Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Her second set, A Jazz Christmas , ended with even more applause than her first. She found herself wishing Lawrence had seen it. He was quite different to her usual taste in men but she liked his cheekiness and confidence. She would dress for lunch. She gathered up her music and went to the bar, had a single nightcap. She became conscious that a man was trying to catch her attention. Hoping he was not a fan, she beckoned him over. “Sorry to bother you, Miss Johnson, I have a message from Mr Foster.” He handed her an envelope saying, “No answer is required, Miss. Goodnight.” She looked at it for a full minute trying to guess what might be inside then, ripping the top open, she discovered it was a short note inviting her to his hotel after she finished for the night. She was not expecting that nor would she ever do such a thing after a short time of knowing anyone. As was her habit she would take a cab home. Putting her coat on, she went outside and immediately saw an orange light.

  It’s not much fun getting older. I’m sure you must agree. Each task seems so much harder. It would help if I could see.   I really need new glasses, something funky and up to date. But it’s time now for my exercise, don’t want to leave it too late.   Aching legs and stiff knee joints, I’d love to walk much faster. I try my best to gather speed, don’t want to end up in plaster.   The ground today is slippery, following so much rain. It’s hard work keeping going, but they say no pain, no gain.   I think there’s a storm coming over, I can hear a distant rumble. I suddenly try and increase my speed, and that’s when I take a tumble.   With a mighty crash down I go, head long into thick black mud. I’m flat on my back, legs in the air, I’d get up if only I could.   It seems like forever before I can move, and the rain’s coming down quite fast. A few hours later I’m stuck in my chair, my left ankle encased in a cast.   I’m

Sunday. 6 am. Sunny, freezing cold, too tired, why am I awake?! Tabby cat prowls the landscape of my bed, daintily stepping over me then head butts me into stroking her, purrs at ridiculous decibel levels for this quiet time of day. Yawning. Jaw-splitting. Unfolding unnatural bends in joints, popping and crackling like human cereal. Teenage son awake at the same unseemly hour, keen as mustard, willing to get out of his cosy nest, eagerness only for the prospect of the rare treat of an online tournament for his current game. Coffee. Lots… Rinse and repeat… Daughter, yawning and cold, demanding food, snuggling into blankets on sofa, still half asleep but won’t go back to bed. Ping. Football WhatsApp. Snow-covered pitches, back to bed…?! (*praying…) Unanswered prayers (a la Garth Brooks), freezing football pitch, sun/hail/wind/snow, 16 weeks without football, 22 stiff, clumsy, gangly teenagers, chocolate biccies at half time, travel-cup coffee cold too soon. Goals… Plural… Even a penalty

Sorry if this appears rude, but why would I want to read about picking cherries? Fair question. Well, the book is not a guide to picking cherries, but there is a lot of fruit in it. And water. It’s a novel set in a camp for migrant fruit pickers beside Lake Okanagan in Canada. The workers are a mixed bunch of French Canadians, US draft dodgers, First Nation people, and Indians from India. A couple of English students, Lionel and Walker, get work there in the summer of 1976. They take a fancy to three young French Canadian women, two of whom are sisters. Four decades later, Lionel has become a senior politician and Claudette, the younger of the sisters, accuses Lionel of rape. Why did you choose the Okanagan Valley for the setting? Travelling through Canada in the 1970s I camped for the night in small place called Oyama. The next morning, there were two people already hitching at the highway junction so I went into a café for breakfast. I asked if anyone knew where I could get wor