Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Remembering Abu Simbel Twice yearly at the equinox a golden spear pierces early vapour (sometimes setting clouds on fire) arrows along the Grimescar Valley until, encountering an obstacle to its interstellar path (my house, my cave, my temple) it rips through a curtain crevice to slay my dream-bound sleep with blood-red light, changing me in a single strike from sleeping animal to waking god.

Excalibur washed up at Hollingworth Lake. I was down by the shore, feeding ducks at the time. All of a sudden, the sword bobbed up and sent them squawking away.             I could tell what it was on sight, ancient and grandiose.  The hilt was very plain considering the legend; bronze rather than gold. At least the quartz in its pommel had retained some lustre, if not any real colour. There were quite a few noticeable rust marks along the blade itself too. Considering coastal erosion, I would say Excalibur did well to look so good. It took me a minute to realise that I could raise it. Did that mean I was King of England now? Arthur's rightful successor? Not too likely. I had glanced at my Auntie's copy of the family tree. She insisted our roots began sometime during the Jacobean era. Nevertheless, I felt like an absolute badass. I swung the sword around a bit: “Take that, Morgan le Fey! And that, Mordred!” Did Arthur have another enemy with a name beginning with ‘M

The day the world changed, the sun was shining.   It was long after the party, when all the street was covered with flags made from old clothes and bed sheets, and we’d stayed up late, and I saw my mother smile with her eyes for the first time.  The women were always chattering, but the chattering had taken on a different air, as they prepared for the big celebration.  The factory was closed for the day.  Everyone was happy that day, eating, drinking and smoking, dancing even, into the night.  And mother was full of bumptiousness, as Aunty Sarah called it.  Although mother wasn’t sure that was the right word at all.  After that we waited “for the men to come home” but the waiting went on.  Mother lost her smile again, but after a while of staring at the door, everything went back to as it was.  Mother went to the mill and I stayed home with Auntie Sarah, until the day I was dressed in new shoes from Aunty Nancy’s shop, and we had our picture taken at the photographer shop.  Me

Remember, Remember She used to love Bonfire Night, it was the highlight of Autumn for her, she was never a huge fan of Halloween and the grotesque costumes that the other kids found hilarious. She’d shiver in the damp, windy nights, trying to keep up with the older kids on her street who squealed in delight, knocking on neighbours’ doors and running into the distance, before she lost sight of them in the darkness. No, Bonfire Night was different; warm, magical and filled with ‘Ooos’ and ‘Ahhs’. Bonfire Night meant getting wrapped up in layer upon layer of woollen tights, jeans, fat socks and purple wellies, vests and polo necks, a big duffle coat and knitted scarf, thick mittens and an itchy bobble hat that covered her eyes. By the time she tramped across the fields, holding her Mum and Dad’s hands, she’d walk stiffly like a robot, snug as a bug in a rug. Once the fire was lit, she’d edge closer, the heat warming her eyeballs and spreading like warm water acros