Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  I listened to Poetry Please on Radio 4 on Sunday. One poem that struck a chord was One Art by Elizabeth Bishop, about losing or forgetting things. This has become a known aspect of the Covid lockdown – people really are finding their memory is getting worse. We have lost the routines, the conversations, the interactions that force our brains to focus, concentrate on what is happening, who we are talking to and why. We slop around the house – many people have said they no longer bother to wash their hair as much or put fresh clothes on every day or wear make-up. It’s not worth it, we don’t have customers to worry about when we send emails out. Zoom meetings can be ‘any time, any place, anywhere’ (for those of you are old enough to remember the Martini ad!) Of course, we forget things from the past, too. We remember things we want to remember and filter out other things, such as that train fare we ‘forgot’ to pay or that time we tripped over our own feet and felt a complete

At market there was a sign: ‘HAND WARMER’. I have bad circulation this time of year, so I followed the glowing arrows.   They stopped at this stall with a bloke behind. He looked creepy in his corduroy cardigan. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘come for a hand-warming?’   I couldn’t see any packets or boxes so I asked, ‘How though?’ He held out his own hands. I pulled back. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘That’s not decent.’ ‘Tis hand-warming though.’ He got me there. ‘I prefer packets.’ ‘Packets?’ He scoffed. ‘Bah! I can guarantee true heat!’ True heat? That sounded even less decent. ‘Come on,’ he said, eyebrows waggling. ‘Tis electric.’ ‘Electric how?’ He paused. ‘I have a pacemaker.’ I finally had enough and left. ‘Please,’ he called after me. ‘I’m your fellow man.’ But I kept on walking. A handshake’s all well and good but not one long enough to keep off cold.

Hi to all you listeners out there and welcome to The Match. Sorry to disappoint any of you who’ve tuned in expecting me to talk about football. But as all you lovely regulars know, we’re here to find out how you met your other half, how you got together. And today we’ve got a special couple. I’ll start by introducing John North. Hi John, how are you? I’m very well thanks, Jimmy. So, tell me a bit about where you live. Well, it’s extremely cold here. But it’s slowly getting warmer. Meeting people is difficult. There’s just not many of us around. And with the cold, you know, if you do manage to find someone there’s all the business of big coats, over-trousers and gloves to deal with. But despite all that, I hear you’ve managed to find a partner. I’ve been very lucky. How did you meet? On the International Dating Line which I’ve never used before. It’s always seemed so far distant from my world. But hey…it’s come up trumps! Well, this is where I should introduce Jane…Jan

Christmas Christmas time should be such a pleasure, With precious memories for us to treasure. So why do we always shop, shop, shop, Spend, spend, spend, till we’re fit to drop. And as it draws near, that day in December, The true meaning of Christmas we must remember. Loved ones who have left us, but not forever, Still in our thoughts as we gather together. Think of others sitting alone, Those on the street without a home. Spare a thought for their pitiful plight, As we eat and drink into the night. It’s not about money, but giving and sharing, Christmas time is for loving and caring. So as we rejoice in endless chatter, Remember the things that really matter. A Special Christmas Frosty fingers on my window pane Children sledging down an icy lane A lonesome robin hopping by Snowflakes fluttering from a darkening sky A solitary snowman stands alone As carol singers wend their way home to hot mince pies and festive sherry Over indulge - it’s a

 This may not be quite up to Keat's view of Autumn, but I hope it evokes a positive feeling as we head towards winter and whatever that may bring us.  “ It serves no useful purpose now,” he told them. “ Once it marked a boundary, built in local stone, the easiest to hand, stretching out across the land, showing how man divided up his world. But now, it serves no useful purpose.” Fallen into disrepair: decayed, dishevelled, ivy creeping over the coppice stones. And briars, bowed with luscious fruits bursting in the autumn sun, or ripped apart by urgent beaks. Blackbird whistles a warning to the world, alerting all, freezing the moment. Scarlet rose hips glisten, polished bags bulging,  spilling the last pieces onto the dark earth, and a mouse scurries to snatch the bounty into the safe haven of the crumbling courses. The people move on, picking their way over sharp, white stones fresh laid on the worn-out car park. They scurry to the tea rooms, as

When I was a child, my dad worked away from home and probably missed half of my childhood Christmases (he was in the Merchant Navy and spent his Christmases in many far-flung places).   Money was always very tight, but especially at this time of year, and my mum was used to making it stretch - dad used to joke that mum could make the Family Allowance (now Child Benefit) stretch indefinitely! One year, things were even tighter than usual, but we children were never aware just how poor we were, thanks to mum’s fantastic creativity with everything she touched.   This particular year, mum not only cooked everything from scratch as usual, but made every single part of our Christmas - no mean feat when you have three little girls! She sewed dressing up clothes for us from old sheets and fabric she already had, even making a scaled-down version for our favourite dolls. Mum created a peg doll for each of us, drilling holes to poke pipe cleaners through for arms, and raiding her scraps bask

Spring. Days of gentle optimism unfurled and grew steadily longer.  Bright lime shoots pushed from the soil and nest builders, eager and bold, darted into hidden places, their beaks full of wriggling food.  The restless wren flew to her new orb of woven grasses, twigs and moss through a tiny door facing away from the chill wind that shook the dry clematis tangled over the arch. In May, bees rushed to the pendulous branches of the apple tree and swooped to trampoline inside the white blossom.  Fat, orange rosebuds swelled in the sun and pots squatted under the open kitchen window, full of crimson blooms like harlots’ petulant mouths. Propped flower spires reached into strangely quiet skies and netted fruit plumped and blushed as the earth grew warm.   Twelve weeks of waiting and watching as the sun climbed higher and the numbers started to fall.             We came up for air for a few rushed, summer weeks of partial respite but it hadn’t gone away. It regrouped and skulked in corners

A scream split the night. I bolted upright, grabbed my revolver from the bedside table and stumbled towards the door. I fumbled with the lock till the door clattered open onto the dim hallway running the length of the upper floor. The sound had come from the front of the building, and I made my way between the flickering lamps, casting dancing shadows across the hall. A gunshot rang out, and a dark feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. Something evil was at work. I pushed on, hurrying over the ageing carpets, the once-vibrant reds now faded to brown, discoloured by all manner of spillages over the years. A few faces appeared at doorways ahead but soon retreated at the sight of some half-naked fool toting a pistol. “Get the hell back inside.” Another gunshot from the main suite at the front of The Lucky Dollar, and I was at the door. I tried the handle, but it just shook in the frame. A single well-placed kick saw to the lock mechanism, and it swung inwards with a squeal. Light stream

  COVID-19, yes that controversy, or global pandemic, does not seem to be abating anytime soon. I am sure that like me, you’ve heard about, nay seen the many mishaps during online virtual meetings. I am not even sure that they are mishaps, because leopards do not change spots. But I suppose that we can all agree that it is easy to forget that there is an embedded camera in play in the heat of the 'office shenanigans' moment though. But what about the current online dating fiasco taken to a new level now, because after you have swiped in the direction of preference, there remains the dilemma of social distancing on a date. So, pray tell when will that sought after first kiss actually happen?   Will it be after using a dodgy or perfectly well-working test kit? Asking for a friend. A woman posted on FaceBook that men have become more confident under lockdown conditions and a bloke replied in capitals that it was about ‘desperation’. This situation is layered though isn’t it? Wha

Lifeless it sat there on the table, an empty vessel awaiting a soul. Its two eye-shaped holes stared unseeing at its creator, and a slit lined with human-like teeth gaped in a vague approximation of a smile. But there was nothing human about that face. It had no nose like its orange counterparts of the modern world, lacking the character often bestowed upon those distant relatives in the here and now. A candle passed into the hollow frame, though the lantern was made no less eerie for the orange glow. Its creator didn’t seem to notice. This was her favourite time of the year, and she observed these ancient customs with more than just sacred duty. Lady Sarah of Wilton stood back to admire her handiwork. She could have had the servants carve out the turnip for her, but every year she insisted on doing it herself. All Hallows’ Eve was one of the few nights where anything might be possible. It was a night for lost souls, their one chance to find their way to Heaven through the prayers of t

  Calls to act now Languish on deaf ears. Images of arboreal destruction, Melting ice-kingdoms And flooded plains Tell us we must do more. Earth weeps.   Champions of the future, Help those who come after us And show them we care. Nurture our precious planet. Go in search of new ways. Even now, there is time.   Ask yourself – what can I do, today? Climb out of your habits. Turn the tide.   Not on our watch Or our children’s, Will we let this continue.   An acrostic poem is one in which the first letter of each line spells out a message.            

Margaret, a spinster, mid-fifties, is at the kitchen sink washing up and looking out of the window. She is thinking of the passing of an acquaintance. Well, of all the things I could think of, one of them was not watching that woman from number sixty-two parading herself on the arm of a swanky looking man in full daylight. Has she no common decency? No sense of grief? And she is wearing red shoes! What is the world coming to, I blame it on the television.   Mind you, I always knew it would come to this. I had a feeling when the funeral was on, not that I attended, not for all the tea in China. Not that I didn’t like the husband, no. It was more I that disliked her.   He was as regular as clockwork. Walked past me every morning at 7.45 on his way to the station and back in the evening at 5.55, always had a cheery smile for me. He worked in the city, Leeds, in one of the big banks, Midland, I think. I hear he was a big noise in property too. Their house is nice enough but n

I’m Colin the computer and I work in A and E No one even knows my name and no one speaks to me. I’m very stressed and overworked,   I rarely take a break I sit in line and don’t complain - it’s hard for goodness sake. They bang my keys and spin me round, they simply do not care Sometimes they gather in little groups, just simply stand and stare. I always seem to get the blame when things are not quite right But I only store what they give to me - morning, noon and night. An x-ray here, another scan and even a ruptured spleen Dashing about here and there, switching from screen to screen. Zooming in and zooming out,   please make up your mind Something else they must have lost or simply cannot find.   Poor Carol’s in reception and she doesn’t like that crowd. It’s busier than ever and they’re noisy, rude and loud. Carl has done much better, he’s sitting with a nurse A private little office, now that must be a first. Not a major accident or another late n

What do you want, Gav? There’s been a break-in! Well that’s a first. What’s missing? Don’t tell me. One of the barrels of embalming fluid? A few sheets of mahogany? Or one of our super-luxe caskets? It’s worse than any of them. It’s 105/20! Oh no! That’s Charlie Hughes, isn’t it. He was alright…but his relatives! So how did our Burke and Hare get in? Well that’s the thing. They must have got hold of a key somehow and what with the alarm being on the blink… So, it wasn’t strictly speaking a break in at all. Still – it’s not as if we’ll be claiming for him on the insurance. No, boss. What do you want me to do – call the cops? I suppose you’d better. Perhaps we can get them to break the news to Mrs Hughes. Wait a mo though. Maybe we should keep schtum for the time being. If we can find Charlie and get him back, she’ll be none the wiser. The cameras opposite might have picked up the body snatchers. Good thinking, Gav. When you talk to the police, don’t mention Charlie, just tell them we’ve