of such a huge event.

Deborah was so proud of her sister, and beyond happy for her mother, that she was getting the chance to see one of her children she had fought so hard to raise, being so successful, and for her nieces that they could see their own mother being celebrated. It was truly a remarkable moment for all of them.

As it goes though, even remarkable moments have their prosaic preparations that need to be handled and organized. The award ceremony was the day after, so the plan for the arrival day was to settle in, and then go enjoy a wonderful dinner in the hotel three Michelin stars restaurant.

When the dresses were all perfectly lined in the huge wardrobe, when the details were all ironed out, Deborah waved good bye to her sister and they agreed to meet in the lobby. That is the only solid detail Deborah can remember, as afterwards it all became strangely unreliable. She had thought about that moment many, many times afterwards, but as much as she tried she could not understand what happened after.

She went in the hallway, closed the door behind her, and walked to the elevator. In front of the elevator there was this actress that she had admired all her life. The actress was accompanied by another woman pushing a large trolley, from which sparkling dresses hung in perfect order.

Deborah was stunned, and stuttering, she signaled she will take the stairs.

‘Just one floor …’

The two women smiled placidly as she disappeared behind a large door marked Stairs.

Deborah was in disbelief, she had actually seen that actress in the flesh. Deborah had seen her in movies all her life and she was so beautiful. So small! All the women here seemed so small, more like girls than grown up women, although some were well into their mature years. On the telly you could not tell they were so small …

As she was thinking these Deborah descended stairs that seemed to go on forever, just as she became aware of it she saw a door and went through it. She stepped out into a well lit corridor. As she walked on, it opened into a small lobby lined with mirrors reflecting the light from, what seemed like, thousands of lights hanging in low chandeliers.

This was not her floor, and, as she was thinking about checking on what floor she is, Deborah realized she does not remember the floor her room was on. She had her room card in her pocket, but she as had left the little cardboard sleeve with the room number on it behind it was of no help.

Deborah felt panic rising inside her. How could she not remember her room number? Or the floor. She felt in her pocket for her phone, but it was not there. Looking down at herself, it dawned on her that she was wearing leggings and a flimsy vest with flip-flops, in this luxurious lobby. Thank God there weren’t people around at that time!

Deborah decided to go back to the stairs and up one floor to her sister’s room to get her phone and remember what room she was in. This gave her strength to control the trembling of her hands and to push down the need to throw up.

As she retraced her steps Deborah found that the stairs she was looking for were not where she remembered they should be. Some beautifully dressed guests passed her by and she could not help this feeling that she was almost naked and needed to hide. She spotted a couch in a corner and walking close to the wall, she went and sat down.

The coolness of the leather felt comforting as, in a strange way, it was grounding her in reality. She was not losing her mind, she just needed to settle down, take deep breaths and it would come to her. The couch was huge and she felt almost hidden sitting there with her arms crossed to cover her body. The passers by seemed too absorbed by their own persons to notice her. That made her feel better.

As she sat there she was able to come up with a solution. She could go to reception and ask for her sister. Her sister’s name she could remember very well. Yes, she could do that. She had options.

As she was sitting there working hard to keep herself composed, Deborah was brought back by a loud screeching that ended with the word ‘Auntieeee!’

One of her nieces came running to her.

‘Auntieeee! Mommy sent me to bring you your phone!’

Deborah felt the happiest she had ever felt, faced with the cheerful, little round face of her nice.

‘Oh love!’, she hugged her tight, but her niece was very impatient and wiggled herself out of the embrace.

‘Like my dress?’ the little girl was beaming knowing all too well how beautiful she looked.

‘I love it!’ Deborah could feel herself calming down.

‘Come auntie! You need to get dressed too! What are you doing here anyway?!?’, of course the little girl did not wait for an answer, and she took her aunt’s hand and dragged her through the labyrinth of corridors to her room. Deborah was amazed how the little girl had remembered all the winding corners and similar looking turns, but was beyond grateful for being saved so graciously from her moment.

This is how she would think about that episode from then on: her moment.

A moment that she never shared with anyone, that she kept hidden deep inside her, and that made her do some weird things her family would tease her about.

From then on Deborah got this habit of always carrying a little notebook with her. Notebook in which she made all sorts of little notes about what they were doing and when. She never read what she wrote, but it was always there in her pocket next to her phone, which had a fifty euro note neatly folded and hidden behind the plastic case.

Sometimes the moments that shape us remain hidden forever, never fully understood.

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She held on to the railing tightly trying to ground herself in reality with its help. She could feel tension building up in her forehead, and felt as if her nostrils were closing in, allowing just a tiny amount of air to flow through.

‘I am ok, I am ok, I am ok!’, she repeated to herself working hard to stabilize her emotions.

Instead of trying desperately to breathe Pamela decided just to stop trying, and forced her self to stop breathing. She managed to count to 11 and then the body, by itself, overriding her state of mind, drew in a huge gulp of air. Pamela was able to walk to a low wall in the back of the office building where she worked.

She looked around. She was safe there. Nobody could see her from the building, and, people coming out usually followed the street towards the little park close by.

Pamela had this urge to just go to the bus, go home and hide there for a good while. She still could not believe what had happened. When she was called in her manager’s office she was sure it was to be promoted, or at least congratulated for how she had recently dealt with one of the most impactful escalations her team had had to deal with for some time.

She was happy, she was cool, she was there, and then, boom!

‘The team has grown so much that we decided we need a Director in the region and we have hired you a new colleague. We need you to train and mentor them to get ramped up quickly as they will need to attend the company wide meeting in HQ in a month. OK? OK. Thank you!’

Pamela was fuming!

She had been with the company for more than four years, given it all she had, and they did not even open the role or inform them, they just hired somebody new that she was supposed to train and mentor, asap! The audacity!

She felt like slamming the door, screaming, leaving, just to show them what they were missing, but she was too old for all of that. She knew better.

At fifty-two Pamela knew she was not so much in demand on the job market. She often read on LinkedIn horrible stories of people in the same age bracket as her looking for jobs for months and months and having difficulties finding anything.

No, she could not be rash. She had to swallow her pride, hide her frustration and just go on. She needed the job and could not afford to be cheeky and to endanger her position.

‘That is the way the cookie crumbles!’, she told herself encouragingly. ‘Life is not meant to be fair! Roll with the punches! It is what it is!’

She was too old to have dreams of winning the lotto or of an unexpected inheritance, it was all up to her, and that was that.

Pamela felt her heart rate settle and air started to flow a bit better through her lungs.

‘I’ve been through worse! I can do this! Keep your eyes on the ball!’, she was better than this.

Pamela got up and walked back into the building determined to manage herself.

Best laid plans …

When she got to her floor and to her desk the first email she saw was the announcement for the new hire. The mirror cracked from side to side … It was not a new, new hire, the role had gone to one of her newer and more obnoxious colleagues.

Pamela felt the tension rise in her forehead and her throat closing in.

‘No! Stop it! You matter! Your work matters! Don’t be stupid!’, she snapped out of it and exhibited a huge smile on her face for anyone to see.

Pamela was too old not to know better, so she did what she had to do and just got on with it. Keep your eyes on the ball!

Was she still frustrated? Oh yeah, for sure. But that is just the way the cookie crumbles!

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The Ox pranced about the meadow proud to show all his might and handsomeness.

‘What a good day to be alive!’, the Ox told himself, as he watched the other animals watching him in awe.

The pastures were lush and the sparkling stream bubbled away at the edge of the forest. To sum it up, the world was just right.

As he was prancing about, the Ox’s beautiful scenery was suddenly tainted by a large Irish wolfhound lying under a sumptuous tree, and making pain filled noises.

The first instinct the Ox had was to go round the tree so as to avoid any conversation. But then, a little voice inside his head said, ‘You are The Ox, you do not avoid anything, not only that but you should tell that smelly old dog to move along and stop dirtying the meadow!’

Encouraged by his own arrogance the Ox approached the whining dog.

‘Ahem …’ and followed it by a polite throat clearing.

The huge grey Dog opened blood shot eyes, and looked up at the well built Ox throwing a shade on him with his large bulk.

As the Dog made no reply, the Ox went on.

‘I say, in the village below there is bound to be a human to help mind your … whatever is wrong with you …’

The Ox stopped there convinced the Dog will take the hint. What animal wouldn’t?

The Dog though did not do what the Ox expected, get up and go, but he let out a low growl, that was enough to signal to the Ox that he would better put some distance between himself and the oversized Dog.

‘Yeah, all right my dear fellow! Feel better!’

The Ox left allowing the other animals to admire him while grumbling to himself about that dirty old Dog. Honestly, some animals!

The day passed in the blink of an eye and soon night covered every corner of the meadow.

The Ox found a lovely, comfy spot and settled in for the night. Just when his sleep was sweeter, he was woken up by unusual sounds, and he was shocked to see that he was surrounded by a pack of terrifying looking wolves.

The Ox did not get too much time to contemplate his faith, when one of the wolves attacked him going straight for his throat, but just at that same moment the old Dog appeared out of the dark night and jumped on the attacking wolf.

The Dog fought the wolves away and the Ox just got a few scratches, but was otherwise safe and sound.

In the new day the Ox was so grateful to be alive! Just imagine, his perfect little world could have been no more, if the Dog hadn’t saved him! The Ox was an honorable animal and he felt he was completely in debt to the old Dog, so he went to express his gratitude.

The only reply he got from the Dog though, was the same low growl as the day before. But the Ox was not easily deterred, so he made it his daily duty to go and visit the Dog.

The Ox would bring water, would provide shade when the sun was too hot, would just chat away to the Dog until an unusual bond formed between the two.

As it turned out, the Dog was just not used to interact with the animals he was quietly guarding. In time though, they both found that, everybody has something to give, even if that might seem doubtful at the first glance and, true friends are sometimes found where pride least expects them.

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The Blue Tree had been living on the high cliffs towering the waves ever since it had been a tiny sapling. It had formed there, it had grown strong there, its sparkling crown of blue leaves had been shaped by the strong winds blowing in from the harsh sea.

The tree was happy there, it did not know anything else, and to be fair, it did not need anything else.

Each spring the tree was full of translucent, lush flowers, that, as the seasons progressed, turned into seeds with frail wings that the wind carried away, leaving the tree barren again.

In its first hundreds of years, the Blue Tree just went on with it. It was what it was, and it could not be helped. Then though, as time passed and as the flowers were fewer and the seeds less and less, the Blue Tree felt their parting more and more deeply.

It wished at least some of them, or even at least one of them, would catch roots close to it, so it would not be so alone facing the colder and colder, the harsher and harsher winds.

The coast it was growing on though was far too stony for a small seed to catch, so the Blue Tree just continued living through its challenging and demanding days.

Time lost meaning and purpose as the Blue Tree felt too old to flower and bloom. During storms the lonely tree wished that lighting would strike, or that the high cliffs it was perched on would crumble to the sea.

None of this happened though, but what did happen was that one day, one undesired and unfelt day, an unexpected event took place.

The tree was used to the sea birds flying and puffing around, but they never came close to it on account of its very dense branches, in which they could catch their wings and be stuck. That had happened a few times in the past and it hadn’t been a pleasant experience for either of them.

On that day though, the Blue Tree felt a large shadow above it. When the shadow moved, it could see it was a huge seagull gliding on the wind with barely any need to flap its enormous wings. The Blue Tree decided it did not warrant any attention, so it went back to feeling blue.

The seagull landed close by in the most elegant manner and started to walk in small circles around the tree. When the Gliding Gull got close the tree could see that it seemed to be almost as old as himself. Its wings were huge, yes, but they looked well worn and worked.

The Blue Tree took the intrusion as an unexpected distraction and watched the Gliding Gull watching it. After some time, the large bird flew in the tree and, by weaving a few small branches together, created a makeshift nest and stopped for a rest.

The Blue Tree was beyond puzzled. It had never seen lonely gulls, they always seemed to belong to a colony and most often flew in pairs. It could not ask the gull though so it just enjoyed the company the bird provided.

That night a huge storm hit the cliffs. The Blue Tree was not bothered, it had been through so many and it had always weathered them out. It was careful though with the bird hidden inside and it did all it could to protect it.

When morning came the Gliding Gull emerged from the safety of the Blue Tree making happy noises and then gliding away.

The Blue Tree felt empty and its sadness deepened. It had been so nice to have a purpose, to have something else to care for than itself.

The sadness was not long lived though as, in the next days and weeks, the once lonely cliff top was welcoming a large colony of seagulls. The gulls brought with them grass, seeds and twigs, making for themselves nests in the nooks and crannies of the rocks.

Along with the young gulls little plants started to grow, and the more things they brought in to nest in, the more the vegetation took shape.

The Blue Tree towered over them all and, one day, it was ecstatic to find that a few saplings of his own seeds had caught into the new soil and were showing up. The Blue Tree felt new life flowing through its veins, new energy which led to it proudly raising its branches to the sky.

When the Blue Tree rearranged its crown, it became just that bit taller and it caught a glimpse of a hill far, far away. A hill that glowed and sparkled the most beautiful shade of blue it had ever seen. An entire hill, or maybe even a mountain side, covered in Blue Trees, which it knew, were its seeds grown up.

What the Blue Tree did not know was that, the trees that had grown from its seeds had saved an entire human town found at the bottom of the mountain. The roots of the Blue Trees had stabilized the soil, and when storms and floods came the trees protected the world below. Because of this the humans saw the Blue Trees as sacred and tended to them, cared for them, grateful for their life giving gift, and would often share their seeds with other fellow humans.

The Blue Tree did not know all these, it was just happy to finally know that its seeds had caught roots and were growing well, and in this knowledge the Blue Tree found peace.

The Gliding Gull would often come and spend time with the Blue Tree, two ancient beings leaving their indelible mark in the world.

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Waking up a stray ray of light falling on her arm drew her attention to the red scars marking her. They did not hurt anymore. There was a time when she was young when they needed constant care, but now, in her old age they no longer hurt.

In fact, as she lay there looking at them, bright in the morning sun, Maire wondered when had she got them. The realization that she could not remember surprised her. They had been a part of her for so long, and her life had been so long that now she was at a point where she did not really know when and where she had gotten them.

Maire stood up abruptly as if pushed by an invisible spring. She pulled the covers from her legs and looked at the extensive scars covering them. Some looked like cuts, some like burns, some were just caused by years and years of walking. They were normal scars, usual scars, that every witch got in the course of their life time.

With every spell, with every interference, with every working, witches got a mark on their body so they never took their meddling lightly, and they made sure that they thought carefully before weaving their magic into the human world.

Tears started flowing down her cheeks. Was death close? Was she passing into non existence? Maire never really minded the pain of her scars, but she was now panicked by the prospect of forgetting her history, her past.

Desperate, Maire decided to make a list of all her scars, and to try to remember when and where she got them, at least some, if not all. The memories must be there for sure. Not even witches can wake up one morning and forget it all.

The list was so long that Maire had to continue well into the afternoon to catalogue all her scars. When she was done, she was ecstatic to find that, she remembered where most of them came, and the more she remembered the more she felt like coming back to herself.

By midnight Maire had a complete list of scars and their causes. She was all right, she was not losing herself, moreover, Maire could remember some scars that now were invisible to the eye, scars that had been hidden by other fresher ones.

Some scars were deep and grave. Others made her smile. She had been reckless once. Certain. Fierce in her need to matter. There were marks she would not choose again, and others she would defend still. Youth had not been foolish, only urgent.

She ran her fingers slowly along the pale lines crossing her skin. They did not accuse her. They did not demand remembrance. They simply existed, as the world existed, as the seasons turned without seeking permission.

The list lay open in her lap. She read it once more, then folded it carefully and set it aside. She did not feel the need to memorize it. The knowing had settled somewhere deeper than thought.

Maire laughed then, softly at first, and then with a fullness that surprised her. Not because she had conquered death. Not because she had understood everything. But because she no longer felt compelled to.

The scars no longer felt like sign posts. They felt like weather, passed through, endured, survived.

Outside, the trees bent in the wind. Somewhere a child would fall ill, a quarrel would rise, a roof would threaten to fall. Once, she would have felt the tug of it, the old heat gathering in her palms.

Now she remained seated. Power moved through her, vast and patient, like deep water beneath still ground. She did not reach for it. She did not push it away.

Death had always walked near her path. It did not trouble her now.

There was breath in her lungs. Warmth on her skin. Time ahead not to conquer, not to hurry, but to inhabit.

She leaned back in her chair and let the world unfold without her interference.

And for the first time in centuries, that felt like enough.

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Sometimes things would get stuck into his head, and they would just turn, and turn, and turn inside it, until they made him dizzy and confused.

This time it was mercerized cotton. He had had no idea this fabric existed. Cotton was cotton.

One day though, in a charity shop he found a: tag on, great looking, dark blue t-shirt, that fit him like a glove. The t-shirt felt sturdy without being thick, and it had this eye-pleasing sheen to it.

‘Polyester!’ he told himself, being disappointed before reading the label.

George looked up the label and read: 100% cotton.

No! Cannot be! What trickery is this?! The fabric felt like anything but cotton. He read the second label, under the first one, and there he saw the mention mercerized cotton.

‘What in God’s name is that?!’ he had never heard of it.

He bought the t-shirt, it was too good (and new, well with tags on), to risk leaving it behind. He knew himself, he would think about it for weeks if he did not buy it.

The new notion of mercerized cotton was floating in his head, slowly expanding to fully fill it.

On the bus home he looked it up online. It was indeed a thing! Because it was more expensive to obtain it was usually reserved for high end clothing. Ohhhhh! He pulled closer the bag containing his new t-shirt. George felt his like for it growing steadily.

Looks more refined; Increased strength; Holds color better; More dimensionally stable; Silk-like sheen; Cleaner, crisper finish; High-quality

The words floated in front of his eyes and his appreciation grew.

By the time he got home George was in awe of the beauty and finish of the t-shirt. He could not believe that he had never known mercerized cotton even existed.

He washed the t-shirt (could not wear it unwashed, his skin would have broken out in hives) and, as expected, it washed wonderfully well.

When it dried, George touched it trying to come to terms with the look and feel of the fabric. He could not believe it was indeed cotton. Magic!

He could remember only one time when something caused a similar state of disbelief. When he had washed a lyocell shirt and it had become, from supple and soft, all rough and difficult to handle.

George had been sure it was ruined, that he did something wrong, but then, when it dried, it turned back, amazingly, to soft and wonderful, from fibrous and rough. Lyocell was also a strange and wonderful fabric.

George loved his t-shirt so much that a pang of pain shot through his heart. He only had this t-shirt, this one t-shirt made from mercerized cotton, if he wore it and something happened to it (stains, holes, tears) he would be so upset. George decided he loved it too much to wear, so he packed it nicely, and safely, and put it in the wardrobe.

He needed to find another one. If he had two, then he could wear the wonderful t-shirt without fear of anything happening to it.

George looked up online mercerized cotton t-shirts, or other garments for that matter, and was surprised to find that there weren’t that many. The ones that were available, were very expensive and way out of reach for George.

The longer the search became, the luckier he started to feel that he had found that t-shirt in the first place. Not to mention that it was in his size, with tags and at a cheap polyester price. He knew there are some expensive polyesters too.

A few months had passed since George had bought his t-shirt. Now, he was well accustomed to the term, and whenever he was digging for treasures in charity shops, he also checked the t-shirts that seemed plastic, you never know when a mercerized cotton one might pop-up.

George’s obsession with the new t-shirt turned into appreciation, and he finally decided to wear it to a company event where he was hoping to make a good impression, to maybe be considered for a promotion…

Putting on the t-shirt felt like a religious experience, like Superman putting on his suit. Mercerized cotton felt indeed special and it made George feel special, happy, well dressed and confident.

Increased strength; looks more refined; More dimensionally stable; Cleaner, crisper finish

At the party, unexpectedly enough, people did comment on his t-shirt and he explained all about mercerized cotton, about the chemical process in which cotton fibers are treated with sodium hydroxide (caustic soda) under tension, and how it was developed in 1844 by John Mercer.

They were impressed.

And they were won over when George told them his mercerized cotton joke:

‘Mercerized cotton is cotton that went to finishing school.’

‘Oh George! You are too much! We have a new project starting next month, let’s chat about it!’

George nodded, his heart beating hard against his mercerized cotton shell.

It was all about the fabric indeed.

His own fabric.

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Guillermo del Toro, who else?!

As often as possible, I like to buy as a souvenir from the places I visit a tarot deck, or two … I have done this in quite a few places and I enjoy this meeting of two worlds, remembering the trip and enjoying the new tarot deck.

Of course this means that over the few short years since I have come back to the tarot I grew myself a nice, little collection. Topped up as required with decks I find online that I just cannot resist.

I picked up Tarot del Toro on my trip as a memento and as an interesting object, unsure if it is a usable tarot deck. It was very well sealed and I could not look at the cards. It was a bit of a risk as I looked at the reviews online and they were mixed. The comments said that while the cards are nice, the quality is so and so, with some cards being imperfect.

I took a chance and bought them. My initial reaction when looking at them was that of disappointment. While a lot of work had gone into the major arcana and the court cards, the pip cards are just symbols, and sadly I do not know how to interpret them very well. So I was disappointed and put them aside. Meh!

A few days passed and I felt drawn to the deck again. I took out the little booklet that comes with them and read through it. It won me over.

It was great to find out that Guillermo del Toro and the artist that drew the cards, Tomás Hijo, are genuinely interested in the tarot and it was not just something they did to do something else ...

The little book provides insight on how the deck came about and the creative process. It also introduces Don Miguel, the tarot reader whose experience and knowledge have been used to provide the spread information.

The deck is focused on the major arcana, but having the whole picture makes it not feel so … lacking ambition as it did at first, and maybe it is my own weakness that I can only read the Rider-Waite-Smith minor arcana. I will invest a bit in my skills and learn the minor arcana without images also.

The Tarot del Toro deck feels nice. It has a good size, the cards are sturdy and shuffle well. They feel like they will last a good while even with habitual use. They can be used for tarot reading especially if you are a more experienced reader and know many of the usual symbols, as the del Toro cards can sometimes be a bit obscure if you are not familiar with del Toro’s work.

The deck is moody and magical with great colors and artistic talent. It is a joy.

I would not recommend it for beginners but it is one for the collection for sure. It can also be used for narrative drawings and mediation. It broadly follows the Rider-Waite-Smith structure, but visually reinterprets many archetypes, you will be able to recognize the The Fool’s journey, major arcana structure and suit correspondences.

It is a deck that has personality that is for sure, and it is not just pretty. It combines the beauty of expression with the darkness of del Toro’s mythical creatures and the magic of tarot symbolism, so I do heartily recommend it.

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When going away from home, one of the important decisions, along what clothes, shoes, documents to take, is what books get to join me on the trip.

We had been planning this trip for some time, so in my mind I was already doing a sorting exercise. Initially I had settled on two impressive tomes of omnibus published works. I had selected them, I was quite pleased with myself and was mentally looking forward to the time I will spend reading them.

But then, looking at them I got this image of me going to the beach or to a bench to read and lugging along the large, and most importantly heavy, books. On vacation I usually just carry around a tiny bag to keep my wallet, my keys and my phone, so if I were to carry the book(s) a backpack would be needed. So no, no, change of plans!

Happily Alina’s library contains books of all sizes, so I pulled out a selection of tiny, but punchy, books. These books, old paperbacks most of them, fit easily in my tiny bag and also can be easily spread out in my luggage if needed. So win-win!

I started reading one of them, Ruth Rendell’s The Keys to the Street, but I found it a bit too dark, so searching something a bit lighter I turned my attention to another one in my travel library, Agatha Christie’s Murder After Hours.

I associate Agatha Christie with entertaining, engaging books, readable and easy going, so when Murder After Hours turned out to be this insightful, wonderfully written, psychological analysis of a group of people and the relationships between them, I was in awe and hooked.

I mean, the chapter where Henrietta speaks about her work as a sculptor and destroys her creation. Mind blowing! So, so beautifully written, it just stuns you and you cannot put it down!

The edition I have, found in an Irish Charity shop, is an edition published in the US in 1976, and it is the book above in the image. I found it annoying and endearing that on the cover they have John dead by a water fountain, while in the book he is killed by the side of a swimming pool. I assume this kind of mistake makes the edition special.

I read the book in one fine swoop and loved every word of it finding so many gems in it. Oh, how I wish I had known Agatha Christie … Anyway maybe in the next life!

My favorite character is Miss Marple, but I also like Poirot’s fastidiousness and obsessive compulsive ways, but in this book he appears in a strange way, like he is a visitor in the book not like one of the characters. His existence is tangential and not central in the book.

I found the answer for that while doing my post read research. I sometimes do that for books that I really like. Seems that Agatha (please let me call her Agatha, I love her so much!) had written the book without Mr. Poirot in it, but the publishers strongly suggested that, for commercial reasons, he should be added. So she did, but you can see, you can feel it, when reading the book that he feels like an afterthought.

When Agatha adapted the novel for stage in 1951 she removed Poirot completely.

The book was written in 1946 and it was published in the UK as The Hollow and for the US market the name was changed to Murder After Hours, as the publishers felt the first title was too difficult to relate to by US audiences.

I much prefer The Hollow, as it has this delicious double ententre, it is indeed the name of the English country house where the main action takes place, but it also is a state of feeling of the characters from beginning to end, they are hollow, and this is the tragedy of existence that drives the drama of the book.

Murder After Hours is Meh!

I looked up if it was adapted for tv and I found it was in 2004 for the Poirot series with David Suchet. Series 9, episode 4. Of course I had to watch it! Happily Netflix has recently added both Poirot and Miss Marple so I can watch and rewatch to my heart’s content!

I watched it last night and they are different, so, so different! I love the book, it has such a wealth of feeling and depth of understanding that could not be translated in the tv adaptation, but I liked the episode. Of course I enjoyed David Suchet’s Poirot, I loved the clothes and the wonderful recreation of the atmosphere, bit it does not come close to the complexity of the book, it couldn’t.

If you are stuck for what to read, I totally recommend this book, it is tiny but by God it packs a powerful punch!

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The sun was shining on the water making it look like quick silver. Adam loved the heat of the sun warming up his skin and the faint breeze caressing his face.

This truly was Paradise.

He listened to the noises surrounding him. People laughing and talking in many different languages, children playing, birds screeching overhead, all accompanied by the constant background noise of the waves crashing on the shore, followed by the sound of the stones hitting each other, as they rolled with the waves back into sea.

‘This is the life!’ Adam whispered to himself inhaling the salty air.

His peace was short-lived though as his stomach started rumbling, and if anything, Adam did not wear hunger well. He tried to bear it for a bit longer to prolong the enjoyment of the beach, but the moment was gone, the peaceful feeling had fled and he could not recapture it.

Adam sat up and dug deep into his backpack for his wallet. Twenty-two euros, that was his entire fortune. His hunger consumed him more when he was faced with his meager resources. It will have to be a loaf of bread and a large bottle of milk, or maybe just the bread so he does not go under twenty euro.

The day suddenly felt overcast and the heat stifling.

Adam got up and walked to a supermarket only five minutes away on the other side of the boardwalk. When he first got here he was fascinated by the fact that you could still see the sea from the grocery aisle, that was top. Now he just felt a pang of hunger thinking of all the food he will have to pass by and not be able to buy.

Paradise can feel oppressive on a hungry stomach.

Adam bought his bread and sat down to eat it on a shaded bench, while watching the well dressed, comfortable tourists passing him by. Many had around their wrists, or on their backpacks, cruise liners bracelets or tags. Adam thought wistfully how wonderful it must be to be in a place where every need you have is met, every whim, fulfilled. Paradise.

Adam could not even imagine how that would feel. His hunger started to subside and he felt a bit better, but still, he had to find a way to improve his financial status. Adam felt so tired, so overwhelmed by the need for money that he found himself hating the fact he needed to work in any way for it. He hated his dependence on money and as he watched an old woman relaxing in a chaise-longue in the large balcony of one of the imposing buildings flanking the boardwalk, Adam felt he hated her too.

She was so old and shriveled, most likely barely had the ability to enjoy that wonderful place, while he was young and vital, he had everything going for him, he could appreciate the world around him. It was him that should be lounging on the balcony with passers by admiring his beauty.

Adam felt he hated the old woman with an intensity he had not known before, and a thought crept into his mind. What if he found himself an old woman like that? Not for sex, don’t be creepy! Just to take care of her, to wheel her around and keep her company. He could do that, couldn’t he? And he could tell people he is her grandson or nephew, or some other relative… and she would be so fond of him, that she would leave him her apartment and a good amount of money, and then, he would be set for life free to enjoy the beach and his Paradise.

His stomach started rumbling again, this time though it felt more like pain than hunger. Adam thought with sadness about his funds. Just as he was getting up, a young woman stepped on the balcony where the old, undeserving one was resting, and put down a large tray filled with fruit and cheese, and maybe what looked like cured meats. Adam did not have time to process the image when, he saw the young woman signalling him over.

For sure this was a mirage, like people seeing water sources in the desert, his imagination was tricking him into seeing what was not there. The young woman though made a sign to him to wait and disappeared inside the apartment. Foolish dreams for foolish people, Adam thought to himself while turning to go and find his destiny.

Destiny though had other plans for Adam that day.

‘Please wait!’

The woman with the tray, well without the tray now, came running after him calling out in English, apparently it was clear he was not Spanish.

Adam turned around dumbfounded. This event was one for the books for sure.

‘Hello …’

‘Hello! My name is Ingrid, my Nanna wants to meet you.’

‘Nanna?’ it was the only thing he could think to say.

‘My grandmother. The old lady on the balcony.’ and she pointed to the balcony where now the old woman was half sitting up watching the encounter.

‘She would like to invite you to lunch, it seems you remind her of a young boyfriend she had before marrying my grandfather. She said she is one hundred percent you are Irish. And you are!’ her voice was amused and friendly.

‘That I am …’ Adam’s stomach grumbled loudly as if attempting to make up his mind.

‘What do I have to lose?’ he shrugged and made a gesture signalling he will follow her.

On the way up he was informed they were from New York, but Nanna traveled the world and always had liked it here so now, in her old age, would favor coming here as much as possible. Ingrid herself was recovering from a very messy divorce and had sworn off men, she needed time to find out who she was now, so she spent her days reading and walking with her grandmother.

Adam felt like he was in somebody else’s reality and was just along for the ride. The apartment turned out to be spectacular, something that you only saw in magazines, and the balcony was more of a terrace, but the way it was built fooled the passers by looking up from the street.

‘Nanna, here he is! You were right, he is Irish! I owe you an ice cream!’

The old woman turned to greet them and smiled broadly showing a perfect set of bought teeth.

‘Eveline.’ she put our her hand in a well practiced move.

‘Adam.’ he imitated her, and was fascinated to see that although she was very old the air about her was of a young person, even very young he would say. Her eyes, the tone of her voice, the focus with which she looked at him, she emanated confidence and peace.

‘Eat please, we can chat after during coffee, anything else you want let us know and the cook can prepare it for you.’

Adam looked back into the depths of the apartment and thought that somewhere there was a cook that took personal orders, but he did not need all that, the food in front of him was more than enough. Adam ate and Eveline picked at some grapes watching the water and the people on the beach. Ingrid had disappeared somewhere in the shadows of the room behind them.

‘This was … beyond words … thank you!’ Adam was happy, he felt like somebody up there loved him and took care of him putting in his way such a feast at the time he needed it most. He felt ashamed inside of the bad thoughts he had fostered about her before. He reconciled his feelings telling himself it was the hunger.

‘I am happy you enjoyed it! We will have cook prepare a little box for you for later. Ingrid?’ Eveline spoke the words in her normal soft tone, but somehow Ingrid still heard her and popped up in the frame of the sliding doors like an apparition.

‘Of course!’ without a word she took away the dishes and came back with two steaming cups of coffee.

‘I find coffee is best hot, even in warm places. Do you like coffee Adam?’

He was so relaxed now that he could have shared anything with her.

‘Yes, I actually really do! Where I am from, Mountmellick in Ireland, there is this small coffee shop that makes the best coffee in the world … and amazing scones.’

For the first time ever Adam felt like he missed his small town and its’ wet weather.

‘Such a funny name, Mountmellick …’

‘Yeah in Irish it is Móinteach Mílic it means the land by the river, or bog by the river … and God knows we get flooded enough times… .’ and he laughed in a strange way remembering fondly the crappy days of floods and of endless cleaning.

‘That sounds tough!’ Eveline was prompting information out of him without asking any question.

‘Yeah … it is, but the people come together in a way difficult to understand, and you feel part of this huge crowd and they bring out the best in you and you want to be better for them …’

Adam entertained Eveline with stories about his family, his town, his church and while he talked an overarching feeling of longing grew inside him. He felt the need to go home, but it was something so powerful and organic that it totally took him by surprise. He never much gave a lot of thought of the place he was from, and now he found himself desperate to go there.

Eveline understood. They had dinner, the three of them this time, and as it turned out Eveline needed a bit of painting done in the apartment. Like any true Irish man Adam was adept at anything, or at least open to give it a go, so he got the job on the spot.

As soon as he got paid Adam bought a plane ticket home, and, before leaving, he invited Eveline and Ingrid to visit. He knew his mom will forever be grateful to the people that took care of him and supported him to go home.

When he got off the plane and felt the cold Irish air welcome him his heart bounced with joy.

Sometimes Paradise is a wet, cold place.

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Everywhere I go I visit a bookshop. Not because I need books, cause I have plenty, but just to be in their company, to browse, to see what is there. Inevitably I always buy something.

This week I had the good fortune to visit a Spanish book store called Casa Del Libro. I browsed and I browsed testing my better half’s patience who was waiting for me, and then finally I was ready to go pay.

On my way to the cashier I pass by a table set up with books and from behind a woman quickly gets up and asks me if I read. My Spanish is not great but it is understandable. Usually I do not engage with people asking me random things but in a book store I always tend to be easier to approach.

The woman was clearly a bit out of her comfort zone but was doing her best. I told her I do read, she asked me what, I tried to explain my varied interests with my limited words and she lights up picking up a book from the table.

That is when I understand it is her book.

She confirms it when I ask her and she points to the others on the table telling me they are also hers.

As you can imagine I am a big supporter of struggling writers and I really felt for her, sitting all alone at the table covered in her books, with potential readers passing her by without giving her the time of day.

I said I will buy the book and determined she proceeded to sign it for me. I spelled out my name a few times, but I saw that when she wrote it is was incorrect.

I told her and she wanted to replace the book, ‘No, no!’ I protested, ‘I like the error.’ I wrote my name on a small notebook she had and then she proceeded to continue on the same book. The image attached to the post is the dedication she wrote.

The little palm is a stamp she put and I chose from a collection of stamps which she told me her readers send her. When she stamped the book the ink got on her hand and she smudged the book sign that she wanted to give me. I said it is fine, I do not mind, but she insisted to replace it.

She laughed at her mistakes and me, being cheeky, I said ‘I hope at least the book is good!’, she laughed, phew, some people might not have found that funny. I thanked her and went away.

I went to the cashier and I paid. On my way out I passed her again. She told me she will remember me.

Outside I told him about it.

‘Nice, you should write about it and tag her!’

Sadly, she confessed that she only has Instagram and I do not, so I cannot tag her, but who knows, maybe some day Laura Delgado will have a Substack and somebody will show her my post.

I leafed through her book but did not read it. I will try it though.

I really do hope it is good!

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The vastness of the factory floor never ceased to fascinate him. He could not see where it ended, it just blended into a man made, steel horizon. The space was so wide and tall that it literally felt like the whole world was contained within.

There were no windows and large lights, hanging from thick plastic cords provided a strong, white light that illuminated even the lowest corners. The lights were continuously on so the space had the same look no matter at what time you started your shift.

Jimmy’s shift was usually from 2pm to 10pm, but now, with the new baby on the way they needed every cent, so when the chance of a night shift came along he jumped at it. How hard can it be? And the money does add up even with the high Irish tax percentage.

He was fascinated to see the factory during the night looked just the same as it did during the day. The people were different though and this was what proved to be most difficult for Jimmy.

The night shift workers were like a different tribe compared to the day shift ones. It felt like a rougher world, people hardened by the harshness of their lives, focused on amassing resources without finding any pleasure in their activity.

Jimmy tried in the first few days to create a bond, to get to know them, but their unresponsiveness was so resounding that he withdrew in himself and just focused on why he was there, why he was making this effort, and the benefits his family would gain from his sacrifice.

Time went by, hours blended into each other’s similarity melting into the sleepless nights and forgettable days.

Jimmy worked hard and when the paycheck came he felt like his work was rewarded. The money was indeed good on the night shift.

What Jimmy found though was that things had started to feel a bit different at home. He almost never saw his wife. They passed each other at the corners of their reality and all their interactions were transactional.

‘Did you do this? Did you pick that?’

Even his wife seemed to look different. Not bad different, just like a different person than his wife. Sometimes when he passed her in the house he had this split second puzzling feeling that he did not know who she was.

Also, he missed his children. He missed their hugs, their noise, their need for attention.

It was not long before Jimmy started to have the same shaded look as his night shift co-workers. At home it was like his family lived in a different dimension, and he started to feel like a bachelor again. The weekends he spent locked in his shed working on little metal pieces under a powerful LED lamp.

Life had changed so much in such a short time that Jimmy’s mind still had not had time to catch up and it refused to adapt to this new bleak reality, as a consequence it kept bringing elements from the before world to Jimmy’s dark days.

The mind was so powerful that sometimes, in the factory, Jimmy thought he saw his children play on the floor, skipping rope or playing ball.

Another time he was sure his wife was standing next to him chopping vegetables for dinner and talking away about God knows what, not needing an answer just wanting to feel the connection to him.

One night he was working away, more machine than man, and he felt a cold draft surrounding him. When he looked up his wife was standing next to him, as beautiful as ever. Her eyes were filled with tears as she took his face into her cold hands and looked at him intently.

‘I came to say good bye my love!’

Jimmy was sure he was hallucinating and shook his head to will the vision away. With tears running down her face she turned and floated away meting in the brightness of the steel horizon.

‘Jimmy! The hospital called, your wife is in labor!’

His stomach turned! No!

Jimmy ran as fast as he could, jumped in his car and with no recollection of how he got there he found himself in the hospital yelling like crazy, looking for his wife.

While he was looking for her he could swear he saw her standing in the middle of a corridor, watching him, smiling at him in a pleased, whimsical way.

They told him to wait, she was in surgery, it turned out she was pregnant with twins although one never showed on the scans because his position in the womb was very awkward.

Jimmy hurt as he never thought it is possible to hurt. They needed to be ok, without them there was no him and nothing else mattered. The scare he felt in that moment would guide his actions for the rest of his life, and even just a faint memory of it would make him throw up and hyperventilate, so he tried to bury it deep in himself under many moments spent with them.

He was lucky, he was so lucky and all the wealth he needed was right there.

‘Are you sure we will be ok? We have twins … no idea how we will make ends meet!’, she was looking at him in a pleased, whimsical way.

‘I am sure we will find a way, there is no other option!’

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I was staring at my blank page tossing around in my head all sorts of ideas for a story/post. As usual, none was good enough.

Because today is a day I proposed myself to write something on my Substack, I cannot not write something, so the tossing around continued till I was about to give up.

No good ideas presented themselves.

Stuck, I decided to ask help from my tarot. I decided that I will draw 3 cards and create a story based on them, and funny enough, the cards I drew work great to create a story.

While choosing the cards I said that the first card is someone, a character, who meets the second card, while the third card is the outcome.

The cards I drew:

The judgement, the five of swords and the ten of cups.

The image above is the cards themselves, it is a French deck that is why it says Le Jugement. Don’t judge!

The story I created based on them:

Billy’s Story

Did you ever feel like a visitor in your own life? Like no matter how much you try, how much you work at it, nothing really belongs to you or is a reflection of you?

This is how Billy felt as he was going down the stairs in his office building.

At forty-eight he felt too old for his own activities and he had started to pretend like he was doing things.

For example, when he was supposed to be at the gym, he would actually go in the park, or the shopping centre, depending on the weather, and he would just waste time. He would linger on benches, he would look at the people, he would just will time away as he felt too tired and old to live.

Billy could not remember when he had started to feel like this, when his energy and his drive had started to slowly drain away. What he did know though was that, his days were all the same and he just could not stand them.

What was he to do though? He was too old for anything new, and honestly, he did not think he had it in him to learn anything new.

Outside it was raining. He was not surprised, it had been raining incessantly for more than two weeks. The streets were flooded, the news only talked about floods and more incoming rain.

There was a point when even Ireland felt the rain was a bit too much.

In the past Billy had loved food and one of his favorite activities was planning dinner and cooking it. Now though he did not even like that, to work for I don’t know how much time for food that he ate in ten minutes. So not worth the effort.

Billy was so deep in thought that he did not notice the slim figure peel itself from a wall and come right behind him.

‘Your phone and your wallet.’

Billy was more surprised than anything else. Did he hear right? He turned around.

‘What?’

In the wet darkness, with rain falling, he couldn’t see the face of the man holding a long blade pointed at him.

‘Your money, your phone!’

‘Ohhh’

Without thinking, without conscious intention, Billy grabbed the man’s wrist turned him around and with his tight grip forced him to drop the blade while suffocating him with his arm.

‘Let me go, what are you??’ the man muttered while trying to breathe.

Billy would not have known to answer. He shoved the man forward and stepped onto the shinning blade.

The man did not wait around to see what was going to happen next, he just ran away without looking back.

Billy was left there a bit wobbly and shaken.

‘Are you ok? I called the Gardai! My God, you were so brave!’

He looked at her but did not seem able to recognize her.

‘Billy, can you hear me? Its me, Muireann from HR.’

‘Oh yes … thank you! I am fine …’ he was not, but bit by bit he was coming back to himself.

‘Where did you learn that? You were like a ninja!’

That made him smile, and he looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time.

‘I honestly don’t know … I did some judo when I was a child but it was just like four or five lessons, I cannot believe I still remember that!’

‘Well, you looked like a pro to me! You need to teach me that!’

He laughed for the first time in a long time. Him, a judo instructor? Now that was just ridiculous.

The Gardai took his statement, they took her statement, they took the blade away and that was it. The event that changed his life was nothing but ‘sadly, a usual occurrence’.

The next day in work everybody knew what happened, Muireann had taken care of that. All the excitement made Billy actually think more about where that knowledge he did not know he had came from.

In the next weeks he kept researching judo and finally found the courage to join a class. At the end of it he was tired and exhilarated. He had found something he loved.

Muireann wasn’t joking. She kept at it until they setup a judo class in the work gym where he taught his colleagues some simple self defense moves. Their appreciation, and the fact that they looked up to him for something he did well, made Billy unexpectedly happy.

He honestly had no idea other people mattered to him that much.

Go figure.

So yeah … this is the story that tarot gave us!

I really hope you like it!

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She took a deep breath trying to control her anger. Ever since she was a little girl she was prone to these irrational anger bursts, which, she felt, were uncontrollable and out of her reach.

As much as she tried, Dottie could never get on top of those episodes, and she would just surrender to them lashing out, breaking things, and often, saying very hurtful things.

Once they passed she would be so sorry, she would cry and would apologize ‘Dottie just went a bit … dotty! You know I did not mean it! It is part of my charm …’, but as it turned out, her anger was not that charming and all her partners bid her farewell, in nicer or harsher terms, and Dottie found herself an angry, lonely, middle aged woman.

As time went by Dottie found that she was not consumed just by anger, but also by something similar to hatred. All the people around her seemed to have everything she did not. They were the lucky ones with good lives, people that loved them, they did not have any ‘issues’, as she did apparently.

She disliked all of them deeply. Them and their perfect little lives. As a consequence she avoided them as much as she could. Christmases were spent shut in the house with the curtains drawn watching reruns of old shows. Dottie just could not face all the glitz and joy that seemed to be floating around.

The only good thing was that on Christmas day the parks were deserted as all the people were at home stuffing their faces.

On such a day, bright and cold, Dottie went out to enjoy a bit of fresh air before the madness that would come on Stephen’s day, when all of them would go out prancing around, showing off their presents, adorned themselves as human Christmas trees.

The grass was crunching under her feet and the cold air felt nice against her face. A perfect, frozen, desolate world.

Then a loud barking could be heard getting closer and closer. Before Dottie had time to process what was happening, an extremely fast dog came running towards her and stopped right next to her, for some strange reason deciding to hide behind her.

Next on the scene was this very tall, very athletic young woman also running towards Dottie.

Unsure of what to do, Dottie sat there without moving, with the dog hiding behind her legs.

The young woman reached them and stopped in front of Dottie as relaxed as if she had just walked very slowly. Dottie could not help but dislike her stamina and vigour.

‘Hello!’

She sounded just as she looked, upbeat and bright.

Dottie just continued to look at her without saying anything.

‘I can see you there, you little monster!’ and she extended her neck to see behind Dottie.

‘He is such a messer! Border Collies, honestly I don’t know why people think they can have them as a pet in an apartment. That is from where he came to us.’ She pointed to her coat and Dottie saw that it had the name of a dog rescue charity on it.

‘Sadly, most likely he will have to be with us for a long time, he is now a strange hybrid between a working, obsessed, normal Border Collie and a dog used to living inside a cozy home.’

‘Come on Bunny, stop messing!’

‘His name is Bunny?’ Dottie could not resist but smile, the woolly, muddy dog looked nothing like a bunny.

‘Yeah, funny right? I think it was a little girl that named him when he was a puppy, and then the name just went on, although now he is more like a devil than anything else.’

Dottie turned around and looked at the dog sitting comfortably, leaning against her legs. He looked up and she felt like melting faced with such kindness and honesty.

‘Can I walk with you?’ Dottie asked before having time to change her mind.

The young woman agreed able to recognize the instant connection between the two.

‘Let’s go Bunny!’ as Dottie started to walk the dog shot again running around the park, scaring birds and rounding up leaves.

This was to be just the first time in many when they all walked around the park. Fiona, as the young woman was called, taught Dottie how to communicate with Bunny, and most important, how to make Bunny listen to her.

Bunny was a wild character, very intense, sharp and in need of a purpose. Bunny would be obsession prone and Dottie had to learn how to snap him out of it, she would softly whisper to him ‘Center, center!’ and change his focus on something else, giving him time to recover.

Dottie found it amusing that, while she was learning to control Bunny, she was also, in a way, learning to control herself. Now, often when she went out shopping, or in the street and somebody angered her, she would think at Bunny and would softly whisper to herself ‘Center, center!’, and that would do the trick helping her recover and not blow up.

As it was to be expected Bunny became her dog and she became his person. The first day in the house was chaos, but good chaos, and then bit by bit they both got centered and found their rhythm together.

Weirdly enough, Dottie found that now her anger outbursts had become very rare, and even then, they were quite mild compared to … well, the ones she did not want to remember.

And Bunny, well, he was still a major messer, but that was part of his charm!

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‘Hello Gramps, where are you?’ Olivia called as she let herself in the old house, and her first thought was that a window needed to be opened.

The house smelled like it had not been aired in a long time, a mix of cooking smells, dust, faint mold, and her grandmother’s magnolia perfume.

‘Coming!’

She heard the loo on the upstairs landing being flushed and then her grandmother’s feet shuffling above her.

Olivia went into the kitchen to unpack the groceries she had brought with her.

Although small, the kitchen was bright and welcoming. Her grandmother was not the tidiest of people, but she did keep the kitchen free of plates and leftovers, so Olivia was pleased to see how it looked.

It was a mystery to Olivia how her mother was her grandmother’s daughter. They were so different! Her grandmother was disorganized and not very trustworthy, while her mother had led her household with the determination of an army general, but maybe it had to with having four children to bring up, a full time job and a husband that was a useless dear.

‘I brought you smoked salmon, eggs, ice cream and tea. That is what you were missing right?’ Olivia had quite naturally developed the same organized manner her mother had.

‘Hello lovely!’ Her grandmother gave her a huge hug and a sloppy kiss.

‘Hello granny!’ Love and warmth enveloped them like an invisible cloud.

‘No fruit?’ The older woman asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

Olivia laughed at their inner joke, a game they played for years, just the two of them for their own pleasure. She dug in the shopping bag and pulled out a plastic container full of yellowish grapes.

‘Do I ever?’ and they giggled.

‘Come let’s have tea in the living room, I want to chat to you about something.’ and she was off.

Olivia made the tea and carried it over to her grandmother now all sat in her chair surrounded by way too many cushions, some in the shape of plush animals.

The living room was not large, but what made it outstanding was the fact that all the walls, except for the one with the window, were covered in bookshelves filled with many, many books, some in a few rows, some stacked in front of the rows. It was really a large library in a very small room, with her grandmother at its center.

Of course, there was a TV in there with books framing it like an unusual art installation.

‘Tea!’ Viola, the grandmother, rubbed her hands in happy expectation.

‘You make the best tea Livy!’ Olivia blushed at the compliment and sat on a small armchair next to her grandmother.

‘What did you want to chat about?’ She asked after serving the tea and taking a sip of the hot, comforting liquid.

‘My books!’ And she made a fanning gesture towards the shelves surrounding them.

Olivia almost chocked, she was not ready for that.

‘Your books? What about them?’ She hoped it was about new shelves or something like that, and not about what she thought it might be.

‘Come on! Don't freak out, I am an old woman, it is normal to think about things!’ Sometimes Viola’s tone took her granddaughter completely by surprise, now she was talking like an Italian New Yorker and that made her smile.

‘Ok, not freaking out! Your books … what about them!’

‘Please don’t throw them away … when you know … I go …’

‘Oh granny, please, you’re killing me …’ Olivia felt tears gathering in the back of her eyes. She could not think of a day when her grandmother would not be there for tea, she felt nauseated and put her cup down.

‘No just listen, just this. I cannot bear the thought they will be thrown away, please keep the more valuable ones, I will sort them out, and give to charity the rest. Maybe somebody will still read them … can you please promise me that?’ The old woman had her younger version locked in her gaze.

‘Oh granny, you are killing me! Of course I will mind your books! I might even read some!’ And she gave a faint chuckle.

‘Thank you so much Livy, that means so much! I was thinking about starting to take them to the charity shops myself, one bag at a time, but when it came down to it I just could not part with any … ‘ And she let out a relieved although somewhat sad sigh.

‘No worries granny, and if you want we can start going through them, sorting them out … dare I say even dust them, to make sure I take care of them as you want me to.’

‘Really?’ The old woman’s eyes instantly were covered in tears. ‘That would be so amazing Livy, I would love to go through them with you!’ She now sounded like a happy little girl.

‘No worries gramps!’ Olivia felt so much joy at seeing her grandmother so happy.

‘You know, I read young people are going back to books, maybe we can sell some to them, no?

‘For sure!’

Olivia looked at the shelves again, not as clutter this time, but as something alive.

‘We’ve got this granny!’ and she took the old woman’s hand in hers, wishing that moment would last forever.

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