Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

The art of doing nothing when on holiday is not one which is easily perfected.  It takes hours of planning, preparation and practice. The trick is to make it look, to others, as though you are being idle.  You know that you have fine-tuned your version of indolence so that you can make it look effortless, but others will not recognise that.  They think you are being lazy.  That is their problem.  They do not have the wit to know that they are being deceived. If you are a novice relaxee, you may need a companion, but you do need to choose wisely.  You need someone who is carefully trained to spot when you might be in danger of spontaneous activity, and who will immediately prevent such exertions.  They will, of course, not wish to strain themselves too much in restraining you from sudden movement.  A mere shake of the head will suffice. Let me give you an example of the art.  On one particular afternoon, in the height of a French summer, my companion and I were sittin

It was inevitable that Leda and Troy would fall in love. How could they not? What could be more romantic than risking certain death together on the high wire, falling together, plunging through the air into the net below? The tension, the elation, the adoration and gasps from the crowd as they performed high in the circus tent, were intoxicating. Though watched by hundreds of eager eyes, yet they were alone, isolated on the high wire. A proper circus wedding. There was some discussion as to whether the Circus Master should give the bride away, or perform the role of best man. But as Mr Byzantine was a rather portly gentleman, not known for his lightness of step, it was felt that to attempt to stand on the high wire might be a step too far. It was agreed that he could give Leda away, handing her onto the wire from the safety of his turret, high above the congregation. He would be symbolically setting her on her journey to join her groom. The trapeze artists wanted a

Sister, Dear I picture you in snow-crisp white, Slight fingers, clasping fur rimmed hood, Round, chestnut curled, smiling face, Light-reflecting, pinkened cheeks. Stronger than I, when I feel strong, Weaker than I, when I feel weak, Integral part of life, of me, No need to speak, when silence speaks. It sometimes strikes me, sister, how, I seldom speak to friends your name, As of the others oft I do, With powered passion or in pain. I’ve pondered, timely, question why, To this the simple answer clear, For you just Are, as Tao in Pooh, With tender love, my sister, dear. by Annabel Howarth

I didn’t notice the man at first. He was sat on the other side of the bar, nursing a pint and a crossword. Older, perhaps late sixties, early seventies, dressed in an unremarkable fashion - beige anorak, grey slacks. Ordinary. Invisible. It was only when he passed by our table on the way back from the gents, that I caught sight of his shoes. Or what was left of his shoes. Tattered, full of holes, and with three rubber bands round each shoe, holding them together and onto his feet. The sight of these shoes made me sad. Really sad. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. After all, other than his shoes he looked reasonably well-kept, if not well-off.  As I tried to reconcile his mostly tidy and clean appearance with the catastrophe that were his shoes, I wondered what had happened in this man’s life to bring him to this point? How did he live? What was his story? While I couldn’t envisage him being on the streets, perhaps he was homeless, making what he could of life