Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I have been saying that ‘I don’t do Christmas’ for some time now. I was first inspired by a friend who had me perplexed some 15 years ago, when I was invited to her home for Xmas and she opened Christmas cards and displayed them on her mantlepiece whilst commenting to me that she did not send cards to people. I was baffled, shocked even, I asked how could you not? I was still in that mode of trawling through the address book and sending cards to all and sundry. So of course, I simply could not comprehend her stance on this ritual, that I myself had never questioned, along with buying presents for many, and getting the tree up and decorated and shopping till I dropped.   I recall one year, I had decorated my tree and my sister informed me that trees had Themes. I had been using the same baubles and tinsel each year and added to them if I saw something new that I liked.  I drew the line right there. I was not going to throw out my hoard of Christmas decorations to get in line wi

How did I meet him? Through a dating site. His profile stood out because of its honesty. Instead of bigging himself up like most men he admitted to a long list of faults without a hint of shame. True to his claim of unreliability, he failed to show at Pizza Express at the agreed time. Usually I would have glugged down my wine, dismissed him as a tosser and slunk off home dispirited. But I didn’t want to let it go. There was a tantalising familiarity about his picture. I was sure I had met him before and I needed to know where.  A few taps and swipes on my phone later I had a mobile number for him. I ordered a second glass of wine and sent him a cheeky text asking how long he would be and did he want me to order for him. I tapped the table with my sparkly nails waiting for a ping of acknowledgement. Half a glass of wine later my phone was still as silent as a church mouse. I was about to press the phone sign and give him a piece of my mind when I had a better idea. I was dres

We had a rare night out this week – a pre-Christmas meal with friends.    There is not much I could do nowadays that would cause our boys to raise their heads from their latest gaming obsessions.    But there was a time when Mummy putting on clothes that were not covered in baked beans was a source of great curiosity. Oliver would watch me applying make-up with great interest. “Mummy, why are you decorating your face?” he once asked. How to explain to a three year old? To try to look less exhausted? To hide my desire to forget the whole “going out thing” and just put my pyjamas on? I can’t remember what explanation I gave, but I doubt he was satisfied with it. Sometimes their questions would be more disconcerting. Children are painfully honest.   As I was straightening my hair, William watched with a fascinated expression.  “Mummy, are you trying to make your hair REALLY flat?” he asked. I have to confess, “flat” was not exactly the look I was g

Snowflake, A miracle of creation, Born from the heavens, Perfect to my eyes, When do you first wonder, “Though in my six-sided symmetry, I hear I am beautiful, I hear I am perfect, Which of us is best?” “Who do you love the most?” You are perfect to my eyes, You are perfect to my soul, Each one of you is Loved. You, Whose journey began In a frantic storm, which Twisted and turned you, Quick and slow, from East to West, each move, Shaping you, You are perfect to my eyes. You, Who fell quietly, Gently, Softly, In the middle of the night, You are perfect to my eyes. You, who fell in a fanfare, of Joyous children’s smiles, And You, who fell hurriedly, on a Road of treacherous ice, You are perfect to my eyes. You, who grew angry, You, who just cried, You, who laughed at inappropriate times, You, who they called clever, You, who they called brave, You, they called a joker, You, they always blamed,

Thank you for inviting me to post. I enjoyed meeting you all in Huddersfield, and hope to come again soon. For those of you I didn't meet, I'm Elizabeth Hopkinson, a fantasy and fairy tale writer from Bradford. You can read more about me at elizabethhopkinson.uk This is a little piece I wrote for the programme of Clayton Dickensian Market, which takes place on 2nd December. It's an annual event in my home village, and it's become a bit of a tradition in recent years for me to contribute something to the programme:       Clayton Dickensian Market. Photo from Hello Yorkshire. The market appears like magic, once a year. Yesterday, it was not here. Today, the cries of the vendors mingle with the sound of accordions and bagpipes, the music of the merry-go-round and the jingle of loose change. The winter air is thick with smell of mulled wine, pie ‘n’ peas, cinder toffee and roasting chestnuts. Here, the boundaries between reality and fantasy grow

Engine thrumming soothingly, absorbing  the kilometres, as each stretch of road is replaced by another, snowier than the last. Winter tyres earning their keep. The pine forest parts before us as if to let us through, drawing us further north. North into the land of the Sami, where the days shrink. The temperature slides, as does the sun. Barely a car passes, barely a sound penetrates the air. The hours pass us by and are left behind. And still the frigid road. And then the magic. Miniature flecks in the distance amplify a nd evolve into elegant reindeer. We stop, while these soft coated, horned magicians silently cross our path, casting their spell. Our drive continues. But, somehow, the images of those majestic Nordic heroes condense our onward journey, and leave us bewitched. November 2017