Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Harz stared up at the building on the edge of the ring-road, oblivious to the roar of passing traffic behind him. The street ahead looked like a normal, attractive, old-town avenue, the lime trees in full leaf, people sitting at tables drinking from coffee cups and beer glasses. Harz felt anything but normal.  He was trying to screw up the courage to go through the large wooden doors. The only other time he’d entered the building had been twenty five years ago, under armed escort. They’d been gathering at the church – the Nickolaikirche – for weeks, to speak out freely, a small sanctuary in a city of surveillance. He remembered clearly what they’d been told that evening. If you’re arrested, don’t struggle, don’t be violent, just shout out your name so we know who you are and hold your candle tightly in your two outstretched hands. They’re less likely to attack you if you’re holding a candle. And it had worked. He hadn’t been assaulted. He’d been arrested and taken to the bu

First thing: the drone of a motorcycle, the rattle of shutters being raised, someone pushing a trolley along the street, full to the brim with bottles of water. A man calls out a greeting to his neighbour, who crosses the street towards him. They stand together, strenuously discussing the news, the weather, food, family - who knows? It’s not a language I understand beyond the stock phrases - hello, goodbye, please, thank you, the bill etc. The street is shiny - did it rain last night or has it been cleaned? The sky is bright blue, the sort of blue that proves you’re on holiday, the sort of blue that promises a dry, warm day. Street-watching: a plethora of smells - cigarette smoke, diesel, drains, plus coffee, jasmine, ozone, garlic, oregano. Bread oven at full pelt, the queue pushing out the door and into the street. A stray dog lollops past, he’s carrying a plastic bag as if it contains all his worldly possessions. He disappears down a side street. There’s a guy sat on the chur

I used to collect cuttings: articles from newspapers, quotations, photographs, anything that I thought might come in useful at a later date when I needed to find inspiration for my writing. I even had a neatly labelled box file to keep them all in. The snag was that I never did get round to using my wonderful cache of resources. Inevitably, I would be sorting out my study six years later and come across a heap of cuttings that were out of date, dog-eared and yellowed. By that stage they would only be fit for the bin. Then I discovered Pinterest. You may have come across it. You can get it free as an app for your tablet or phone or Google it and put it on your computer. Goodbye, piles of yellowing newspaper cuttings. Hello, beautiful, colourful, space saving board of inspiration and information. So what do I like about having Pinterest? And why should every writer have a Pinterest board? First of all, even if you aren’t at all artistic, you can make your Pinterest board

Country pub, left in a daze (Well, it was my holidays) I see a bus stop in the distance And ask a local for assistance. “How long until the bus to Bothways? I don’t mind if I go the longways, But please don’t point me wrongways. And does the bus return on Sundays?” The farmer looked me up and down As if I were a circus clown. “I wouldn’t journey there on Sundays, (Unless you want to come back Mondays) You’re facing backwards, anyways The bus goes southerly to Bothways. And more, you can’t go dressed like that In fancy spats and silk cravat. And if you see a Bothways cat Be sure to doff your trilby hat.” I scratched my chin in some confusion (It may have been the beer infusion) Looked up and down the leafy lane And climbed aboard when green bus came. I fell into a summer slumber Until…  a hand upon my shoulder. “Tickets please! What destination?” I felt for change with hesitation. “Return to…  Bothways, if you be kind. That da