Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I'd been driving all night on Highway 67. The sun was coming up and the heat haze was turning the horizon to water. Seeing a neon diner sign, I decided to stop. The parking lot was deserted save for a rusty old Buick and a green Mustang. I stepped out of the car into the searing desert heat then wiped the sweat off my neck. I entered the cool air-conditioned diner. My shirt stuck to my back and I shivered. The jukebox was blaring out the strident tones of some goddam awful doowop song. The fake cheerfulness of the song contrasted deeply with the eeriness of the deserted diner. I ignored the sign that said ‘Wait to be seated,’ at the front and sat down in a booth. I figured that it being this deserted, there would be no need for such decorum, but I was wrong. "Hey Mister," a bored bubble-gum chewing waitress came over to berate me. I looked up at her. "Can't you read?" she said, arms crossed with a severe expression on her cheerleader perfect face. Blon

Note : The previous part of this story was posted on Monday 3rd December Lizzie has that glint in her eye after I’ve picked at my Christmas dinner, the disapproving one that thinks I’m just an old fool, she’s right, but not in the way she’s surmised. I know it’s hurting her, and for that I am sorry, I should have told her years ago of course but it’s too late now. Her red-lipped smile had grasped my heart before I’d even dared to ask her out. She was a woman encapsulating joy, just what I’d needed, flirtatious, fun, bursting with energy.   She wore a yellow dress, a bouncy ray of sunshine, linking arms with her sister when I’d first seen her walking on Blackpool prom. We exchanged a brief hello, but her smile over her shoulder told me she was interested as her sister pulled her away, laughing. She stamped out my shame with her carefree antics, daring me to drive her to the seaside in my Dad’s car or help her scale the huge wall to watch the race-horses parade, she thoug

Last Wednesday via WhatsApp I asked my friend Rowena how she was, and she replied in a low tone “above ground”, we giggled. She runs a travel business in Kingston, Jamaica and travels the world extensively. She had been complaining of feeling tired and needing to offload some of her work to her staff. I think she is struggling with 'letting go', as she built her business from scratch.  “Hhmm not heard that before" I said, "but it’s now mine too, so when someone asks how I am, I shall say ‘above ground and feeling grateful’”. I found this quote, cut it out and stuck it in my journal last year.‘I write quicker now because of the panic of death’ Playwright David Hare told The Times that age is a great cure for writers’ block [January 2018]. Well considering that in June 2018 my over zealous GP gave me a prognosis of imminent death due to advanced cancer based on a lung X-ray, a diagnosis that wasn’t based on sufficient medical examination or tests. However, f

REASONS TO BE TEARFUL. (Read to the tune of “Reasons To Be Cheerful...” by Ian Dury & The Blockheads.) Measles, Mumps, Rubella, Split up with your fella, Locked up in the cellar, song sung blue. Been taken for a ride, We’ve got nowhere to hide, Mother of the bride, Can't be true. Hannibal on the loose, too few kangaroo’s, Just run out of booze, Balance Due. Country is in deep debt, Cat needs to see a vet, Plug sockets are all wet, A day to rue. Car's got a flat tyre, Billy's not a liar, Daddy's not my sire, Tea's gone cold Russians in the Ukraine, Lion without a mane, Lex's kidnapped Lois Lane Brass aint bold. Gone to meet his maker, Street without a baker, Used up all my data, Tale untold. They've all gone and left me, Beaten up by Bruce Lee, Sad and melancholy, My body's old.