Checking Inn – Emily Harper Blog Tour and Giveaway!

 

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Welcome to the Checking Inn Blog Tour!

After storming up the Amazon charts with the brilliantly funny White Lies, Emily Harper has now released her second rom-com novel Checking Inn. Find out all the details, read reviews, guest posts and enter the tour giveaway as the book visits a selection of fantastic blogs . . .

What they say:

‘Kate Foster runs the Summerside Inn (and her life) by well-organized checklists.

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000032_00025]Make sure the caterers don’t serve devil’s food cake to the Christian Women’s Alliance– check.

Tell my mother that having a séance to get rid of any unwanted spirits in the kitchen during dinnertime is not okay- check.

Send a friendly reminder to all staff that the pens are colour coded for everyone’s enjoyment, and therefore it is not a good idea to put them all in one jar in order to “spice things up” as was anonymously suggested– check.

But, when an acclaimed hotel critic dies at the Inn, just before she’s about to publish a scathing review that would ruin the business, Kate’s life and checklists are thrown into disarray. And it doesn’t help matters that the detective assigned to the case is messy, unorganized, and too charming for his own good. Now Kate has to prove her innocence and save her Inn, or else the only thing that she’ll be organizing is the prison’s next bake sale.’
Click Here To Buy This Book – UK

Click Here To Buy This Book – US

Review by Elizabeth Wright

Emily sets out to create unusual protagonists that tap into something different in each reader and in Checking Inn she has certainly succeeded. Unless you have OCD it is fairly difficult to empathise with someone who does, yet somehow the main character, Kate, slowly gets into your head and before you know it you are completely on her side. Throw in a little murder mystery intrigue and a roguishly handsome detective to balance her out and you have the perfect escape after a busy week.

Harper’s writing is easy to read and her characters are believable. Some you’ll love and some you’ll hate, but you will certainly find yourself invested in several of them. The small town Kate lives in sounds idyllic, but the descriptions of Summerside Inn make it a dream destination. If only it were real and I could visit (although I wouldn’t be so interested in the Botox offer!). Overall this is a lovely weekend read and ideal for anyone wanting to relax and forget about their own problems for a while.

 

emily-harper-head-shotAuthor Bio:

Emily Harper has a passion for writing humorous romance stories where the heroine is not your typical damsel in distress. Throughout her novels you will find love, laughter, and the unexpected!

Originally from England, she currently lives in Canada with her wonderful husband, beautiful daughter, mischievous son, and a very naughty dog.

Emily is also the author of the funny and charming novel White Lies, which has proven to be a huge hit with fans. The book will even be appearing on The Marilyn Denis Show as a giveaway next month! For more information on the book please visit Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com.

Ways to stalk follow Emily

Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

 

***GIVEAWAY***

 

Emily Harper has generously donated some amazing prizes for 3 lucky winners! Take a look at what is up for grabs with easy entry via the below Rafflecopter:

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1st prize: Kate spade clutch, nail polish and signed copy of checking inn

2nd prize: signed copy of checking inn

3rd prize: ebook of checking inn

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Terms and Conditions

This is an international giveaway. Three winners will be drawn through the above Rafflecopter widget and prizes will be awarded in the order they are selected. BestChickLit and Emily Harper reserve the right to amend or cancel the giveaway at any point without prior notification to entrants.

 

Emily Harper Books

Film Review: Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison

Take two of Hollywood’s biggest stars and one of its finest directors, plonk them on a lush tropical island surrounded by rocky outcrops and rolling waves and arm them with an interesting script. What is the likely outcome? A damn fine movie, that’s what. Certainly in this case, it is.

I’m always fascinated by a film with a minimal cast. The actors involved have an even greater weight of responsibility than usual in that there’s no one else for the audience to focus on. On the other hand, there are no other performers to point the finger at if the thing tanks. For the actors, it must be both terrifying and supremely massaging to their egos. “You mean I’m in virtually every shot? Yes! That’s just what my fans will want. Of course I’ve got the talent and the screen presence to pull it off. How dare you suggest otherwise!”

Fortunately, the talent in this 1957 John Huston classic is without question. Robert Mitchum and Deborah Kerr – two gifted actors who apparently clicked immediately and went on to enjoy a lifelong friendship.

Mitchum plays US Marine, Corporal Allison who, after several days adrift in a rubber raft following a skirmish with the Japanese, finds himself washed up on an island in the South Pacific during the Second World War. A quick scout around reveals the island to be abandoned save for Sister Angela, a young nun played by Kerr, who has been there just a few days following a failed attempt to evacuate the priest already there. At first, Allison is relieved to be on the island where there is plenty of fish and fruit to eat and shelter from the tropical weather. He admits its not a bad place to wait out the war. But it isn’t long before a detachment of Japanese return to the island to set up a meteorological camp thereby forcing the Marine and the nun to hide out in a cave up in the surrounding hills.

There’s a wonderfully tense scene some time later when, sympathetic towards Sister Angela’s inability to eat the raw fish that he catches, Allison sneaks into the Japanese camp one night to steal something more palatable for her. It’s a beautifully shot and paced sequence by a master of cinematic storytelling – nothing fancy, nothing over the top, just measured excitement.

Meanwhile, the nights remind them that the war continues as flashes of naval gunfire light up the horizon. Then one day, the Japanese leave the island as quickly as they had come and the two celebrate their unexpected liberty.  Allison gets drunk on a bottle of sake left behind by a Japanese officer and foolishly declares his love for Sister Angela as well as denouncing her holy devotion as a waste of time. His natural urges rising to the surface, he can’t see why their “Garden of Paradise” situation doesn’t become fully instinctive – if you know what I mean. Sister Angela runs away from him and spends the night outside in a storm, becoming sick as a result. The following morning, Allison, full of repentance and shame, finds her with a fever at the same time the Japanese return to the island. Once again they are forced to seek refuge in the cave. Allison, feeling completely responsible for Sister Angela’s condition,  sneaks into the Japanese camp again to get blankets for her but he has to knife a solider to death when he is discovered. This alerts the detachment to an enemy presence and consequently, they begin a thorough search of the island.

To find out what happens next, I’ll encourage – nay recommend – you to watch the film yourself.

The two leads (and for ninety-five percent of the film you’ll see nobody else) are just perfectly cast and they own their time on screen. Between them, they’ve made many great movies and would go on to make two more together (The Sundowners and The Grass Is Greener – both in 1960). They’ve both given numerous wonderful performances as well over their careers and I don’t think either ever gave a better performance than they did here. Mitchum’s Marine is big and bruising, capable of dishing out death and yet kind and tender too; a simple man but a decent one; a product of a childhood he’d rather forget. Kerr’s nun is slightly naive but more uncertain, devout to her vows – of which the final one she has still to take – and yet teetering on the edge of uncertainty that she’s got what it takes to go all the way. Is she ready to forsake her womanhood for the greater calling? Both characters have chosen their paths and both have sworn oaths to tread them but will the time together on the island make a difference?

As if Mitchum or Kerr weren’t strong enough reasons to give this film a viewing, the director must surely tip the scales. From the moment John Huston sat behind the camera and gave us The Maltese Falcon in 1941, he revealed a certain brilliance and while Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison might not be his finest hour, it’s likely a film that many of his contemporaries would have wanted to helm.  It was adapted from Charles Shaw’s novel of the same name by Huston and John Lee Mahin, a prolific screenwriter who penned numerous classics between the 30s and the 60s, among them, Captains Courageous (1937) and Showboat (1951). The island of Trinidad and Tobago where the film was shot was photographed by Oswald Morris, a cinematographer who’s career would span six decades and include a long list of gems like Moby Dick (1956) and The Man Who Would Be King (1975). Naturally, the setting is stunning and one can only imagine the times had by all on location. Deborah Kerr and the writing team of Huston and Mahin were nominated for Academy Awards and there were a handful of other nominations throughout that season but the only win it garnered was for Kerr at the ’57 New York Film Critics Circle Awards. Shame that, because while Mitchum earned a BAFTA nomination, his performance generally seemed to have been overlooked. But then being the kind of guy he was, he probably didn’t give a damn anyway.

 

Book Review: Brian Westby by Forrest Reid

It’s a good job Forrest Reid didn’t write to be famous. Almost seventy years after his death, his novels gather dust in libraries: unthumbed and unadmired. Highly thought of by friends like E.M. Forster and Walter de la Mare during his lifetime, the Ulster writer has since fallen into obscurity. Until now, that is.

Few of his works are more poignant than his 1934 novel, Brian Westby, which was republished by Valancourt Books at the end of last year. Despite Reid’s best protestations that “[a]ll the characters and incidents in this novel are imaginary”, it’s hard to avoid its semi-autobiographical resonances.

Modelled on the relationship Reid fostered with his young protégé Stephen Gilbert, Brian Westby records the chance encounter between novelist Martin Linton and the son his ex-wife has successfully hidden from him for the best part of two decades. So pervasive was Gilbert’s influence that Reid gave him the final say on what was ultimately included in the work: “Remember,” he goes so far as to write in a letter, “if you don’t like the thing I won’t go on with it.” Fortunately for us, he did.

Linton arrives at Ballycastle to recover from illness, and a creative malaise that has left him lacklustre and depressed. “Happiness is only made by affection”, he says, having realised only too late that “[n]othing else in the long run matters.” But on a seaside stroll, he runs into Brian, a teenager who happens to be reading the very first novel Linton wrote. The pair are involuntarily drawn to one another–Reid’s “technical trick” of alternating perspectives proves an ingenious way of exploring their shared fondness.

As strong and tender as their attachment may be, father and son remain tragically unaware of their true relationship. Meanwhile, Linton helps the youngster to hone his literary talents: “Art isn’t just life in the raw”, he tells the boy, expounding the virtues of imaginative integrity, “it is a selection from life: it is a vision:–life seen through a temperament, as Zola said.” The novelist’s inspiration is refreshed as Brian’s affection is cultivated.

Soon enough, though, reality bites. After Brian reveals that his real surname is Linton, not Westby, his mentor recognises a new obstacle: the boy’s mother, Stella, who considers her ex-husband to be a pernicious influence. When she discovers the identity of the stranger Brian has been seeing so frequently, she demands that Linton cut off all contact with the boy. In the novel’s touching final movements, Brian must take sides and learn to live with the consequences.

Youth is Forrest Reid’s particular concern, and his appeal is therefore limited–landscapes and dreamscapes feature regularly in his prose, and the natural world is one in which he thrives. Indeed, most of his sixteen novels wrestle with a single vision, a vision of “a country whose image was stamped upon our soul before we opened our eyes on earth.”

Early in Reid’s career, Forster correctly explained that his friend’s work concentrated on “a point which, when rightly focussed, may perhaps make all the surrounding landscape intelligible.” To strive after a vision such as his, is–as Reid wrote of W.B. Yeats–to throw one’s net among the stars. Brian Westby is one of the handfuls of stardust he was able to catch on the way down.

Smiling For No Reason

It’s a long time since I’ve been happy.

In the last year or so I’ve managed glimpses of happiness, moments in time where something (usually my niece) gave me a momentary feeling of happiness, even an hour or two. I’ve had days when I’ve not felt as bad as usual, and over the summer my mood was markedly improved. I did not have to be high to feel okay, I managed it on my own sometimes.

As I’ve slowly started putting my life back together after the events of recent years, I’ve found happiness and hope to be the two things most difficult to hold onto. They are fleeting, flighty creatures, always dancing away from you, always just out of reach. Often as not by the time you realise you are feeling them the moment has passed, they are gone, and you are left fumbling after them, whimpering pathetically.

Hope, I have found, is something that has come back to me with time. It is still not a thing I can hold onto for long, but it is certainly something I am managing to feel more and more often, and for longer and longer stretches.

Happiness on the other hand, is considerably more elusive. I have noticed that it is easy to feel happy when something very GOOD is happening. When I see my niece I feel happy, even when I’m depressed I feel better, because she is a bright spot in my world that simply can’t be dimmed. She is a GOOD thing that makes me feel happy. When she is not around however, I find it difficult to replicate the feeling I have when I’m with her. Thinking about her can make me smile, but it doesn’t necessarily make me happy.

Today I found myself doing something I haven’t done in a VERY long time. I was smiling for no reason. Nothing particularly earth shattering happened today, I had a pleasant time at my writing group, but there’s nothing unusual there, they’re a wonderful bunch of people. I’m almost always happy when I’m with them. They regularly make me smile. Usually though, I begin the long drive home and that feeling ebbs. It runs away from me, and try as I might to hold onto it, I fail. It is not enough that there are things in my life that can make me happy, they are too infrequent, to transitory, to allow me to build up any kind of permanent feelings of pleasure, of cheerfulness, of simple contentment.

Today was different. Today, on the drive home, even after I got home, even now as I sit typing this, I find I am smiling for no reason.

Today I am happy.

And that gives me hope.

Film Review: Detective Story

I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again – I truly love it when I stumble across an old movie I’ve never seen before that blows my socks off. A few days ago, this 1951 Kirk Douglas crime drama did just that. Figuratively speaking, of course.

Detective Story is based on the stage play of the same name by 1934 Pulitzer Prize for Drama winner Sidney Kingsley and it’s directed by Roman Holiday and Ben-Hur legend, William Wyler.

By virtue of the story originally written for the stage, it’s a character study and in this case the character, or rather characters, are a squad room full of plain-clothed detectives at the 21st Precinct in New York City. The action takes place over the course of a working day and apart from a brief foray into the streets of the city, we remain confined within said squad room. We see the various detectives attending to their tasks – mundane police procedures included – as well as the various criminal elements that they apprehend that day. It’s all very gritty. But don’t misinterpret that as heavy going and oppressive, for it isn’t. Certainly not at the outset anyway. Yes, the tension builds to a dramatic climax, one that will take your breath away, but along the way there’s subtle humour and questions of morality too.

The main thrust of the plot involves, naturally enough, Kirk Douglas’s character – Detective James McLeod – and his wife Mary (Eleanor Parker) who just so happens to have a skeleton in her closet. McLeod is a tough, no-nonsense cop who sees the world he inhabits as black and white. You break the law, you pay the price. No leniency whatsoever. His current focus is on bringing down disgraced doctor Karl Schneider (George Macready) for having performed abortions on several women which subsequently lead to their deaths however, the more McLeod pursues the closer he gets to a truth that will turn his world upside down.

For the most part, this movie is a filmed stage play and as such there’s a degree of claustrophobia present in its viewing, perhaps even more so than if you were sitting in your theatre seat before the stage. Obviously, this sense of confinement is intentional because the film actually benefits from it. We are in a living, breathing squad room after all, and around us are all the individuals you’d expect to find there. Even when Lee Garmes’s camera lens pulls tight onto action in the foreground, the squad room’s heart still beats in the out-of-focus background. The company of actors, those playing the detectives and the criminals at least, are rarely off the set. It gives the whole thing an organic feel.

The acting – leads and support – is all round solid too. Douglas gives a towering performance as the cop who’s too unforgiving for his own good although oddly enough when it came to Oscar time, he was overlooked. Eleanor Parker got nominated, as did Lee Grant (in her big screen debut, no less) who plays a young shoplifter. There were also nominations for Best Director and Best Writing in the Screenplay category. Like Lee Grant, Joseph Wiseman, who plays a slightly unhinged burglar called Charley Gennini, was also performing for the first time in front of a movie camera. Wiseman would later go on to cinema immortality playing Dr. No, the first bad guy in a popular spy franchise. His performance here couldn’t be more different.

Like all good dramas, it’ll imprint traces of itself in your mind and you’ll be thinking about it long after the music has flourished and the credits have rolled.

 

 

Crime and Punishment

This week I watched helplessly as my niece nearly choked to death in my arms, and my sister nearly did the same on the floor.

I’ve had one client make a string of the most unreasonable demands, all of which I have met without complaint and in a timely fashion, despite feeling like death myself.

I have had another client try to charge me three times the amount they were paying me, because they had changed the due date of the piece and failed to inform me they needed it sooner.

I’ve had a permanent migraine.

And, perhaps worst out of all of these things, I did something I didn’t think I’d be having to do for several years to come yet: buried my first friend. By first, I mean it’s the first time I’ve had a friend die. I’ve had relatives die, mostly due to age or terminal illness, but I have never before lost a friend.

Lindsey’s death had already left me reeling. The thought of something happening to my niece left me in a state of blind panic. Add to that physical illness and a gruelling work load and I think I did pretty well just to survive the week. I think anyone would have done well to survive that week, whether they were bipolar or not, whether they were in the midst of a depressive cycle or not. These are difficult things to deal with. Dealing with all of them at once only heightens the difficulty. When you are already teetering on a knife edge, as I have been doing for a while now, any one of these things is enough to send you under.

And it did.

By Friday I felt like a walking corpse. I don’t feel much better today, but I have at least regained the power of thought, something which eluded me on Friday. In hindsight, given how I was feeling, I should not have been trying to work. Despite the amount I had to do, I should have simply said to myself ‘take the day, have a rest, and get your head together’. Me being me, I did not say this, because as often as not taking a day off when feeling like this makes me a lot worse in the long run. So I kept working.

Big mistake.

I said something on Friday which, in hindsight, was foolish, and I can understand why the person I said it to got so I annoyed about it. I realise that it was a stupid thing to say, especially to a client, and that I never should have said it. Hindsight, however, is a remarkable thing. At the time I didn’t see this. At the time I was simply trying to get through the day without falling apart, and I wasn’t thinking ahead enough to have considered that these words could be taken very badly. His reaction shocked me, for while I can understand that what I said may have annoyed him, I found his response as unprofessional as he had found my comment. Turn around is fair play and all that, but it was not only unprofessional, it was unkind.

There is a certain amount I can take, especially when I know I’ve done something or said something out of place. If someone feels the needs to pull me up on it, to tell me it’s out of line, then fine, I’m aware of the fact that I’m not always the best at communicating with people. I also find it helpful when people actually articulate to me what I’ve done wrong, so I can be more mindful in the future. Most bipolar bears will tell you they have trouble communicating, especially when they are at the extreme of one mood or another.

I do not, however, feel this is an excuse. For example, I didn’t say to my client ‘I’m sorry I said that, but I’m bipolar and quite ill at the moment’. The reason for this is very simple: it’s not professional.

Bringing my bipolar into a business relationship is something I simply do not do unless it is absolutely necessary. A lot of my clients are aware of the fact I have bipolar, but only because they have seen or heard of my column, not because I’ve told them. I’ve even discussed it with a few of them, but almost always because they have brought it up, or brought up a related topic. It isn’t easy trying to regulate your mood when you have a mood disorder, yet somehow I now manage to do so—the majority of the time—well enough that I can continue to function in the professional world. This often requires me to bite my tongue and let the other guy ‘win’ the argument, not because I think they’re necessarily right, but because I know my reaction to the whole situation has been marred by my condition. I’ve usually over reacted, and if I have over reacted, that usually means there should never have been a disagreement in the first place and I should be the one to end it, no matter how crappy that leaves me feeling.

I am the first to admit I have not been at my best this last week. I can apologise for that as much as I like, but at the end of the day it wasn’t my fault. Circumstances have left me mentally and physically exhausted, and when you’re in such a state, you do make mistakes. You forget to keep your business head on every second of the day. You say the wrong thing. It’s unintentional, but it happens.

I didn’t say anything horrendous this week. It was simply an unfortunate turn of phrase which the client took the wrong way. I meant it literally, however they took offense. I can understand why they took offense, and I would probably have been equally offended had our positions been reversed. Once I realised why they were annoyed, I completely understood, I apologised. I did not however say the one thing that was actually true: ‘I would never have said that if I wasn’t bipolar’. By which I mean, were it not for my current mood state, I wouldn’t have said something so easily misinterpreted, something that does, I have to say, come across as being patronising and very annoying. I can well understand why he was so irritated with me. What I can’t understand is what he did next.

He went on his business page on Facebook – his BUSINESS page, I add, not his private page where he talks to all his friends – and repeated what I’d said. Now, he didn’t name me, and for that I am grateful, but he did insight an entire thread on Facebook consisting of numerous people—some of whom I know—to discuss this thing I had said by mistake, because I’ve been having one of the worst weeks imaginable. Naturally they all agreed with him: it was a terrible thing to say, he should tell me to ‘piss off’, he should never work with me again, I was ‘clearly inarticulate’, etc. etc. He said he’d ‘dealt’ with the issue, which is true he did. He got very annoyed with me for a while and said some rather angry things, sent me a link to a book about better communication, and then told me to forget about it.

Facebook-LogoHe then sent me a link to this thread on Facebook.

Right up until that point, I could deal with his reaction. I’d said something that had annoyed him and he’s reacted accordingly. Granted, in the world of professionalism you shouldn’t do this, even when someone really pisses you off, you should find a way to discuss it calmly, however I myself am not always capable of doing this and I know there are very few people who could say they can manage this 100% of time. Fair enough. I’d said a stupid thing because of my bad week and terrible mood, he’d reacted badly to it because what I’d said had put him in an equally bad mood. He came back to me a while later with the link to this book and told me to forget it. Again, fair enough. As I said, I know I have issues with communication. I’m fine when I’m writing, but conversations are not my strong point. So, although I found it a little patronising, I felt it was justified. And then came the link to the thread.

I didn’t read it on Friday, I’d totally had it by then and spent the rest of the day in bed, mostly crying. I didn’t look at it yesterday as I didn’t want a reminder of that conversation as I was quite sure it would have me, once more, in tears. I looked at it today, and it wasn’t what I expected. I assumed when he sent it that it was a blog post he’d written in the past about effective communication—it’s the sort of thing he’d write about. I was so shocked when I saw this Facebook thread that I have now completely re-evaluated my opinion of him, not only as a person, but also as a professional. There was nothing professional about that thread. It was venting, pure and simple, he had been annoyed by something and had needed to vent, had needed others to justify his annoyance and tell him he was right, and that’s all fine, everyone needs that sometimes, however that is what your FRIENDS are for, not your business acquaintances. This conversation should have taken place on his personal page, not his business page, and he sure as shit should not have made me privy to it.

Why?

Because it was cruel. The things written on this thread were aimed directly at me and they were very unkind. I can forgive the people who said them, because they don’t (for the most part) know me, and even the ones who do didn’t know he was talking about me.

I wonder when he sent that link, in the midst of his annoyance, his anger, his outrage at what I’d said, if he stopped to think just how upsetting it would be for me to read that thread. If it occurred to him that it was completely unprofessional of him to have had that kind of conversation on his business page, and then direct me right to it. And I find myself realising something quite profound. Those of us who suffer through the horrors of conditions like bipolar, and actively monitor our condition through MEDs, therapy etc, are in general far better at dealing with situations like this than the average Joe. Our conditions make our moods unpredictable, unbearable, and at times destructive, yet we are usually able to recognise reasonably quickly when we have said or done something out of place.

article-0-013F8F1000001005-154_468x286In this case, I apologised the instant I realised I’d said something wrong. With most people I know, that is enough for them—yes they’re annoyed, but once they realise you didn’t intend something the way it was taken, they accept the apology, they calm down. They get their own mood under control. They may later bitch about it to their friends, but that’s okay, that’s what friends are there for, and they’re perfectly entitled to do that. What astonished me in this instance was the fact he made the whole thing so public. I felt like I’d had a good hard flogging, in the town square, while shackled by the neck and wrists in the stocks, with the locals through rotting vegetables at me.

If I reacted like he did, people would tell me to calm down, to do some deep breathing. They’d ask if I was feeling okay, how was my mood, was I depressed. They might even ask if I’d taken my MEDs properly. They would—perhaps naturally—assume that the over reaction was the result of my bipolar. When a person doesn’t have a condition like bipolar however, I wonder what people make of them acting in this manner. I personally found it extremely cruel. I’m not ashamed to say it made me cry again, and yes, that could be part of my current state of mind, but I think a lot of people seeing a thread like that, so filled with venom, written all about them, would have felt similarly upset.

Were this person simply a friend, I would have told them they had upset me. Since they are a client, I feel I am obliged to rise above it, to take it on the chin and never mention it again. That is the professional thing to do in this situation. And yet I ask myself, why is it that I must be professional, when he was not? Why is it that the person here who was able to see they had accidentally said something upsetting and apologise for it, sincerely, was then made to feel like utter crap, while the other party, who was clearly also in an equally bad mood and quite purposefully did something upsetting, is validated by his peers.

The irony of the entire situation is, of course, what I said to him in the first place: No offense.

Why did I say that? Because I was about to say something which I realised could be taken badly, and I wanted him to know that wasn’t my intent. I was trying to avoid offending him.

He was, of course, instantly offended.