Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I was on holiday walking through the countryside in Spain when my mobile phone broke. The screen went blank and that was it – dead. Back home, I tried a few tips from the internet, most of which involved violence towards the phone. The tips didn’t work, so I went to a mobile phone shop, attracted by a special offer which was too good to ignore. The bright and modern shop was busy. Staff in casual uniforms were attending customers browsing the latest amazing gadgets. But the happy consumer paradise was being spoiled by a man who was ranting and raving into a phone. He seemed to be trying to explain a problem to a customer service or computer expert on the other end of the connection. He spoke loudly but slowly, as if speaking to an idiot who only understood simple words. He kept repeating himself. The man’s frustration was embarrassing; I saw the shop staff and customers exchange glances which said, 'What a rude man to speak like that.' People gave him a wide birth as if he

It's no t a good day for sailing. There’s barely a breath of wind and the sea is lake-smooth. But it’s the first time we’ve had a weekend free in an absolute age so we’re determined to make the best of it. The boat rocks as we clamber aboard, as if in resentful greeting. It’s been over a year since we’ve done any decent sailing.   Onboard, we quickly fall into a familiar rhythm. Bill is up on deck optimistically unfurling the mainsail from its cover, gathering ropes from the storage boxes under the seats and checking fuel and battery levels. Me, I’m in the cabin stowing away provisions for our trip, locating charts and the logbook and switching on the radio. The air is stale down here and the bunk cushions smell musty. There is a sheen of salt-sticky dust over everything and I resolve to spend at least some of the trip down here giving the place a bit of a spruce. While Bill prepares the sheets and the sail for hoisting I take the opportunity to put on my sailing gear. I have

It is night time in Krokom, a village in northern Sweden.  Minus 22 degrees.  I am standing outside and looking up into the sky. What I can see takes my breath away. The night sky has decided, on this rare evening, to dance. Green swathes of what seems like fairy dust are sweeping backwards and forwards, and from left to right, becoming lighter in colour and then darker again.  Shards of pale green hang from the highest point in the sky down to the horizon, swaying like delicate silk curtains, moved by an unseen and unfelt breeze. It is utterly mesmerizing. The sky is bathed in green crystals. I gaze up at the strands of phosphorescent light waltzing across their stage.  Shafts of light the colour of moss break free and chase each other across the darker green mantle, only to turn around and repeat their silent manoeuvres. Huge bands of forest green move sedately, gliding diagonally across the firmament and then quicken, as if suddenly hurrying, turning to emerald on their jo

(For Part One, see 25 May 2015) The narrow street was crowded with tourists ambling slowly in the sun, licking ice creams, chatting and gazing in shop windows. Harz found it difficult to keep track of the white-haired man. At one point he lost him and realised he must have turned off somewhere. He backtracked, broke into a run, dodged around slow-moving pedestrians and caught sight of his man disappearing up a narrow alleyway. The cobbles were uneven and Harz had to take care with his footing. He slowed and tried to steady his breathing. He wondered why he was chasing this man. He had no idea what he would do if he finally managed to confront him. The alley twisted and turned, the surface changing from cobbles to concrete and even to carpet for one section outside a wine shop. The sun was dazzling when he emerged from the shade of the alley onto the main street, just in time to see the man jumping onto a tram. Harz followed, the doors slamming behind him. He slotted a euro