Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I have a time machine, but instead of me using it, rather it uses me.   I can’t often control the journeys, but they are often marvellous, sometimes emotional, sometimes hilarious, occasionally too sad to bear. You’ve probably got one, too. Not a Jules Verne contraption, of course, unless there’s something you’re not telling me?! No, my/your time machine is our sense of smell, and it drags you, unbidden, years and miles into your past, making you bear witness to your younger self. What sends you back in time? Certain cooking smells?   Perfume?   Woodsmoke?   Warm, damp earth?   Fresh paint or creosote? For me it can be raspberries cooking away in a pan, that takes me back to being 7 or 8, and watching mum making jam in our tiny little kitchen. Or Chanel No 5, first given to me by a friend whose dad travelled for work, and was rather well off, so thought nothing of bring back such luxuries for his daughter; she gave me a bottle, saying she already had one and didn’t need

It’s Cyril Johnston on the phone. Chairman of the Allotment Society. Very particular about not being a chair. I’m a person not a piece of bloody furniture. But the rest of the committee puts up with him, because nobody else wants the job.     “You’re needed, pronto, down at the allotments,” he says in his usual clipped tone.     “Why?” I ask. But his phone has gone dead. Unusual for Cyril. He usually chunters on and on. What a nuisance. I’m only just back in the house and had been looking forward to a leisurely breakfast in the garden. Prompted by Cyril’s use of the word pronto, I decide to take the bike rather than walk. Nosy neighbour 1, a relative newcomer to the village, tells me a man knocked on my door last night. Not someone she recognised. I thank her for the information and pedal away.   It’s a lovely, late June morning. The leafy back lane provides a handy shortcut.   The blue flashing lights catch my attention on the approach to Lark Lane Fields, Police vehicle

I’ve travelled the wide world over, met authors, poets and composers. I’ve seen kings and queens, on their islands of dreams, with their legends and sweet memorabilia. I’ve travelled to countries far, far away, seen beautiful mountains and lochs. All with a library ticket – to a wonderful world of books.

I Am Thinking of a Number Mr Patel had a big bushy beard. It was mesmerising the way all that black fuzz scraped against the buttons of his blue work shirt, never once unsettling his green silk tie. He had a very energetic way of standing, moving back and forth on his heels and constantly jutting out his chin.             “All right you lot,” he said to my class one day, “I am thinking of a number. Any guesses?”             “Four?”             “No.”             “Eleven?”             “Not a chance.”             A quiet descended, broken only by the occasional knock on our low ink-stained tables or the click of a wonky chair rocking back. Mr Patel looked out at all of our faces, waggling his eyebrows.             There were too many possibilities, more possibilities than the average junior school pupil could fathom. Still there was one last attempt at this seemingly impossible guessing game.             “Three hundred and forty-six?” Nazeem asked. He scratched at his ov