Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

We live within a bounded world, it seems. contained in four dimensions, also by the finite nature of our lives. In dreams, however, somehow our internal eye can see through walls we didn’t know were there. The flow of time, the laws of logic; now such boundaries are all up in the air.  We move more freely, and we wonder how we ever settled for that other place where possibilities now ours to take were out of bounds, beyond our time and space.  For all that, I am often glad to wake. Dreamspace can be unsettling, I’ve found. It’s good to plant my feet on solid ground. 

  So, they’ve gone and I’m all alone, as usual. No, that’s not true. I can hear the mice chittering in the corner and the rats scrabbling under the floorboards. But there’s another sound, one I’ve not heard before. A sort of whistling susurration. ‘What the hell do you want?’ I asked as a strange woman appeared in the doorway, flouncing about in a fluffy pink ball gown. ‘I am Fuchsia, your fairy godmother. I’m here to make your dreams come true,’ she replied, smiling inanely. ‘Oh, F … goodness sake. Well, you look like a fairy alright. And if you keep wafting that wand around like that, you’ll light up like one. Those candles burn, you know.’ ‘Sorry,’ she clasped the wand in both hands and stood still. ‘You are in a bad mood, aren’t you? But, you shall go to the ball, Ashes.’ ‘Cinders! With you in charge I’ll probably end up in the castle dungeon. I’m staying put.’ ‘Oh, no, you have to go! Please, Ash... Cinders. I’m on probation for my new job....

1967  I’ve been at the roadside for six hours.  The tractor that dropped me off here, turned off down a stony, dusty track,   Before disappearing into a dip, never to be seen again.  Since then, there’s been the occasional car, a moped, two tractors and a smoke-belching wagon.  But none of them even slowed, let alone stopped.  A baking hot mid-afternoon has now transformed into a cool mid-evening.  I’m standing next to a tree. It needs to be climbed and I’ve nothing else to do.  Maybe some passing driver will fall for the novelty approach and come screeching to a halt.  Even high up the tree there’s not a single building, let alone a village, to be seen.  After thirty minutes a Fiat 500 putters towards me. Up in my lofty perch I stick out a thumb, waggle it about and grin inanely.  The four occupants stick their arms out of each window, waggle them wildly and grin back inanely. The Fiat continues its journey.  I wonder whe...

The old black money maker threaded with cotton Ready to use pink thread from the bobbin Soft fabric pieces all neatly cut Her work today has already begun.   Pads attached on feet, sew up the tum Two cleverly shaped ears already sewn Protruding snout with contrast stitch Bright satin bow round the neck to finish.   Another fluffy bear, a brand new teddy To join the others, there are so many Awaiting their fate to be sold on. To parents for children on Christmas morn.   Now that job is done, time to move on Re-spool and thread a new shade of cotton. Ready to alter, repair garments people have brought A zip to replace, a dress to make short.   A knock on the door brings more work to do Mum says “come in I’ll measure you” A bridesmaid dress is the latest request So busy a life for a home seamstress.

  ‘You caught me napping. Yes, this is my corner. Bin my favourite spot for years. It’s in the sun, see. Wall gets warm and I like that heat on my back. Not as supple as I used to be. Round here, they knows it’s my space, so I gets left alone. Sometimes some young, smart-arsed tom thinks he’ll push me around but they only do it once. Life in the old fella yet! She lives here; Violet. The cat lady they calls her, those neighbours with their tattoos and piercings and walnut whips like remould tyres. Their kids shout out at her. Caught one yesterday throwing bird seed. I spat at the little wretch and it frightened her enough for her to go crying to her ma. I saw them pointing in my direction but I hoofed it before they could do anything else to annoy me. Of course, if Ronnie’d bin here we’d ha sorted ‘em all out. No one f***s with us. But he’s bin gone years. We was like twins. We didn’t start fights, we finished them. Some said we was ugly but Violet never said that. Course, ...

I dive deep into the still, dark pool within. Deep enough that I wonder how long I can stay here in the depths, until I am drowned under the weight of the waters above. Deeper yet still, the answers I seek shoal, spook, and dive— elusive, quick‑silver flashes that, seen and then unseen, are ever out of grasp.