Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Transition Transition excites me.   It means development or growth.   Enhancement.   Improvement.   I want to exist in a state of transition.   To set off on a journey and arrive back in the same place but to have developed en route.   That is a good journey. Love A word used too often.   ‘I love Asian food’.   ‘I love Oxford.’   We should only be allowed to utter the word a maximum of 100 times in our whole lifetime.   Then we would use it wisely.   I love that idea.   Oops! Oddballs. I like people who are oddballs. Unless they sit next to me on a bus.   Then I feel intimidated by them. Intensity I wish I had a magic wand and could conjure up intensity when I required it – focus, concentration, passion, expression – at the drop of a hat.   How wonderful that would be. Place Everyone should have a place of their own.   A small space where they can be themselves.   Be safe, be warm, be content. If only for a moment.   It troubles me to think that many people do

Jane was starting to wish she had never given in to the Elf on the Shelf.    Emily had started her campaign in September. “You want an elf, don’t you Thomas?” she asked her little brother.   “What does it do?”   “It watches you, and it tells Santa if you’ve been good,” said Emily.    Thomas looked doubtful. “And it’s funny! It does lots of really fun things!” said Emily. “Everyone else had one last year.” She looked reproachfully at Jane.    It was true. Jane’s Facebook feed had been full of cute, clever photos of little red elves getting up to “mischief” in the homes of other school mums. It all looked like a lot of effort.    By the end of November,   Jane had been worn down. If the elf could get the kids to do their chores, then it was worth a try.      On the first day of December, she played it safe with the elf sitting in a plant pot, watching over the dinner table.    “I don’t like him watching me,” pronounced Thomas, as he tried to hide his broccoli stalks un

In a time long ago, before mountains were fully grown and the cold, harsh, rocky land was covered with snow and ice and the nights were as black as the inside of a black cat, (or an old oven) and wolves and other, unknown animals, (Hmmm), roamed with impunity, a Faerie Queen ruled over her people with a kind, beatific sense of peace and calm.  The Faerie Queen had been on her noble throne, (in reality a so-called magic rock), for many eons and she was thinking that it was time to hand over the wand to a younger queen and besides her bum was numb from sitting on the damned cold stone. So, one bright sunny day, the first for a while, she called a meeting of her sub rulers and their customer-facing drones. (Drones were mainly males but most did not have the parts that definitely meant they were males in the Faerie Queen’s eyes, well not eyes, you get the drift.) Her desired meeting was a call for the election of a new Queen and her most trusted Sentinels. This was the first time for two e

With the girlfriend gone, I can’t afford this place, so it’s downsizing time.    Going through box after box in the attic, I come across my old camera. There’s an unfinished film inside. With the camera pensioned off when I got my first smart phone, the film must be all of ten years old.    In town the next day I find a feller down in the arcade who still does developing. The age of the film shouldn’t be a problem. But it turns out the price tag includes having to listen to an endless story about his dog.    When I collect the prints the following day, I’m suddenly quite excited. No idea what they’ll show. I escape the storyteller and grab a coffee. Most of the snaps are either under or over-exposed. There’s one or two where I’ve tried and failed to be arty. But the final one stuns me.    I’ve no memory of it being taken. Perhaps the barman took the shot.    Four of us, arms over shoulders, like first row forwards, grinning like idiots. Me and my old school pal Jonno and two

He sat down at the carved antique desk and looked out of the window at the long drive ahead.  On the desk before him lay smooth vellum writing paper, coloured inks and an array of beautiful writing implements.  A familiar sight and one which normally centred him and made him feel calm.  But not this time.  He looked out at the carefully manicured lawns and the rows of poplar trees standing to attention in the warm sun.  What would it be like to lose all of this? His hands shook as he lifted his favourite fountain pen and began to fill it with purple ink.  He gripped the chunky barrel of the pen and held it, poised over the paper, as he considered how to start what might be the most important letter of his life. Suddenly, the door opened so violently that it made him jump and a tiny blob of purple ink escaped from the pen and fell onto the paper. 'Damn,' he uttered as the ink slowly spread outwards, as if it were acid, eroding the paper. 'How can you even think of wr