Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  Mic Technique   You can hear me at the back, can't you? I'm allergic to pop filters. Metal or sock they bring me out in rash decisions.   You'll forgive me if I sound faint. I prefer it a metre to the side. It's better for my stance which projects confidence while my voice doesn't.   It could be worse. My verse at the start was supersonic and I ran a mile as soon as my mouth ran dry.   Now I share at a more measured pace but I still won't have that microphone near my face.

  Three weeks, four weeks, sometimes five. Time for a place to become familiar and comfortable; not quite enough for it to feel like home. And that is just as well. When the call comes, there can be no sentimentality. Pack a bag and leave, never to return. That slice of my life is instantly discarded, prelude to a frantic journey to another town, another living space empty of memories, associations, friends. A few weeks to write those walls, those windows into my mind, to spread some essence of myself upon them, then the cycle will begin again.               It had been going on so long, this procession of disconnected segments. There was no pattern to it, no linking threads that I could point to and say ‘that is my life.’ And I realised that only I could give it shape and meaning, provide a string on which to thread these beads of my existence. And so, at each new place, I bury something from the last: an object th...

  The breeze sucked the orange curtain against the open window and I heard the soft flack of fabric as it bellied then flattened against the chipped metal frame. Outside, kids played football in the cul de sac, running off and on neighbours’ gardens, each one George Best, selfish with the ball, desperate to get past Mrs Worthington’s and Old Man Humphry’s in their worn-out pumps before reaching the corner and the shot at goal that was the Fishers’ gateposts. Inside, behind the half-closed curtain, we sat on the rug, smoking, flicking ash into the empty grate as mournful lyrics told us of sorrow, regret and lost love in those places where he had loved so many women – downtown New York, Quebec, a Greek island. I wanted to be in those places, independent, away from the confine of days in school uniform, the sound of bells measuring the day into lessons, feet on corridors, slamming doors and the scrape of chairs on parquet floors. T...

  St Akelda’s Super-Structured School Opportunity Road Great Bridge Yorkshire 2025 Awards Instead School Inspection Service London Dear Sir/Madam I understand that my name has been put forward for an award in the “Innovative Initiatives” section, for which a supportive explanation is needed. When I first took over St Akelda’s Academy, last year, it was not thriving. We were two places above the relegation zone and I knew I had to act if I was to save the Academy from becoming a mere school again. I looked at the timetable: boring. Access to subjects: restricted. Attendance: poor, especially by bored teenagers who turned up mid-morning, if at all. I looked at the staff: bored, stifled, no hope of progression or promotion. That was when I formulated, then proposed, my new idea: first to staff, then to parents. The school day was to be altered to suit the dispositions of the different age groups. The number of hours per day, per...

  The joy of magic, So funny and intriguing, Lifting our spirits.

  A little girl sat alone in a locked office. She was waiting for her father in his swivel chair with her hands atop his large wooden desk. Between her hands was a box of toy magnets. Bouncing it between her fingers, the box rattled.             She frowned at it. His present to her. As if everything her father had put her through could be improved by a few dozen magnets. She had loved them a year ago but today she wanted so much more.             Clenching her fingers, she tore the box open. Two magnets came tumbling out. The green one gleamed in the light of the desk lamp. For a moment she saw her own reflection in it. As she seethed, this image turned into her father.             The purple one developed a strange sheen too which was soon filled by a reflection of her mother. The girl brought the magnets togeth...