Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

The best you can achieve just takes a leap of faith. The job application, a love letter, quitting a habit, a new business venture, taking your leave of a person or place. It just takes a leap of faith. And yet that leap is chained, glued, riveted to the past. Such a simple thing. A leap of faith. But what about the gap? The crevasse? What if you fall? What if anyone is watching? Judging? Laughing? What if you take the leap and don’t land where you want? For you might not. What if you can’t go back? For you never can. What if this? What if that? And then? And then what? What unimagined joys, inventions, acts of heroism are lost because someone like you didn’t take a leap of faith? Leap. And the net will appear. Leap.  It’s just a step. Take that step. Have faith. Leap. Now.

The morning after polling day, I decided to camp out on [FB] Face Book, with a cup of piping hot tea, crowned with a slice of lemon. As my PC whirred into action, my ear was picking up what the ‘regular’ callers to LBC Radio, had to say about the election results. I quickly posted on FB, that the LBC presenters would be choking on their saliva, as they reported the results. There were more than a few callers from both major parties, incandescent with rage, apoplectic even, and others, who were overwhelmed with joy, that ‘ their leader ’ had won. Anyone engaged in the political process in the UK in June 2017, knew that both those emotional responses were a tad extreme, considering the reality of the results. I laughed a lot. My conclusion was that some LBC presenters, could conceal their emotions better than others. The callers needed not show any restraint, after all they were not directly responsible for broadcast content, so of course they let rip, and depending on the directio

“Have you seen who’s in the paper?” The bedsprings creaked as she shifted her position. “Given I’m still asleep, darling, I would say not.” “Well, wake up then and have a look. I think it will intrigue you.” I stayed where I was for about 10 more seconds before concluding that I was indeed intrigued. I rolled over towards her and opened my eyes. She was sitting up in bed, the newspaper spread across her lap, her profile in silhouette against the light streaming through the insubstantial curtains.  “Here, take a look,” she said, moving the paper in my direction and placing an immaculately manicured fingertip on a small grainy picture at the bottom of the page. I peered at it and recognised him immediately. A tall, smartly dressed older man with a young lady on his arm standing on the steps of Number 10 Downing Street. “R,” I said. “Amazing what the right school tie does for you. Seems like they’ve forgiven him his misdemeanours then.” “We knew he was in the clea

We craned our necks to see who would be the latest arrival at the party – all except Dmitri, who kept his gun pressed into my chest. It appeared he was the only one not to be surprised by the sudden appearance of the head of British Intelligence. ‘R’ wrinkled his nose. “My God, it smells worse in here than it does out there. Fear does that, doesn’t it? Never mind, we’ll be on our way soon. You can put your toy down, Dmitri. The games are over. Alan can either hand over the complete microfilm now or he can wait until we take him apart piece by piece in the Lubyanka.” Dmitri moved away from me and I brushed my shirt to erase the impression of the muzzle. Perhaps it was the heat, but I was confused. I needed time to think. Why was ‘R’ speaking to Dmitri like he was an old friend? As if they were on the same side… The penny dropped and a wave of disgust and nausea swept over me. I had spent most of my career working for a traitor. A second later, no more, and I realised that m