Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

dead as a doornail bonnet up poke around inside but what for I know nothing about car engines kick the tyres in mock frustration close the bonnet lock up and start walking snow is thickening but I’m dressed for it boots a parka with a decent hood just the problem of trying to keep the snow out of my eyes when the wind gusts full in the face whisky bottle party-entry fee safe in an inside pocket what a year company folded redundancy payout don’t make me laugh only enough to keep me in booze and cigs for a month and Liz left soon afterwards not that I can blame her wasn’t in a good place dip your bloody lights why do they always ignore pedestrians probably because we’re pedestrian no need to bother about you mate back into sudden blackness there’s something nice about the walk now warming up crunch crunch underfoot, snowballs nicely rounded between leather gloves dispatched into darkness Eve might be there it’s possible maybe not likely but possible I keep thi

It wasn't so late but it was late for Christmas Eve.             He had to go. There were festive chores to finalise, a car to de-ice before trundling home.             He rose from the sofa. She did too.             "It was lovely seeing you," he said.             Her green eyes gleamed in the twinkly Christmas tree lights. "You too."             "Thanks again. For the jumper."             A simple design: red with holly decoration at the collar, cuffs and hem and two large bells on the chest.             He raised his hands trying not to draw attention to the length of the sleeves. She insisted that she had worked on the jumper with only three balls of wool: one red, one green and one gold. In that case they each must have been the size of her head.             She tilted it now, struggling to keep her small, straight smile from breaking.             "Okay," he said and moved for the door.             As he left t

This was first written in 2014 whilst working out in Yangon, Myanmar. I had never shared a house with a stranger before nor a dog.   John was originally from Hertfordshire but had been working for the British Council in Myanmar for 10 years. His dog Li slept with him and was a fine example of man’s best friend. So here I was house sharing with a dog lover. The property had a huge gate and wire fencing all around. We had been relocated here due to a flood in the previous accommodation.  I am standing behind as we look at the muddy water Li and I are heading downstairs I had noticed that Li was well fed by the domestic help and was not taken for walks. John left early for work and returned in the evening.   At this new house the big gate had a gap and the dog had tried repeatedly to squeeze himself under it. One Saturday I observed him really excited as he communicated through the bars, with a dog who was on the other side of the gate, Li tried to wriggle himself out

There were noises   coming from the house. Loud, manic laughter and pulsing music. The sort that could get on your nerves if you weren’t in the right mood. And she wasn’t. She walked towards the building at a slow pace, each step dragging her in. There were flashing lights. She hated flashing lights; they made her eyes go funny. A car shot past, screeching to a halt. Two men got out but didn’t see her, standing in the dark as she was. They rang the doorbell and were greeted enthusiastically, Music spilled out, some sort of dance music, she supposed. Not her sort of thing at all. She was too old for that sort of nonsense. The door slammed shut and peace was relatively restored. The level of irritation and annoyance swelled inside her, and she could no longer stay still. The house was calling to her and she quietly let herself in through the unlocked door. Everyone appeared to be in the room to the left, so she made her way over to the right. The kitchen was a place of soli

It’s happened before of course, but never at this time of year and unfortunately, in his elder years, he doesn’t seem to have the intelligence or compassion to even try and hide it. Something has to be done. Take this morning for example, it’s the Tuesday before Christmas and because of the holidays her routine has changed, so of course his has too. He’s agitated and doesn’t know what to do with himself, claiming he had a ‘headache’ and that’s why he got up early. He’s written a letter to his brother, fiddled with his phone and is now pretending to read the paper. When he thinks I can’t see, he stretches up, uncurling the folds in his neck, meerkat-like to survey the field and path to the woods that we overlook from the dining room window. I follow his gaze, the path is empty, I can almost feel the disappointment seeping from his fingertips as he drums the table. He’s been sat there all day, waiting, watching. I tut to myself and return to the lunch dishes. What an old