Vic Templar, Private Detective

I've known Mr K for almost twenty years and I know that he runs a Private Detective Agency, but that's all I know. What he actually does, who he works for, who he checks up on, is a mystery. If you'd ask me whether he carries a gun or not, I'd surmise that he does not.
Mr K knows I'm a little bit down on my luck so asks if I fancy earning some cash on the side. Sure, what do I have to do?
Here's what I have to do - I have to drive past this particular house and see if there's a For Sale sign outside.
And then what?
And that's it. Sign or no sign - that's all he needs to know. Drive past, look, then phone him with a yes or no.
So I don't have to stake the house out, or wait for someone to leave, or keep watch for a particular visitor or delivery, or take candid snaps, or ask questions of strangers in local cafes or bars, or tail someone at a safe distance?
No. Just see if there is a sign or not.

Jottings of a Traveller (Slight Return)

Two uncannily similar tube incidents. The first is undated, but I guess would be sometime in the Summer of 2008. Both were on the Victoria line en route to Victoria station.

It's one of those days that of which we get maybe four or five in a year. Perhaps a little cluster of three in a row without a cloud in the sky, temperature pushing 90 (that's 32 for my Aussie and American chums) not a wisp of a breeze. Good cricket weather.
Of course, everyone is moaning. People are looking at each other, sweat cascading from their brow and armpits, out of breath, panting, scantily dressed, sighing, raising eyebrows to strangers, damp sticky clothing. Someone will make comment along the lines of 'I'll be glad when this is over' or 'Terrible, isn't it' or simply, 'It's too hot'.

Jottings of a Traveller

Going back through my notebook, a great many of my scribblings appear to have taken place on buses, tubes, trains or planes. They are brief, just thoughts or observations, so I've gathered a few together in one blog.

14/7/09

On the top deck of the 76 bus en route to meet Mark Flunder in Waterloo. We're going to discuss our film project. We do this regularly - once every six year or so. The film will get made, one day, we just might not be the young future of cinema when it does. 

It's a beautiful day, bright sunshine, and I look down from my seat on the top deck as we pass St Paul's Cathedral. I look down on men in shirt sleeves and ties and women in tight skirts and high heels. Oh yes, I'd forgotten - people still work. Seven months since being made redundant, I feel totally detached from the notion that people have jobs to go to. 

We begin the day together, around 6.30 or 7; a cup of tea, radio 4, a shower, a cup of coffee and then the world goes to work whilst I climb eleven steps to sit a PC, for hours on end. I write, I have long since given up applying for jobs, I think, my mind wanders, I get distracted by the cat.

Welcome to my new home

Okay, here we go again. I have already done this once, previewed it, tinkered with the colours, previewed again then closed it, thinking my first new blog was in the bag. Hey presto! it's nowhere to be seen and cannot be retrieved.

The gist was this - that here will be my new online home - the 1930s Mock Tudor abode of Vic Templar, writer of this parish. A place to keep one abreast of Templar's news and thoughts as they occur. Firstly, Taking Candy from a Dog, Templar's 2010 novelised memoir of a 70s childhood and family life long since sold out, is going to be reprinted by the good folk at Blackheath Books before the winter has run its course. There are also plans for an e-Book so that all you Kindle types can read my masterpiece (insert appropriate smiley).