Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I like a good brisk walk, especially down by the canal, and nearly every time, I find myself pausing for a few minutes break to perch on the old bench. It's nothing special - just a bench, but it holds a strange attraction to me... Two knobbly, off-white precast concrete supports in the shape of a lowercase 'h', spanned by four rough   weathered grey wooden planks which form the seat itself and the backrest. All fixed together with eight strong, long, round-headed steel bolts. It's been there as long as I can remember, just sitting there, calm and placid throughout the years, squat and sturdy, resisting all that man and nature can throw at it - blistering summers, freezing winters, carved and painted by graffiti artists, and even two arson attempts. Yet still it survives. I'm not the only one who loves it; groups of rambling OAPs seem to prefer the old bench to the newer metal ones further down the uneven, puddle-spattered towpath. Gaily coloured bike-

After being founded in 1850 by Dr William Penny Brookes of Much Wenlock, the Wenlock Olympian Society Games featured many sports both serious and silly including an Old Women's Race where the prize was a pound of tea... I like Myfanwy for the pound of tea; she’s limber for seventy-eight. She doesn’t often lurch as we leave the church and always keeps going straight. You like Loretta, say that she’s better at short bursts of controlled speed. Still you’ve seen how she wheezes, and – God forbid! – sneezes when she manages to take the lead. Still this is a friendly bet and don’t you try any tricks. I’m not sure we’ll see old women race at the next Much-Wenlock Olympics. And off, Myfanwy! And off, Loretta! And off old Stanley her Irish red setter. The dog is nipping at Myfawny’s heels but Loretta’s tripping and now she cartwheels! I felt that fall! The poor dear’s bones! The crowd is appalled as she puffs and groa

The Comfort of Home - Juliet Thomas We are being asked to stay indoors; not to join up to a war-zone front-line, not to live on the streets, not to head off to a refugee camp… just to stay in the comfort of our own home.  What is being asked of us is nothing compared to others in this world and today more than any other, I need to remind myself of this as yesterday, as part of the ‘at risk’ group, I now need to stay at home for 12 weeks. Unfortunately, with the freedom and the luxuries of a Western life, we have become spoilt and take for granted the life we’ve come to know and love. Having been social distancing since November, due to chemo treatment, I know only too well the price disease can have on your freedom, your life. So, retreating to our homes it is, to the sanctuaries we’ve created, to home comfort, whilst the world heals. It’s not so bad really is it? I love my home, its name ‘Mulberry Barn’, conjures up a sketched image you could find in a

I envied her that bedroom with its sugar pink walls, flowery curtains and space.   It had posters, a Dansette record player and places for us to loll as we tried to copy the images of long-lashed, wispy thin, Californian girls with moon pennies in their hair. We burned joss sticks, the grey ash falling silently on to the painted, white floorboards and the dark, earthy, muskiness of patchouli mixing unsuccessfully with the aroma of a nearby Yorkshire coking plant. The sound of Sgt Pepper’s tracks filled the room that summer and we were word perfect, singing every track with scouse, nasal overtones. We played the run out groove at a slower speed to uncover words that were said to be hidden in the last bars. We never found them.  And then, when it got to seven o’clock we would return home, leaving talk of the hidden meanings of the lyrics for another day. My sandal-shod feet tapped down the uncarpeted stairs and outside down the path. I ran along the curve of the privet hedge bet

It hides inside your hat, It hides inside your shed, And when you go to sleep It goes inside your head. It has 10,000 eyes, It has 10,000 legs, And when it gets up close to you It smells like rotting eggs. Sometimes its eyes are green, Sometimes they are not, But always when they are It looks like boogie snot. It hates slippery floors, It hates the sight of cars, And when it always cries at night It's because it hates the stars. It steals paper bags, It steals all the clocks, And when it comes into a room It never ever knocks. It hides inside your hat, It hides inside your shed, And when you go to sleep It goes inside your head. It was half-term recently and Eve (my granddaughter) brought this poem along to Writers' Lunch.

As condensation faded from the café window, I saw all the women inside.             There was Marybeth with her clarinet, giving out a comical toot and setting off the rest of the table. Candice had the kind of laugh that visibly shook her to the point where she had to lay hands around her stomach to keep it steady. Henrietta and Stella tittered in much the same way as if they were twins separated at birth as everyone insisted. Juniper surprised me though with her weary eyes expressing no genuine joy in the moment.             And it was a lovely little moment. I was quite jealous if I’m honest, though soon Candice would doubtless say something she ought not to about a subject she didn’t really know much about. Some callous passing comment. If anyone brought her up on it, she would just hunch her shoulders and sulk.             I didn’t know why they all chose to meet together. I know Henrietta couldn’t stand Candice, presumably Stella too by proxy, and Juniper was such a busy wo