Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

 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