Have you ever wondered what’s happening in the DNA profiling labs? You would have to spend many devoted hours reading a proper textbook if you need in depth knowledge. However, I can provide you with some ideas using a series of excerpts from my thriller, The Sex Tourist. This first excerpt is from Book Two, Chapter 7 – Polymerase Chain Reaction:
Inside the PCR box, the heat is ripping apart millions of DNA strands like a myriad of disappointed punters tear up their losing lottery tickets after a draw on Saturday night in front of their TV set. The ten-minute polymerase activation period is over, and the mixture inside keeps cooling down – which doubles the amount of DNA fragments – and heating up a few seconds later, just to tear all of them apart again.
I think about the “Wheat on the Chessboard” story. The king was so pleased to learn chess, a newly invented game at the time, that he asked the inventor of the game what he wanted for reward. The inventor asked for some wheat grains. He wanted one grain of wheat on the first square of a chessboard, two grains of wheat on the second square, four grains on the third square, eight grains on the fourth square, and so on, doubling the number of grains of wheat with each square up to the last square. The king thought this was very easy until he realized that all the grains in the world would not be enough to grant this reward.
It takes less than two hours for this PCR box to grant me what the king could not. The only difference is that it’s providing me with billions of amplified DNA fragments instead of wheat grains.
The cocktail contains minuscule amounts of very special liquids supplied by various overseas companies. My thesis depends on the results of this experiment and the next. Mr. Robert Szabo, my thesis supervisor, is standing next to me as I’m preparing more components and DNA samples from infectious bacteria found in sheep for the next round of experiment. I’m using a DNA Mini kit ordered from a German biotech company.
The same company could supply me with the kit I need for my own private DNA samples. That would only be the first step for getting the DNA profile of Fitzgerald. My hope is that certain segments of his minuscule amount of DNA on the swabs are going to be copied millions of times with the help of this PCR box, to provide me with his distinct genetic pattern. I’ve read many books and spent countless hours on the internet investigating what’s needed for purifying, quantifying, amplifying, and sequencing my human DNA samples.
Tens of thousands of holidays are ruined. BA IT staff couldn’t get their system fully up and running for a whole weekend. The airline does not believe that a cyber-attack caused the issue. I tend to believe them. A conventional cyber-attack from the outside wouldn’t be able to crash their system this way. But what if it was an inside job?
However, early signs indicate some major differences. First of all, these systems always have backup power supplies which automatically kick in during power failures. Even if the backup power supply fails, and as a consequence the database crashes, there would normally be a failover site where the system could be brought back online at most in a few hours.
Among many others an article in the FT mentions the BA IT jobs which were outsourced to India last year as a possible contributing factor to this outage. Until the airline comes up with a better explanation I tend to believe that this is the most probable cause of the disruption.
It only takes one person inside an IT department to cause enormous damage to the system. All they need to know is a few commands and a privileged user account password to wipe out a whole database.
The turnover rate of IT staff in India is much higher than in the UK. While the vast majority of them are obviously dedicated professionals, I believe the BA system is extremely vulnerable to a single person with a malicious intent inside IT.
Emily Brontë and Sándor Petőfi lived their lives in the same decades of the 19th century. However, at the time Hungary and England were a world apart. The two poets never knew about each other. The most beautiful English poems of the century were penned by Emily Brontë. Similarly, arguably the greatest Hungarian poet was Sándor Petőfi. They both died very young, only a few months apart. I came across this information by reading the following dialog in Book One, Chapter 9 – Wuthering Heights of The Sex Tourist:
* * *
“Paul, did you know that the youngest Brontë sister, Anne, died the same year as the greatest Hungarian poet, Petőfi?” I’m so happy I can talk to Paul about literature again.
“No, I didn’t. I’ve just read in the museum that Emily and Anne died very soon after one another. I heard about Petőfi though. He wrote a famous love poem, didn’t he?”
“At the End of September. All Hungarians know it by heart, but I know the English translation too.”
“Would you recite it for me now?”
“Okay, here it goes:
‘The garden flowers still blossom in the vale,
Before our house the poplars still are green;
But soon the mighty winter will prevail;
Snow is already in the mountains seen.
The summer sun’s benign and warming ray
Still moves my youthful heart, now in its spring;
But lo! my hair shows signs of turning gray,
The wintry days thereto their color bring.
This life is short; too early fades the rose
To sit here on my knee, my darling, come!
Wilt thou, who now dost on my breast repose,
Not kneel, perhaps, to morrow o’er my tomb?
O, tell me, if before thee I should die,
Wilt thou with broken heart weep o’er my bier?
Or will some youth efface my memory
And with his love dry up thy mournful tear?
If thou dost lay aside the widow’s vail,
Pray hang it o’er my tomb. At midnight I
Shall rise, and, coming forth from death’s dark vale,
Take it with me to where forgot I lie.
And wipe with it my ceaseless flowing tears,
Flowing for thee, who hast forgotten me;
And bind my bleeding heart which ever bears
Even then and there, the truest love for thee.’
We walk in silence, while the autumn breeze blows my teardrops away. It just occurs to me that we’re in September.
“Wasn’t it unfair of Petőfi to expect his wife never to have another relationship if he died before her?” asks Paul.
“It was. After Petőfi died, his young widow re-married and many people were blaming her for that because of this poem. The poor woman was bullied and abused.”
“Petőfi is like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights, but the other way,” says Paul. “I feel something similar too right now. True love has no boundaries.”
“And he died so young.”
“It’s weird that two of the Brontë sisters and Petőfi died within a year.”
“The sisters died of tuberculosis and Petőfi died fighting in the revolution. When they died Emily was thirty, Anne was twenty-nine, and Petőfi was only twenty-six. Can you imagine how the three of them would have changed world’s literature if they lived for another thirty or forty years?”
* * *
Let’s compare Petőfi’s poem in this excerpt to one of Emily Brontë’s:
Fall leaves fall die flowers away
Lengthen night and shorten day
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day
The instinctive swiftness of this second poem is in stark contrast with the blurred weakness of the first one. This is not Petőfi’s fault. Unfortunately most of the beauty in Petőfi’s poem is lost in the translation above. I’m not saying it’s a bad translation; all I’m saying is that it’s an impossible task for any translator to achieve the same level of greatness.
Comparing and truly appreciating these poems written in two different languages is only possible if one reads or listens to the original ones with knowledge of both languages at mother tongue level.
Several other poems written by these two giants of literature boldly confront mortality and anticipate life after death. The most astonishing fact is that two of the greatest poets walking on Earth were writing their most beautiful poems in different languages at the same time.
The original title of my 2 books in 1 novel, THE SEX TOURIST, is SORORAL BONDS. In this book the two main ‘characters’ (and authors) are non-identical twins. In the beginning of Book Two one of them experiences twin telepathy.
Female non-identical twins should be called sororal twins (soror is for sister in Latin). Non-identical twins are called fraternal twins, but this is correct only if both siblings are male, as frater is for brother in Latin. When the gender of the twins is different they are obviously non-identical.
Identical, or monozygotic, twins are the result of one egg being fertilized and then splitting in two. Identical twins have the same DNA and normally look very much alike. They are always of the same gender. Here are some examples of twin telepathy of identical twins:
- A Texas man sat down with a stabbing pain in the heart while shopping, only to find out later that his twin brother had been shot in the heart in New York.
- One sister had a bike accident and broke her ankle, and a mysterious swelling showed up on her twin’s ankle at the same time, although she wasn’t indulging in any physical activity at the time.
- One baby would cry profusely, bringing his mother’s attention to the other twin, who was sleeping in another crib, suffering from high fever.
I found these at http://www.buzzle.com/articles/twin-telepathy.html, but there are many more examples.
One might think that having the same DNA is the deciding factor in the formation of a twin bond, but the nine months spent together in the womb could have a much greater role in it. In those crucial months they go through the whole evolutionary development getting ever closer to one another. Memories from the womb are very rare, but they do exist on a subconscious level. These twins are completely aware of each other once they enter the world.
The bond forged in the womb could get much stronger if twins grow up together. Losing a loved one is a tremendously painful and horrible experience, but losing a beloved twin is always a life changing event for “left behind” siblings. Thoughts about their twin dominate the rest of their lives even years or decades after the event. It causes regular moments of uncontrollable sorrow. Whether identical or not, the connection that twins share can never completely be understood by anyone else.
Look who’s reading SORORAL BONDS! It is the original edition of THE SEX TOURIST with the exact same content!
For my non-UK followers:
Earlier this week they took a pic of the Scottish First Minister, Nicola Sturgeon (left), which looks like a photo taken of Margaret Thatcher in the 1980’s (right). Nicola is writing a letter requesting a Scottish independence referendum to the current British Prime Minister, Theresa May, above.
For those who don’t know, the essence of the set of new laws on prostitution – the so called ‘Nordic Model’ – is to punish people who buy sex. The sex workers – predominantly women – are considered ‘victims’, hence they are not breaking the law. More and more developed countries are jumping on the ‘Nordic Model’ bandwagon. Sweden was the first to pass this kind of law in 1999. Finland, Norway, Iceland, Canada, Northern Ireland, France, Ireland, and most recently Scotland and Israel followed suit.
Typically the most vehement proponents of the ‘Nordic Model’ are sex workers of the past who already quit the ‘trade’. It’s easy to understand the reason. Once they’re not financially dependent on sex work, they can look back like no outsider can to the dehumanizing abuse most of them had to endure.
The most vehement opponents of the ‘Nordic Model’ are sex workers currently in the ‘trade’. Their income and safety are both jeopardized. The client base of active sex workers in these countries is shrinking. Those who buy sex are breaking the law, hence they’re criminals. Criminals are more likely to commit violent acts. Consequently sex workers earn less and are more exposed to getting hurt.
Nobody seems to notice, recognize, or study the three main negative side effects of the ‘Nordic Model’:
- More women who have nothing to do with sex work are raped.
- Increase in number of broken down marriages and divorces.
- Increase in sex tourism.
In a previous blog I was writing mainly about the first two points. Here I want to focus on the third one.
The main ‘holiday’ destinations of sex tourists are countries in Africa and Asia.
Here are a couple of the many articles from Kenya and from Thailand related to this issue. The authorities in these countries are trying to pass laws to reduce the number of sex tourists, so far with little success.
The main reason for girls and young women offering sex for cash in African and Asian countries is overwhelmingly the same: extreme poverty and/or the fear of it. Thirteen year old girls are selling sex for a plate of food or a couple of empty beer bottles in Zimbabwe. See these articles for example:
Girls and women are also in mortal danger. The beachfront on the picture above is from the South African coastal town of Durban. Please take a look at these articles from that country:
Sex tourism just aggravates this problem. When the new breed of sex tourists from ‘Nordic Model’ countries visit Africa or Asia, they are no longer treated as criminals when paying for sex. They pay a higher rate than their local counterparts (but still a fraction of the price of sex in their home country), and they’re looked after with all the attention they don’t deserve. They are called ‘clients’ and are treated with the utmost respect. If they are after the GFE (girlfriend experience) they get that. Kinky acts are provided for them even without charging extra fees. They have the greatest time of their life.
At the same time most of these ‘clients’ don’t even have the moral sense of rats. Their numbers are on the rise. What motivates the newcomers? There is a simple explanation: the ‘Nordic Model’ in their own countries is turning more and more men into sex tourists. A proper study is way overdue to explore the relationship between the ‘Nordic Model’ and sex tourism.
Please read this brilliant review of The Sex Tourist by Olivia Jayne Eldridge.
As I write this review of THE SEX TOURIST, I remain conflicted. It’s explicit subject matter conjured up a multitude of varied emotions. Marketed as erotic fiction based on a true-life story, it’s written in two parts. Part one was taken from daily journal entries of a real-life sex worker. At times stimulating, but for the most part revolting, it fascinated me. Although, I must admit, there were several moments when its brutality nearly forced me to abandon this book. Aroused and yet, deeply disturbed, I read on. Lillian Biro’s murder could not be in vain. I needed to hear what she had to say – to understand her. More importantly, I needed to find a sense of peace in her untimely death.
Throughout her first-hand account, I was transported into the twisted underworld of a sex worker. If you should begin to judge Lillian, please let me remind you…
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In her final and only interview, just a few months before her brutal murder, Lilian exposes the truth about the real life of a girl working in the sex industry. From breaking in a virgin, playing with couples and entertaining stag parties, this is a no holds barred and honest account from the co-writer of the erotic thriller bestseller: The Sex Tourist which normally costs $3.99 in the US, but RIGHT NOW IT COSTS ONLY 99c for a limited time as well!
**This story contains explicit sexual content and graphic language and is only suitable for readers aged 18+**
This excerpt from The Sex Tourist (Book Two – Chapter 5 – The Plan), like many other parts in this book, is real life. Download the first six chapters for Free here: http://promo.oliviawildbooks.com/ or buy it on Amazon: http://www.smarturl.it/sextouristow
Thumb is fading fast. He won’t last a month; not even close. The dog who was so keen to roam around in the parks or in the woods each and every day, … is looking at me with all his sadness when I invite him for a walk. He just drags himself further from the gate. His body is crumpled, he’s pushing, but the only outcome is a few drops of blood. His back legs are shaking. I have to lift him into the footwell before Dad drives to the vet yet again.
The vet tells us that it’s our choice. She says Thumb is suffering like hell and has maximum two more days to live in constant pain. Even without my study and practice, I would know that she’s right. I sign. I don’t even read a single word on the paper. I just sign. Dad signs too and goes to reception to pay. He’ll wait for me there … The nurse comes in and asks me to lift Thumb up onto the table. He’s light like a snowflake. He lost at least a third of his weight in the last month only. The vet is in front of him, the nurse is in the back, and I’m in the middle, holding his lead and stroking his head. Thumb’s glowing gaze is aimed towards one solitary target. He’s looking into my eyes. He doesn’t care about anybody else around him. My eyes are the only objects of his focus. I’m his goddess. I’m going to save him. I’m going to take the pain away. Tomorrow we can go for our walk again. I figured out what’s wrong with him and we’re here in this room to cure him at last.
Rock solid conviction, unconditional and boundless love and unlimited trust radiate from those two almond buttons. This gaze of his is burning into my memory right now, and I know it is going to stay with me to the end. The prick of the needle in his leg makes him twitch a bit, but he wouldn’t turn his head. That needle is obviously a technicality, needed to cure him. My tears are rolling, but I keep on saying “good boy,” and I keep on stroking, caressing, and fondling him.
My soul is screaming. My dear little Thumb, my first ever pet, please don’t leave me! My sister is dead. … What’s the point of living in an ever growing void? These losses are irreplaceable. They make death creep into my heart too.
I had the privilege of teaching you how to sit on the curb before we cross the road, how to give paw, how to stay where you were, how to lie down, how to fetch…I visited you many times even after I moved back to Hungary. If Dad struggled financially, Lily “lent” me the money for the airfare, so I could clean your house and your trays, take you for long walks, take you for a swim to the lake, and of course groom you, so in a matter of hours you could become the most handsome dog in the neighborhood again.
Only in these moments, when those two almond brown orbs are still fixated on me, but they’re starting to lose their shine, and when you begin to feel drowsy and want to fall asleep, only in these moments I realize how big a lesson in life you make me learn. I was proud of you and I was proud of myself. But right now, when your eyes are closing, when your body is going limp on the table, and when I’m taking the collar off your scrawny neck, everything is bursting to the surface. I didn’t know. I never had a chance to learn this when Lily … died. You showed me how much I have to appreciate my loved ones around me. I didn’t fully recognize the true worth of your trust, your faithfulness, your loyalty, and your love. Now I’m losing them all at once.
When the vet says in a low voice “he’s gone,” it strikes me: I’ve failed you at the end. Dad and I made mistakes. Right from the beginning there were signs and we ignored them. We should have tried those alternative diets twelve years ago when we saw your occasional runny tummy during long walks. We might have been able to save your life and extend it with those vital two to three years. I’m holding on to your lead as we walk out, and my dad is explaining with faltering voice how your ashes are going to be scattered in your back garden. We get in the car. He’s driving and I’m crying – inconsolable.