Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

In his youth he whirled by, a passing blur, always on to the next thing, ‘No time’ his favourite phrase. Always first in the 100 yards. First in the dinner queue, first to finish eating, first for seconds. First out of the exam room door, though never first in exam results. First to spend all his pocket money, first to ask Dad for more, Not that he got any more. But in old age William has slowed down. He stands by the pond for ages, counting the ducks, Refusing to feed them because, you know, bread’s not good for them. He walks slowly down to the shop to buy his Mirror, Drinks his coffee standing up at the tea bar, slow sip by slow sip. Ambles his way round the park, Retired greyhound, Frank, longing for a bit of youthful speed. Takes an age on the crossword, Cryptically questioning his answer to every teasing clue, Before finally filling each square with the appropriate pencilled letter. Plays his thirty three and a third records, through the long win

They sat around the table, poised, as if to see who was brave enough, who would take the first sip. Richard audibly swallowed, Gwendolynn coughed, Arthur flinched. There was an art in waiting and it seemed like they were all keen to be the victor of it. A chill wind blew through the ramparts and William shivered. He knew that he should be king by right and that none of these so-called contenders had any right to the throne, unlike him, the nephew of reigning monarch, Edward. Edward, who too, sat at the table, ailing fast, willing the victor to have courage and take a sip from the gold etched chalice in the centre of the table.   The chalice filled with wine so sweet that it made angels weep, or so Gwendolynn claimed, though William was certain it was poisoned. Edward was meant to have procured and poured the sweet wine himself into the vessel but as he was so ill, he entrusted Gwendolynn to perform the task, a task that she was happy to fulfill. “Now it is time,” Gwendolynn

Maisie met Phil again after 40 years at the Rosebud grammar school reunion dinner in Coventry, they danced and flirted for most of the evening. Phil had aged well, he was on the athletics team at school, and had obviously kept that up, but Maisie had not liked him while they were at school together. He confessed that picking on her from time to time was the only way that she would have taken any notice of him. Maisie had rolled her eyes at that comment. Teenaged Maisie had turned young boys’ heads and had the girls gossiping about her even when she was asleep.   Middle age was a turning point for many, and Phil having said that he was now separated sounded plausible, after all Maisie was a divorcee. No surprise when she had received a call from Phil a month later, telling her that he was in London and wanting to take her out to dinner. He had told her that he travelled to London quite frequently from his base in Madrid. Maisie has a fear of flying and was fascinated by anyone who

My friend, Keith, Kevin? You know who I mean. He helped me up from the floor and to his car. He drove me to the hospital. At the reception desk he told the computer to take good care of me and wished me a speedy recovery with a pat on my shoulder. I answered a lot of touch-screen questions and sat on chairs outside three different clinics. Bright lights were shone, images taken, blood extracted from both my arms by robotic machines.  A grey-haired doctor decided I needed to be kept in for observation. I asked if he knew what was wrong with me. ‘The computer is reading your epigenome now. We’ll have your entire medical history – and future – in a minute or two.   He invited me to sit in a wheelchair to be transferred to Ward 15 – a journey involving two lifts and a travelator, up, sideways, and up again. The view from my bed close to the windows of Ward 15 was spectacular. I could see the stars in the night sky in crisp detail all the way to the other side of the galaxy withou