Cage Dunn's Blog, page 68

A Short Story – Friday Night

This one from Cats N Dogs (copyright Cage Dunn 2017), stories of our constant companions.

Friday Night

The traffic was snarled so far back from Caro’s turn-off she was tempted to drive along the emergency lane to get out. She was already so late, maybe even too late. Had to get there; had to pick up the order tonight. Before she went home. Couldn’t let them down. Not again.

It was the ritual. They paid a high price in exchange for that one little thing that was their special treat.

Caro worked two full-time jobs and two part-time jobs. She’d managed to get a loan – interest only – and bought the run-down beach shack. Now all she had to do was earn enough in the year she had to pay it out before the loan conditions changed – and she would pay it in full – after that it could be a normal life. In the meantime …

The house, their home, was a long way from where the jobs where. She drove to the city each day and worked the first job, five days a week, from zero one hundred to zero eight hundred – the cleaning job in banks and offices that required full security clearances but didn’t give her another body to be there with, and she spent a lot of time checking her back – and the second job went from zero nine hundred to eighteen hundred hours – also five days a week. As a personnel officer. The person who found jobs for everyone else.

That’s how she found the two part-time jobs for the weekends – no one wanted to work those hours, in that job, or on the weekends. So she spent twelve hours every Saturday and Sunday making offal and other stuff into dog food and kibble. And she tried to get rid of that smell for most of Sunday night, but at the end of the Monday cleaning shift, she’d always end up at the sauna in the gym next to the Lakeside Hotel.

She couldn’t smell it on her clothes anymore, but sometimes she caught people’s looks as they sniffed when she went past. It didn’t matter – at the end of the twelve months, she’d have her home, she’d own it, on her own, without help from anyone.

Except …

The jobs in the city were a long way from home, but the pay was good and she was in front of the game. What it meant was that she spent too much time away and not enough at home, and they spent too much time at home and not enough with her.

And Friday night was their highlight; their time for the goodies, for the close attention and affection and treats. The only night they had the whole night together.

If the traffic didn’t clear soon, Bob would close up, she wouldn’t get the order, and she’d have to go home to ‘the look’ that would break her heart. The abject disappointment.

It was guilt, and they manipulated Caro mercilessly, and she knew it, but they missed out on so much and all because she had a desperate need to have a roof over her head no one could take away from her. It might be a bit rough, an old shack in some eyes, and there’d be repairs and maintenance that would keep her busy for ten or more years – maybe fifteen, if she didn’t cut her hours as soon as she paid it out – but it would be hers.

Well, hers and theirs. They were part of it, too, weren’t they?

The traffic moved ahead; slow, slow, too slow – not even a full car length. She checked the time. Five minutes! She’d have to take the chance – pulled into the emergency lane and rumbled slowly – doing a little ‘roo hop every now and then for good measure; in case anyone might think she was cheating. The wheels turned onto the off-ramp and the foot went down on the accelerator.

The swirling blue light flashed in her rear-vision mirror. No! She pulled the choke out full so the engine sputtered and smoked; she gave it a chance to shudder, then pulled over.

It was all over, and now she’d have a fine to pay as well; maybe even some demerit points. Her hand hovered over the ignition – no, don’t turn it off; let them see she had a genuine problem; tell them she’d never get it started again. The value of an old car was in the games it could play.

The burly black-haired cop at the window smiled at her as she wound down the window.

“Bit late tonight, Caro?”

His face was so familiar.

“Um, do I know you?”

“Rick, Bob’s brother – you know Bob, don’t you? He rang to see where you were so he could get home to see his family sometime before midnight. I told him about this,” he pointed back at the freeway traffic jam.

Caro felt a little sick. The games were well known to Bob, so would Rick …?

“He gave me the steaks,” he lifted his other hand into full view, the one with the hefty package wrapped in white paper, “to save you time.”

The big grin showed bright white teeth and the dimple on the right cheek only. Definitely one of Bob’s mob.

“Am I in trouble?” she asked.

“For that little thing?” Rick rolled his neck. “I could do something about it, but I know what you go through, so – not tonight, Caro. Tonight, you get to go home to your family just like Bob will.” He waved as he walked back to the cruiser.

The air that huffed out of her chest almost moved the van on its own, but she let the choke back in and waited until the blue and white was gone before she guided it out.

The package of white paper sat on the seat next to her. At least now she could go straight home and not have to make the long detour to the main-street shops.

 

She dragged her two work bags out, flung them over her shoulder, gripped the paper package carefully against her chest and walked down the dark driveway to her front door. The noise inside meant they knew she was here. The dog barked as she stepped in.

The work bags fell to the floor just inside the door, the package of white paper landed on the island bench and she stepped up to unwrap it while they both watched.

Rapt attention as she opened one edge, then the other, then slid it fully open.

Tass, the bearded collie, with his big hair tail lashing like an air broom, and Mister, the almost-all-white cat, calm on the outside, with his tail lashed tight around his impatient body, green eyes flashing.

The first steak went to the cat, of course. Mister dragged it directly in front of Tass and sat down with it on the mat by the back door.

Tass waited, hopping from one foot to the other while he sat there and waited for his.

Caro dropped the steak onto the floor between his feet. The big grin she got before he dived on it and carried it out the dog-door – right in front of the cat – to the back veranda made it all worthwhile.

She’d come through on the Friday night Steak promise. Just.

 

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Still working on Not on the Cards – final stretch; due for release end Feb/early March (fingers crossed). If you want to be a beta reader or a ‘first’ reader, let me know. Two spaces available still.

The 80/20 Rule

Otherwise called the Pareto principle, and it means that roughly 80% of the effects [of something] comes from 20% of the causes.

A bit like the iceberg principle, but which means something slightly different: show only the tip of the iceberg (Hemingway style) to get to the depth of meaning.

In other words, use a little to say a lot. Downplay the words in the right area, at the right time, to get the most powerful effect.

And just how do writers do that? Just cut and slice and kill off their darlings? Yep. After the new version is created, of course, and the old one, with all the darlings, is safely tucked away in the ‘prev versions’ folder.

It’s almost against the grain, and even the principle of ‘Show, don’t Tell’ but not quite. Because for Show, it means show the pieces you really want to get the reader involved with. Show the sensory details of the actions to deliver tension and emotion, to get the reader involved and responding on a visceral level.

And to make sure the reader can breathe occasionally, do the tell moments when the closeness, the visceral element, isn’t needed to move the story forward. She walked ten miles through the snow that day will tell you how far she went, and because nothing much happens (except the reader gets a sense of a hard slog, and she’ll be tired) we don’t have to show each step. It’s not required for good reading.

On the other hand, if someone’s chasing the character across the snow, we’d want to show that, every step as she struggled to breathe and cross-ski up the slope (research point: what’s the proper term for this?), as she brushed ice and snow from her lips and eyelids to make sure she’d see even a single dark patch of menace before it got too close. We’d want to know where she was aiming, run to for safe haven. We’d want to be ‘in her skin’ and running with her, giving her energy, pushing her to bigger effort. We want to feel her fear, her desperation, her aching ankles and knees, the clench in her gut when she hears the crunch of snow from behind the low bank.

We would, wouldn’t we? And specifically to find the points where we needed to do research to find the right word to do the job. Note the lack of plural.

And finally, it brings us back to where we started. It takes courage to put your work out for the world to see, it takes courage to test your skill against the needs of a reader. So, as writers, we research. Some writers do a LOT of research, and because they know ALL ABOUT what they’ve researched, they put more into the story than needed.

The most important thing about either of the principles at the beginning is to MAKE SURE you don’t put stuff in that doesn’t move the story (or the reader) in some way. The reader is an intelligent creature; has an understanding of things, and if one feels as if they’re being spoken down to, taught a lesson, or being bogged down/drowned in minutiae – what do you think they’ll do?

What would you do? I do it, too. I put the book down. A DNF because the writer forgot about the movement of the story in favour of the brilliance of their research.

Don’t do it. Don’t crush your story to death with the details it doesn’t need. It doesn’t take a Hemingway style to do this, it doesn’t have to be sparse and minimal, it just has to be enough to connect the reader to the story in such a way that they can’t, or are afraid to, let go of it until they find out what’s going to happen next.

End of lecture (as my kids would say).

Yes, still wheeling away. Limited access to composter/techy stuff, but I’m still here, still doing what I can when I can, and there’s a slight chance, a tiny little ray of hope that says ‘On The Cards’ or another novel by a similar Title, will be out in Feb/March.

Wait and see.

 

Trouble

Yes, I tried it, and guess what?

the Story Reading Ape Blog noticed it too.

Gremlins in the system.

And you got two posts about the same thing, so here is something different, and it won’t be reblogged, but if there’s anyone who wants to FB the Smorgasbord post, or this one, be my guest.

I knew I was a storyteller ….

When I was a child

A very young child

I had many siblings

Some were afraid of the dark

Some liked to listen to the dreams of far, far away

All liked to know

Someone was there

To make the darkness into light

Make the monsters be friendly

Give them dreams of a tomorrow

Where they could be wise

Or wealthy

Or famous

I would tell them the stories

Make them up

Take other people’s stories

Make them our own

Whisper them quietly

Speak them loudly

Sing them badly

I did not write these stories down

But I was the storyteller

And they will all tell you

The story

Of their own word weaver.

__________

And I hope the reblog feature returns one day … soon.

 

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The Writer Hard at Work

 

We are storytellers and whichever medium we choose to demonstrate that does not matter

via Smorgasbord Blog Sitting Special – Who are you? by author Cage Dunn

6 books available to purchase

Check it out – if you’re in Australia – this is cheap!

RKCAPPSCOM

I have 6 paperbacks of my book, Spades of Determination, that just arrived.

For anyone having trouble with Amazon, is anyone interested in buying from me? And as a thank you for your support, I’ll pay the postage? They’re $20.

Personal Message me your address. I’m sorry, first in first served but I’ll order more once these are gone. Promise.

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Who are you?

Thanks to Sally at https://smorgasbordinvitation.wordpress.com/2018/02/12/smorgasbord-blog-sitting-specials-the-menu-and-contributors-february-15th-20th/ for the invitation to contribute to her site while she’s away for a short while.

I hope you enjoy this little snippet from my life as a writer.

Cage Dunn: Writer, Author, Teller-of-tall-tales

Well, I’ve just started on my one and only coffee for the day, and … realised just how difficult things can be before that moment. Coffee doesn’t save me, it doesn’t perk me, it doesn’t actually do anything, but the day will not kick into gear without it. I’m not a junky. It’s only one. But it has to be at the right time. This time, or everthing goes off-key for the rest of the day.

And that’s not how I want it to be. It can’t be. I have a job that defines how I see myself, who I am. I need to find inspiration at ‘this’ time every day. It’s my job. An important job.

Not a paying job. Not earning enough to pay tax. But it’s my full-time professional output based on years of experience and learning and continual updating of skills.

What do I do?

I…

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Struggles and Strife

Many times I’ve tried to simplify my life, clean up, live with a small footprint, do what I can to help others when they need it. And I do it. I live lean. I don’t own much. I garden for most of my food. But there’s one thing.

Books.

The last time we moved the container turned up on the back of the truck and contained – nothing! What do you think was the first words out of my mouth? Did it have to do with clothes (no, they were second, because I had an interview the next day!)? Or electricals? Furniture? Other stuff?

No. It was ‘My books!’

It didn’t mean just the books you find on shelves, although I lost most of the fiction and gardening books as well. It was the journals, the notebooks, the pads and printouts that had all my story notes. That’s what I meant. My books, as in my future, soon-to-be books, based on the notes and scribbles and stored characters that were once packed into that container.

I didn’t even care that I had to borrow the tiniest TV you’ve ever seen until the insurance came through, or that I had to sleep on the floor (it did have carpet, but was a bit scratchy), or that the huge cat-scratching post was replaced with the current carpet and my leg.

No. I only cared about the little bits of stories that were now consigned to … somewhere other than where they belonged.

It was a big moment (after I got over the bit of cranky temper tantrum and other stuff – I mean, who would want to steal our stuff?). I realised what was truly important in my life.

Why? Why put so much of my breathing and effort into telling stories?

Because there’s a lot in my life I’d like to share. Not in the honest, this really happened way, but in the way it’s been done through the eons – through story. I used stories with my foster kids (by the time they left, they could pick the salient points as soon as I spoke them – lesson well taken), I used stories with my employers (good code tells a story in a very specific direction, routes all mapped out), with my family (don’t tell me you’ve never omitted or added a bit of this and that to make the story more amenable to the audience), and so on.

We are creatures of story.

As an aside, I’m very glad we couldn’t get insurance on some of our book collections (they are irreplaceable now) because we packed them up in the car and trailer and brought them ourselves (it was summer, so no risk of rain). We still have those books. They have their own room. That room has one small desk, one chair, two trunks (yes, full of paper products that look a lot like words are printed on them), and four large bookshelves, and one half-sized that fits under the window. Filled to capacity. And on the tops. And books crept into the spaces between all these other things. Into the BIW (built-in-wardrobe). Into containers with lids that have something to separate the book from the plastic (see?). The desk cracked at one point, so a few books were removed to other storage locations.

Not one book goes on the floor. None are mishandled. They are pieces of a person’s soul, told in words of story (whether wholly factual or slightly embellished or any other form of misappropriation of the facts/evidence/truth – or even the fully unvarnished perception of the journey) so the story can be shared.

I value that more than any other thing in this world. A person’s story.

And now that I’ve said all that, I want to lead you to a person’s story that is worth reading.

RK Capps, Spades of Determination, a Locked in Journey.

Have a look at her story.

Yes, still basically out of action, but … you know … can’t help myself, had to do a few words. Maybe next week I’ll even be able to read all the peeps I follow. I hope so. Whatever happens, I’ll be back!

Scene 4

For the earlier scenes: Scene 1, Scene 2, Scene 3.

Scene 4: Not On the Cards

The crowds in the market were beginning to thin. Most of the stalls were in the process of closing up. Time was running out. Chiri leapt up onto the box to search for him.

Two tall people — no, they were arm-in-arm — where was he? Where?

She scanned each of the five ways, each of the patterns of movement until she saw him. The aura. That was what she should’ve looked for. It was so different. So hot and dark. Not like anything else on … this … plane.

She’d think about that later, but first she had to stop him, test him, find out what he really knew.

The dog-groomer waved and smiled as Chiri jogged past. She waved back, blew a kiss. The woman Chiri affectionately called Amazon rolled her shoulders back, grinned as she mouthed the words ‘tease’ and pushed the padlock closed on the grillwork. The only woman who was in more than a few of Chiri’s constant stream of Saturday’s. Bruno and Amazon were almost constants. And Amazon wasn’t old. If Chiri was old and Amazon wasn’t, there was definitely something wrong with this time-line. And Amazon recognised her, so Chiri couldn’t be old. Couldn’t.

The problem had to be with him, not her.

The jeweller’s shop window next door to the grooming salon shimmered. A bell-sound, a wobble of audio-waves. Chiri turned to look — knew immediately she shouldn’t have. The window changed, became a pale, milky topaz before it cleared to a scene where two people argued — silently, there was no sound in the vision — before the man pushed at the woman, and the woman slid backwards, toppled, screamed — silently — as she fell backwards over a cliff with the dark blue ocean behind her. The man didn’t move. Didn’t step forward to offer a hand. He watched her fall. He turned around. Walked away.

Chiri smacked her head, dragged her eyes away. It was a past event. It had to be. If it was a future event, or even a present event, the colours would be different. She’d see the aura first, then the person. A past event. It meant he got away with it. It meant he still thought about it. It meant he felt it, every time he got in a car, every time he saw the ocean, every time a woman looked at him.

This was not the time to try to right a wrong. This was the time for her to find her own Way. She just needed him. And his key. Where was he? She’d lost sight of him and was too short to see over the heads of the milling crowd of last-minute bargain-hunters.

She leapt up onto the tall bin next to the laneway, covered her eyes with one hand while the other held her steady with a tight grip on the post. It was as high as she dared go to avoid being booted out of the timeline.

There! He’d changed direction. She leapt off and ran.

By the time she caught up with him, Chiri was breathless. His look didn’t make the task any easier. But at least he stopped, stiff-backed and scowling as he looked down on her.

“You have to listen to me. I have a daughter. You have a daughter. She’s trapped. In the doorway. When she was born. Trapped. You. The key. Need to find her. Soon.” She leaned her hands on her knees while she tried to get her breath back. “Please,” she said. “Just a few minutes, and then I won’t bother you again.”

His rigid posture said it all.

“I am not what I appear to be. I am not who you see me as.”

His eyes glazed over. This was going badly.

“I can prove Saffo exists. I can prove she’s your child. Come back in two hours and I’ll show you the rotational symmetry of the when we are, and if you don’t know what it is, if you can’t see it for yourself … Well, I can only let you go then. And I promise — you’ll never see me again. Not on any level, any plane, any time.” She stared at his eyes, waited for the tell-tale flash.

It didn’t come.

“Okay,” he slumped one shoulder and turned away. “I’ll hold you to your word, charlatan. I’ll see what you can show me, and if it’s nothing — it’s the cops who’ll be coming for you.”

The coldness in his words almost cut her skin. It wasn’t just that he didn’t believe. He didn’t seem to recognise the way she spoke of the Way Between Time. He didn’t respond to the sound or shape of the dimensional pattern.

What if she was wrong? What if it wasn’t him?

The doubts ran through her head as she turned back.

If he’s a normal, mortal man; if this is his true time — why is she so old? If he’s lying, or if he doesn’t come back, and she loses the only opportunity to find the key to the portal … she couldn’t think on the cost. She’d never see Saffo. Never know if her daughter lived beyond the moment of birth.

A brilliant flash of light from the passing traffic hit her eyes; the travelling flow of cars heavier now that everyone was moving to the places they lived, where they went for entertainment, where they travelled through their single strand of time. The flash reminded her of the small ball of glass, more of a marble, really, placed in the offering box by the last querent before lunch.

The young girl who didn’t really have a question, but wanted to see if Chiri was scary, if she might be an evil witch — or worse! The dare brought the girl in, and she left a clear ball that may enable Chiri to see to the truth of the soul of the one who may hold the key.

If it was him, she needed to know. Even without input from the cards.

Chiri trudged back to the tent. What she needed to show him could only happen after the sun fully faded from the sky, and before the moon-set. If she waited too long, the answer would belong to another time, another person, and her question would be useless.

She opened the flap. Smiled.

The marble rose into the air. It spun slightly. The cards lay on the table directly below the spinning orb, showing only the backs in soft greys and pearls and whites. Showing the side of the void. Not a good start, but she had to take the chance, and it had to be now.

The words of opening, the formula for opening the pathways, were the words she spoke in her mind while she hummed the music of the revolving icosahedron shape. The sound of her home.

The marble clouded over, hazed into shards of white and black like a sketch with charcoal on snow. There was one shape. One. A key. No. Not a key. The key.

One key among many. One key hidden with many other keys, wrapped within the tight possession of a specific creature. A possum. The thief.

Would the key come to her if she spoke the name of the Key-Maker?

It was a test. Chiri spoke his name and waited.

It didn’t take long. He opened the curtain and came inside.

“Will you help me find my daughter?” Chiri asked. “Will you save your blood child from the maze of time revolutions within the Way?”

“No. If you have a daughter, that’s fine. But I don’t. And using the curse of blood won’t make me do what I can’t.”

“But you have the keys.”

He lifted his hands, spread his jacket to show her the belt. Empty.

“No, I don’t. Your thief stole my keys, and if one of them was the one you want, you have to find him and get them back.”

“And if I do?”

“I’ll come with you and you can show me your idea of what you want from me. Once.”

“Do you know the congruence?”

“Of course not. This is a place I’ve been trying to escape from as soon as I found out when I was. This is not my home. It is not my time. I’m only willing to help you if it helps me.” He leaned over the table and gripped Chiri by the wrist. “Do we understand each other?”

Copyright Cage Dunn 2018 (in first draft mode; subject to modification).

Still on the injury list; working on it – now enrolled in physio. Yee-Ha! – Not. I’m trying to spend a few more minutes each day at my desk, but sometimes things just heal more slowly than we’d like … I apologise for being unable to communicate more than I am, but I will be back. I will. You just wait and see.

Still on the Wheels … Wheelie … Wheelies

Yes, going nuts. I have managed to borrow a laptop so I can do small amounts of things to stop the severe nuttitus that comes from compulsory idleness, but …

Some good news – if you live in South Australia, that is – some of my books are available in your library (with the one-card system)! Okay, they’re not necessarily shelved where they really belong, but that’s what you get for misaligning the isbn that’s in the NLA (ebook isbn) and the books you donate to the library (CS isbn).

Doesn’t matter – you can borrow them, read them, and tell me all about it … if you want to.

In the meantime (how many more weeks? too many mind-altering substances to be able to answer that, I’m afraid), I’m not working on a serious project (because of said substances and the false sense of security they give a writer), so I’m playing with ideas.

I’d hoped this year would be the year of productive output, of good stories flowing from the mind to the composter (whoops, word editing machine) to the world. Not happening. Not yet.

Maybe it’s the time to work on skills — but what if the brain just fogs up completely? Well, I can but try … try … try again. Eventually, it may sink in and stick (sounds like mud, doesn’t it?).

So, here and now it’s time for an outline of a few ideas. You can tell me which is most appealing, try for some input into how it comes out (or not). You saw the cooking one with a demonstration video at the end of each chapter, now how about these:

The Old Woman’s Mad Horse: A lonely woman buys a house in the country to live out her life as a recluse, only to find the house comes with a pre-existing tenant who won’t leave.
Wallabies, Wombats, and Wagtails: A small inheritance is the opportunity to take on the real-estate renovator dream to get rich, make it big, but this highly focussed city slicker didn’t count on falling in love with the wildlife.
How to Survive the Outback Long-Drop Dunny – A Traveller’s Guide: Ms Lilijana Smith, CEO, wanted glamping. She expected it to be three or four people on an exclusive outback tour with proper facilities, comfortable beds, good food, wine – and flush toilets!
Dingoes, Dixies, and Dongas: (lost the summary – have to look for it, so come back later).
Buttons, Bows and Skin Phones: (words gone wandering, here’s a try at memory) headphones and expensive hair don’t go together. There must be a better way. With a bit of help, two friends, wild forays into science and fashion, they come up with hands-free, wire-free, batteries not required answers to the problem of headphone hair and where to put the phone when you’re naked!

There’s a couple of others, but I have no idea where they are at the moment, so they can hide, knowing sooner or later, they will come to me, because I am the one who will tell their story – heh – heh – heh – come to me, my lovelies.

Alright, that’s it. I’m outta here. See you on Wednesday, if I remember what days are by then.

 

Too Much Stuff to Get Out of There

Well, I know you’ll be disappointed, but I’m not going to be fronting up to the starting block for a few more weeks yet. About 12 of them.

I shouldn’t plan things for January. Or July. Something always happens in those months. I always end up spending time away from my work space, unable to ‘do’ what needs to be done. Unable to complete.

I’ve learned I can’t just sit still though. I have to be doing something. That something involves getting those mad ideas out of my head and into the world. I’m going to let you into a secret. It’s a big one.

I have lots of ideas. Lots.

I start out (sometimes) with a title, or something that might be a title. Then a brief outline of what it relates to, if anything. It might just be a picture.

The next step is to do a beat sheet for every character I’ve considered who might play a role in the story. Yep, goodie, baddie, side-kicks and sideliners. One or two sentences for each section of my beat sheet.

Then the scene outline. I start with ten scenes for each of the four parts. I use the beat sheet main moments and fill in the stuff in between. Sometimes, this means many more scenes than the initial ten. Sometimes, it means there are blank scenes, or a whole scene can be condensed into a single consequence – I’ll figure it out during the writing.

Yep. I know, right off the bat, it won’t be the same at the end as it is in the beginning. Things grow. The original idea may have a lot of stuff that everyone’s seen before, but if I get it down on paper, by the time I get there, I’ve considered at least ten other options for deviations from the path.

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Last week, during the forced convalescence, I wrote up ten of my ‘idea’ titles into full beat sheets and outlines. Two got tossed. Good ideas, but I’ll leave them to someone else. I wouldn’t be able to do them justice without the passion it requires to get the best out of it.

Eight are going through the next stage. Story-boarding. Making up something that looks like a cartoon (did you know I can’t draw, paint, or even manipulate pictures?) of the progression of the actions and events for the story.

At that stage, some get left in the ‘drafts’ folder – I may come up with something more fitting a bit further down the track.

I currently have six I’m very excited about.

And one more that won’t leave me alone. It’s about cooking (no, I can’t cook), and the safety of kitchens – yes, the slip and slide in the kitchen, while attempting to do normal kitchen duties, is the cause of the injury! Of course the idea won’t leave me alone! What’s the potential titles I’m looking at:

Safety Requirements for Bait Layers (or should that be Ration Assassins?).

Any suggestions, My Friend Dangerspouse? Hmmmm – got a list of safety advice for working with sharp tools, in confined spaces with dangerous weapons, on slippery floors, etc.? Maybe even an event per chapter to highlight the safety requirements, followed at the end by a video (I’m sure he said something about being able to do a video!) to demonstrate.

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I’ll wait to hear from the professional, and in the meantime, know this: I haven’t forgotten you; I will be back as soon as I can sit for more than a few minutes at a time without agony (and the desk has been adjusted to take account of the chair with round legs that don’t lock properly).

Ciao!