Writing – How Hard Can It Be?

I am pleased and honoured to have been asked to contribute to the lovely Helen Hollick’s Tuesday Talk on her blog.

If there’s anything you want to know about pirates, Helen is the lady to ask. She is the author of King Arthur: The Pendragon’s Banner Trilogy, The Sea Witch Voyages Series and more recently Amberley Press have published her non-fiction book The Truth and the Tales – Pirates.

All her books can be found at www.helenhollick.net

She is also incredibly brave and generous in letting a complete unknown loose on her blog.

Follow the link to read what yours truly had to say about the rumblings of her embryonic writing career.

https://ofhistoryandkings.blogspot.fr/2017/06/writing-fictionwell-how-hard-can-it-be.html

The Stories Behind the Stories

The Siren and Other Strange Tales – my first foray into writing fiction is a collection of short stories with a supernatural element. The stories were inspired as I suppose all stories are, by a mixture of experiences, events, reading, people I have met and places I have lived or visited, all helped along with a dollop of imagination and occasional dark humour. I thought you might like to know a little about the stories behind the stories. The photos are just teasers related to the content of the stories.

That Cat is a story sparked off by a newspaper clipping about a stray cat that visited a care home to sit with the dying.

The character of Mandy is a figment of my imagination. Thankfully, the staff of the care home where my mother spent the last years of her life provided a loving, respectful environment. However, from time to time scandals do emerge. Further elements came from a story my mother told me. When I was a baby she put me in my pram in the garden. As she was hanging out the washing our next door neighbour’s big black cat crept up onto the pram and snuggled down, almost on my face. She was scared of cats and had to get the neighbour to come an remove it!

Toussaint – set in France where I live.

The bones of the story come from two sources – an Australian report of a car accident where the driver of a passing car is said to have picked up, telepathically, the cries for help from the driver of a car that had skidded off the road. The second element was my meeting at a gallery exhibition with the wife of the featured artist. After several glasses of Chablis, she had a lot to tell me about life with an artist.

Sukie – This is a story based on some of my experiences when, at fifteen, I went on an exchange holiday to France. On my own for the first time, without the security of family around me, I found it a daunting experience but, with hindsight, a formative one. However, my early life bore no resemblance to that of Sukie’s except that I did love my Granny Grapes and the eyebrow raising trick did irritate my mother.

Ste. Maxime is near St. Tropez on the Cote D’Azur and, when I was there, it teemed with the overspill of the young and beautiful who couldn’t quite swallow the cost of being seen in that celebrated town. There was a Sean Connery look-alike but alas he had no eyes for a gauche teenager teeming with a heady mix of hormones and unrequited lust.

The Boy with a Harmonica is loosely based on an incident that happened in a village near me during WWII.

This part of France was known as the Free zone and governed by the Vichy government on behalf of the occupying Germans. The Maquis were very active in this Zone and in my area there are numerous tales of derring-do and heroism.

The character of the Boy has elements of a child I knew, labelled “autistic” by the medical profession. He had a remarkable ear for music and could pick out and create the most beautiful melodies on the piano. Clearly a piano was of no use to me in this story but an old guy playing the harmonica outside a cafe in Toulouse gave me the instrument that up until then had eluded me.

The Last Word


My parents together with my Aunt and Uncle held regular Sunday Canasta nights. Their play, just as in the story, would be punctuated with cries of “Why did you play that card?” or “Freda, you’ve frozen the pack again.” I used to like to watch and listen to the interplay between these four.

When my mother moved into a care home I visited her regularly and nearly always found a group of residents playing whist. One of them, Alice was a passionate but rather ineffectual player. As I passed by the lounge where they sat I would often hear her girlish giggle as she cried “I’ll beat you all yet, if it’s the last thing I do.” She was a lovely lady and I wrote this story for her.

The Siren was inspired by the landscape of the Holderness Coast in East Yorkshire – a 32 mile stretch from Flamborough Head to Spurn Point, it is a fragile, sometimes desolate landscape subject to regular cliff falls through erosion. With the cliff falls come stretches of gloopy mud and fossils.


A snippet in the local newspaper about a young girl becoming stuck in one of these mud patches as the tide came in and the efforts to rescue her sparked off the idea of the story and my imagination supplied the rest.

So there you have it – the weird convolutions of a writer’s mind.

My Baby’s Left Home

The Launch of “The Siren and Other Strange Tales” today, 8 May.

Exciting times but rather anxious too. Will anyone buy it? Will anyone like it? Is my baby going to sink or swim?

Time will tell.

PS If you are kind enough to purchase the book it would be great if you could leave a short review on Amazon. It assists other potential purchasers and helps me with my sales ranking.

Cavorting in Calvados

Back from a break in Normandy where cold, windy weather and an excruciatingly painful knee somewhat curtailed activities. However a stop-off at a Calvados distillery refreshed the senses and taste buds, if not the knee.

My neighbour first introduced me to Calvados, surreptitiously adding it to my coffee one night after the village fete. I wasn’t looking and sipped the coffee quite happily. An hour later I had great difficulty finding my own front door despite the fact that I live opposite, just a mere handful of metres away. Since then, whenever he visits Normandy he has brought me a bottle back “straight off the farm”…er…that is to say… made privately for the makers own personal consumption.

Calvados is distilled from cider made from specially grown and selected apples. The fruit is harvested and pressed into a juice and then fermented into a dry cider. After that it is distilled into eau de vie. It can only be sold as Calvados after spending two years maturing in oak casks. The longer it is left, the smoother it becomes.


It’s a versatile spirit – an aperitif, a digestif, useful in cooking (particularly to pep up pork) and in coffee.

There are a number of traditions that surround Calva. One I was told of was le trou Normand, or “the Norman hole”. This is a small drink of Calvados that you take between courses during a very long meal, supposedly to resuscitate the appetite.

But I really like the sound of an old ritual that the Norman farmers followed at the end of a meal. It is called the seven rounds of Calvados and it goes thus:

Round 1.Le Café Calva (a tot poured into the coffee)
Round 2 La Rincette (a little nip)
Round 3 La Sur-rincette (another little nip)
Round 4 Le Gloria (yet another)
Round 5 L’Alléluia (and another)
Round 6 Le Coup de pied au cul (the kick up the backside)
Round 7 Le Coup de l’étrier (the kick in the stirrup – that is the kick out of the door and onto the horse)

It was a ritual for men only and said to leave the ladies free and happy for the evening. I can bear witness to that last point!

Ghosts – They’re Out There!

I thought I’d let you know that ‘The Siren and Other Strange Tales’ my book of ghostly stories is now available for pre-order or directly available from all Amazon sites from 8th May.

Today I’m offering you some teaser quotes in the hope that they will part you from something just less than three pounds/dollars/euros. I know cash is hard to splash these days.

So, to summarise: The Siren etc (why did I choose such a long title??)is a collection of six short stories, set in different decades of the twentieth century. Each one has something spooky about it but not to the extent that it will keep you awake with the shivers.

First up is ‘That Cat’ – care worker Mandy meets a mysterious cat that knows when death approaches. But does Mandy?

They walked along the long corridor towards Mrs Beck’s room. The night lights cast little white puddles on the green lino. A whiff of disinfectant lingered in the air. All was quiet.
‘Isn’t it spooky when it’s quiet like this?’ Christine whispered.
‘Whatever are you whispering for?’ Mandy’s clear voice sliced the silence. ‘We can’t wake the dead or the nearly dead, which is what most of these old folk are.’

For the second story we move to France for ‘Toussaint’ when egotistical artist Gavin is given some ghostly marriage guidance.

‘Why do you hate chrysanthemums’ I asked, inconsequentially.
‘What? Oh, haven’t you noticed? All the shops are full of them at the moment – flowers of death I call them – always at funerals and gravesides. Me, I prefer roses.’
‘Roses? At this time of year… you’ll be lucky.’ I couldn’t help but give a huff of half-laughter. ‘I am going mad. Here I am talking to a ghost about bloody flowers. It’s surreal.’

Staying in France, we move to the Swinging Sixties when rebellious teenager Sukie receives one life-lesson too far.

Once they left I ordered a glass of white wine and lit up one of my duty-free ciggies. Oh I felt so sophisticated. I cast what I hoped was a sultry glance across at Sean Connery Mark II. With hindsight I probably looked more like a hungry hippo in search of its first good meal for a year. Whatever! It worked and Mark II slid his chair across to my table and in a rich melted chocolate voice asked,
‘May I join you Mademoiselle?’

German-occupied France provides the setting for a tale of collaboration and betrayal.

As he stood at the window the smell of smoke grew stronger. In the reflection of the panes he saw a dark shadow standing behind him. Forcing himself to turn around he let out a terrified scream. In front of him, emitting little puffs of smoky sooty breath was the charred and blackened figure of the Boy.

Back in England in the Roaring Twenties – what could be more normal than a genteel game of whist for four middle-aged ladies?

‘For heaven’s sake, can we get on with it’ Enid snapped.
‘Yes, for heaven’s sake, let’s’ Doris chirped and picked up the pack. Expertly she shuffled the cards, riffling through them so that they interleaved with each other and for good measure she riffled them back together into a solid pack. Her hands barely seemed to touch the cards. We all stared in silence, mouths agape like trap doors. When, with a flick of the wrist, she dealt out the hands without a fluff or fumble we all knew something strange was happening.

Finally, we meet a stranger in a remote seaside village in the middle of winter. Is it grief or guilt that haunts him?

‘What happened, Adam?’
‘I can’t say Lily. I saw him go past the forge looking like death warmed up so I followed him, quietly like. A sea fret came on sudden and I lost sight of him in the mist. Next thing, I heard him crying out to someone called Sophie and how he had to find her. When I found him he were up to his knees in the mud – he must have tumbled into a patch.’
‘Oh my’ Mrs Lawrence replied, ‘I told you didn’t I? He’s not right in his head. You did well Adam’ she added.
‘Mebbe, but I don’t reckon he thinks so.’

I hope you’ve enjoyed these snippets and that perhaps you might go and have a peep at the book which is on all Amazon sites.

What’s in a Title?

Those of you who are kind enough to follow this blog may remember that a couple of weeks back I held my own referendum…er straw poll about the title of my collection of short stories. The winner was “Spook Me Out”.

I was not happy with the result. I protested. I argued that the demographics of the poll were skewed (as were the participants after copious amounts of the juice of the grape). I pointed out that it was a meaningless collection of words and that titles need impact. In short, I wanted a recount.

Do you judge a book by its cover? Those who are said to know about these things say yes, the cover and the title are a big part of the decision to buy or not to buy. I tend to look at the blurb on the back but it is usually an intriguing title that catches my eye and preferably one that gives me an idea of the genre as well. Quite often the cover design leaves me cold. I’m never moved by the piccys of impossibly handsome muscle men with fine etched six-packs and thighs like tree trunks, wielding their swords with gusto. Well, not on a book cover anyway! Have you guessed by now that fantasy is one of my favourite genres?

Now let’s be serious. A few days after the results of my poll were in some of the participants sidled up to me murmuring that er…perhaps they’d got it wrong; they didn’t like the title any more and perhaps a rethink might be in order.

Much heartened by this chink in the voters’ armour I rethought. It is, after all my book. I have created and disposed of the characters within. Their fate is and has always been in my hands. Is this not the annual occasion when I assert myself? Yes, it is.

And so, a retitled collection of six short stories. It is a simple title – it describes the content. Let me introduce you to:

I was going to use the word ‘ghostly’ rather than’ strange’. Unfortunately the typeface I’ve chosen makes it look, at a quick scan, a bit too much like ‘ghastly’. I shied away from it. The reader might find the stories ghastly but my amour-propre won’t allow it.

Publishing day is now 8th May in the Kindle Store on Amazon and if any of you dear readers feel impelled to give the book a toot on your own social networks I shall be Uriah Heep-ish in my ‘umbleness and gratitude.

Stormy Nights and Women in White

The church clock struck midnight. Outside the rain fell in torrents beating a tattoo on the porch roof. Wind moaned through a gap in the shutters. In my office the chandelier lights flickered and the computer gave an apologetic “huff” and died only to mysteriously self-resuscitate a few seconds later.

I was researching more ghosts, myths and legends for another set of spooky stories and had arrived at the legends of the Dames Blanches – White Ladies. They’re everywhere in France but especially in Normandy and the Pyrenees. There are two around me haunting Chateaux Puivert and Puylaurens. At Puylaurens, the great-niece of Phillipe le Bel, restlessly walks the battlements.

Chateau de Puylaurens

At Puivert their Dame Blanche appears on rainy nights at one of the tower windows and just over the border in Andorra there is one who defended the principality from a huge wolf which was really an angry bishop in disguise. Goodness knows how many more there are lurking in the shadows.

Chateau Puivert

What is it with these ladies; flitting around in the most inclement of weather wearing little more than some flimsy draperies?

Martin Antonio Delrio, a Jesuit writing in the sixteenth century reassures me. He writes that these ladies are generally benevolent towards we mere humans, they are merely feés appearing in the woods and on the plains. They appear to be kind to animals too as he asserts that often the ladies appeared, carrying a lighted candle, in stables. There, they would let a few drops of wax fall on the incumbents’ manes and tails and then proceed to tenderly and carefully comb and plait them.

Another writer, Thomas Keightley makes me nervous though. In his book “The Fairy Mythology” he recounts tales of the malevolent nature of the Dames Blanches where they lurk at cross-roads, narrow bridges and ravines and insist on forfeits. If you want to pass by you may have to dance with them, get on your knees to them or assist them in some way. Woe betide you if you refuse. You may end up in a patch of nettles and brambles. These unkind phantoms are said to be found mainly in the north of France, particularly Normandy. Did I tell you I’m going to Normandy at the end of April? Me with my cronky knee. Just my luck.

PS Did I also tell you that my collection of spooky stories – “Spook Me Out” will be available from Amazon at the end of March?

Three Years Later

Roll back three years, February 2014. There I was sitting like Dido in the ruins of Carthage amid cartons, packing cases and bubble wrap. The materials goods of my life packed and awaiting transport to France.

I remember the shivers of trepidation as I wondered what the hell I was doing yet a pleasurable anticipation that the move to France would kick-start my life which, truth to tell was a bit stagnant and aimless.

Today a neighbour asked me how it was all going, this adventure of mine and it set me thinking. I’m not going to make comparisons between France and the UK – comparisons are odious as John Lydgate said in a debate about the horse, goose and sheep. So, here are some thoughts.

Life here in my part of France is one of halves (nearly did a John Moxon there and wrote two halves). Spring through to autumn is a hive of activity with festivals, concerts, fêtes, vide greniers and a hundred and one places to visit most of which I’ve yet to see. It seems to be a law of the expat universe that you only get to see your surroundings when you have visitors.

I love the heat of these summer days on my ageing bones and, if the temperature soars over 35 degrees which it did last summer, there is always the cool, freshness of the house to revive me. This is the season when shutters stay resolutely closed during the day and opened at night. At the end of a long hot day I have the choice of two swimming lakes to wallow in followed by a glass of chilled white wine at the buvette.


In case you fear that I spend my life lollygagging around, take heart. I have my routines. Weekday mornings I write. I have my main meal at lunchtime now usually shared with a neighbour and we take turn and turn about for the cooking. Most days I have a siesta and then work in the house or garden until the sun goes down. It’s a routine… but not immutable! The weekends I cut loose a bit.

In contrast to these months winter begins with migration; the swallows that have amused me all summer disappear en masse, the cattle are brought bellowing in indignation off the summer pastures and the foreigners, mainly Brits in this village go back home. This exodus is shortly followed by the appearance of piles of logs tipped in front of the doors of the houses that line the two main streets. These will have to be carried through the houses to the little yards at the back.

The summer attractions are closed and the ski slopes are wakening. The shutter routine is reversed… open during the day and closed at night. But there is always a twilight zone when, if I happen to be walking down the street, I can sneak a surreptitious peep through the windows, lit from inside. Winter is the time when the village wakes late and goes to bed early. The only constant is Carmelite, a very old lady who, winter and summer alike, stands at her doorstep at twilight murmuring to Santa Maria and counting her blessings.

What else is new?

I like the greeting ritual, the “embrace”, a kiss on both cheeks. Once I realised that “baiser” meaning to kiss has an alternative meaning akin to a well-known Anglo-Saxon four letter word, I hurriedly dropped it from my growing vocab.

I have exchanged my smart Ford C-Max for a Nissan X-trail; old but serviceable and hopefully, like me has a few more miles left. It is far more practical for the sort of fetching and carrying I do such as taking home an eight foot solid oak cornice to make a canopy for a bed or using the brilliant search lights, whilst roaming off-piste at midnight, looking for a missing dog.

I can converse pretty well in French although telephone conversations stymie me now and again as do the very thick accents that some of the older villagers have.

I’ve become an adept at managing my shopping around the midi-break when many of the smaller shops are closed for a couple of hours. I fell foul of it so many times and made so many futile trips before I learned to organise supermarket shopping (because they remain open) at lunchtimes and all other shopping either before noon or after 2.00pm.

The famous or infamous French bureaucracy defeats me from time to time. I am still waiting for my Carte Vitale after twelve months. This is my passport into the French healthcare system. Fortunately I haven’t needed access except for the dentist and I guess “the system” is geared to the long wait since I have two years to reclaim the fees I have paid.

All in all I am content. I’ve completed a novel, currently out for editing and plan to publish a collection of short stories myself in March/April. The second novel is in planning stage too. Whilst there’s still a load to finish off in the house, ca marche as they say, it progresses.

I’ve been lucky. What started out as a spur-of-the-moment decision which could have gone seriously wrong has turned out to be probably one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. But if the gods are smiling on me at the moment I know, capricious beings that they are, that they might yet have a sneaky trick up their sleeves to play on me. So I tread cautiously.

PS: If anyone fancies sampling a bit of la vie francaise , my brother has a lovely self-continued apartment in the house available to let, so come on down for a taste.

https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/16714011

A SaltyTale – Part I

Vegetarians you might want to look away with this one.It gets bloody!

I live in France, the land of the foodie; furthermore I live in rural foodie land where fast food means it only takes a couple of hours and twenty different apero’s to down before the dish is cooked.Here, there is still a strong tradition of bottling, pickling (self and vegetables) salting and otherwise preserving the fat of this land.

Enter James – henceforth to be called Jams according to his French pronunciation. He is a guitar-playing friend of big bro’s and has a small-holding close by.

Seduced by the home-salted charcuterie that hangs from the ceiling in Jams’ pantry said big bro agreed to give it a go; placed an order for a ham and…er…well returned to England for Christmas.

As it happens I am not totally unfamiliar with salting a ham. I have an unwanted recollection of doing something like that when I had the farm. I remember also that a hard hat, hammer and chisel were required to prise open the too, too solid flesh that resembled nothing less than a gnarly piece of wood, bathed in sea water for twenty years and immune to all blandishments.

However, nothing ventured and all that.

The day arrived when the portly porker designated to have one of its hind legs preserved – if not for posterity at least until next Christmas – could be despatched to the celestial pig sty. It required a full moon and possibly other portents, I know not. A telephone call to let me know the deed was done and a master class in salting awaited.

In Jams’ kitchen I learned the art of squeezing the last drops of blood from the veins. This required a great deal of squeezing of the ham on Jams’ part and swabbing any remnants that exuded on my part – cue theme music for Dr Kildare. (Ok, so I’m showing my age – sue me!)

Next the skin was given a quick facial salt scrub to cleanse it and the two protruding bones got an extra dollop of salt to prevent “les microbes” gaining illicit access. That done, plus several coffees, home made choccies and introductions to neighbours who dropped by, the ham was lovingly wrapped in a clean white cloth and carried carefully to my car. An odd spot or two of blood besmirched the pristine cloth – a last reproach from the pig I fear.

Prize Jambon
jams-hens

Chez moi, apart from nearly slipping a disc whilst bearing the ham on its tray to the salting box all went smoothly.Ha!

I laid the ham tenderly on a white bed of salt – oh dear, not enough to meet Jams’ strict requirements of 5cm . Quick dash to Carrefour to purchase another 20 kilos. That’s better now it has its 5cm mattress on which to repose and do its thing.

Iambon entombed

Time to cover it up completely and make it snug. Oh-ho not enough salt left – one more bag should do it; back to Carrefour. Nope there’s still some pink bit showing.

What’s going on here? Then I heard a faint rustling, a whisper of sound. Was this amputated limb coming back to life? Am I about to be clobbered over the head by an angry ham on a quest to reunite with its missing bits? Ah no. I’m afraid big bro left just a wee bit too much of a gap between the boards he screwed together and, rather like the sands of time in an hour glass, the salts of time were creating little white pyramids on the floor beneath the salting box. Que faire? With some ingenuity and a lot of huffing and puffing I managed to insert a flat tray under the extremely weighty salting box and that appeared to put a stop to the exodus. Still a bit of pink shank was showing but a hasty call to Jams reassured me that it was not necessary to trek out at 8pm in search of more salt. Tomorrow will be soon enough. Leave it in peace.

So carefully noting all the details and calculating the date when the ham should be woken from its salt bed, anointed with herbs and what-not, then netted and hung I placed the lid on the box and now await the 14th of January to see its transformation.

I wonder if big bro will be going home Christmas 2017 – guess it depends how it turns out.

Have a very Happy Christmas/holidays/Scrooge time (whatever floats your boat) and if you’re very good Santa will give you an update in the New Year.

Show -don’t Tell

I spent last week back in England as a witness in a dispute over a right of way to the property I used to live in some thirty years ago. Given a choice between having a tooth pulled out and appearing as a witness I think, in future, I would opt for the visit to the dentist.

I had recently read “The Emotion Thesaurus” by Angela Ackerman and Becca Pulgisi in an attempt to cure myself of the habit of infecting my writing with bland adjectives – of telling “he was angry”, rather than showing. So this experience provided me with an opportunity to observe and watch for cues – what poker players call “tells”, as to how each witness was feeling, all set within the context of the courtroom.

The following are some of the notes I made on these lines during the proceedings. But first a brief description of the courtroom to give you some context.

Square room, bland cream and grey décor; wooden chairs set out with an aisle between them – protagonists to the left, antagonists to the right. As we trooped into the courtroom, the court usher bent forward and quietly asked each of us “Appellant or Objector? Take your seat on the right/left.” I couldn’t help but think of the scene from Monty Python’s “Life of Brian” – “Crucifixion, one cross each, on the right.”

One thing that could not be ignored in the room was the dais with the long bench behind which the judge sat in solitary splendour. Raised up above where we minions were seated it said, unequivocally to us – control, power, authority, I’m in charge.

Okay so on to the witnesses. I’ve given just three examples from my notes. They all relate to witnesses for the protagonists whom the counsel for the antagonists was cross-examining.

Witness One

Male, early fifties, the only male witness wearing a suit and tie. Took the oath in a steady, clear voice. Chose to stand rather than sit to give evidence; very upright, shoulders back. Listening to counsel’s questions he cocked his head slightly to one side, then straightened up again. Long, long pauses between question and his response.

My thoughts: calm, unruffled by situation. Did the “head cock” mean he was listening carefully? Perhaps he is slightly deaf? Did long pauses before responding mean he was choosing his words carefully; an unwillingness to answer; concocting a porky?

Witness Two

Female; early sixties; very chic. Strode to the witness stand; shoes squeaked on lino floor. Hands trembled a little as she held the paper on which the oath was printed; her voice quavered over a few words. Gave evidence standing up. Voice steadied as she gave her testimony. When challenged hard by counsel a faint pink flush spread up her neck, voice trembled again. Played with a necklace she was wearing as she spoke.

My thoughts: nervous to start with but steadied herself. However, perhaps she was shivering and a bit cold? The necklace twisting – sign of nerves or fidgety and a tad impatient? The flush and wobbly voice – was she flustered; getting angry; embarrassed?

Witness Three

Female; late forties; smart/casual. Took a couple of visible deep breaths before reading oath. Gave evidence seated. Only witness to check, when asked, that the written statement previously provided was hers and that all the pages were present when given to her. When dealing with challenges by counsel her voice dropped a tone and a Yorkshire brogue became more apparent. Sounded abrupt, a little brusque but very definite about her evidence. Made good eye contact with judge rather than counsel when giving answers. Gestured with hands quite a bit.

My Thoughts: No-nonsense person. Meticulous? Confident? Hostile towards counsel? Used the time to look through her written statement as a means of steadying herself?

So, as a writer what did I learn from all this?

It reinforced something I’ve always known – that one swallow doesn’t make a summer. That is, to show emotions through body language we need to have a cluster of cues rather than just one and context is everything.
It is possible to be sneaky and use a character’s body language to mask or mislead. I learned afterwards for example that Witness Two was in the early stages of Parkinson’s disease which caused her hands/voice to tremble.
The observation and interpretation of body language as an indicator of emotions is highly subjective.Would readers have the same interpretation?
I would hate to be called for jury service!

So tell me, what would you have made of the three examples above?