Updated: Aug 31, 2021
My new book, a novella entitled "Distorted Lens" will be coming out in e-book format and paperback in August 2021 and will be available on Amazon and other good book shops.
It will be on pre-order fairly soon and I will let you know when it can be ordered in advance.
I am not going to give away too much at the moment, only to say it is a page turner and will keep you reading, with an "Ahhh" at the end. At least that's what I have been told.
To tease you I have put a few pages from the start of the book below..
By the time I was ten, my mother had distorted the lens through which I viewed my father. In my earliest recollections of her describing him she, always spoke of what he did not do, what he could not do, and never what he did. He was the bogey man on whom I built all my fears and misapprehensions. He was, always going to disappoint me. Or so I thought. Why did she do that?
I could understand, perhaps, if this had happened, like some couples I have observed, towards the end of their relationship, when the consequences of their mistakes had caught up with them, and they were more enemies than friends. In those circumstances, they might see each other in such a negative way, but as I said, my mother did this from the time I was born.
Was she programmed to do this? Was it her way of grooming her children always to be on her side, always to be thinking of her, ensuring that her cup of love was always full? Or did she just hate my Dad?
If it was hate, then why did she go through the whole business of having children with someone who disappointed her? Someone she had decided to devalue and undermine while ensuring that their children would always see the lesser side of him. Why would she do that? Why would she take away from her children another light in dark places, another voice to confirm the truth, another fountain of undying love?
All this came to mind as I sat at the corner table in the deli cum café waiting for my father to arrive. He was always punctual, so I, too always turned up in good time. My being there early would make him wonder if he was late when he saw me sitting in my chair there, totally relaxed. To my father, punctuality was essential, it was imperative to be on time or even 5 minutes early, he was forever saying.
We met for coffee the first Sunday of every month at the same café and always in the morning after he had gone to church and was on his way home. He came for coffee, but never touched the stuff, preferring to drink hot chocolate and eat a bowl of Amaretto biscuits, the round half globular disc ones, about an inch in diameter made from almond-based biscuit filled with Amaretto liqueur. He would just keep filling his mouth until the bowl was empty. On longer than usual meetups he would have three bowls of these biscuits.
He was dapper. He always dressed to impress. A long full-length cashmere double-breasted coat in black, matching the black cashmere hat, silk scarf folded as a cravat, shoes polished over delicate woollen socks, dark grey stripes emanating from black trousers with razor-sharp seams. I smiled at him, and for a moment, felt proud that in so many ways, I was precisely like him. Not what mother would have wanted, but it was undeniably true.
He unbuttoned his coat then parted it with his hands from behind and sat down, his bottom on the chair and his coat overhanging onto the floor.
He was tall, slim-built, and the wiry frame that had been his hallmark throughout his life was still present. Muscles not showing off, just imperceptibly there, somehow telling you in the subtlest of ways that he was not a man to be trifled with.