Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

   “You can’t put a price on a good night’s sleep.” The salesman smiles flashing a row of gleaming white teeth.   He probably uses the same phrase every time he sells one of these expensive beds, but I suppose it’s true, and I am taking rather a long time to make up my mind.      I know I want a double bed and I’ve chosen the headboard in a neutral shade, in case I change the décor in my bedroom, and I’ve eventually decided on a mattress after testing hundreds, well not that many obviously, but quite a few. My problem at the moment is deciding whether to have drawers at the sides or at the bottom of the bed.    He’s beginning to lose patience.   He’s trying not to but he’s looked at his watch three times and now he’s stifling a yawn.   I don’t care. It’s an important decision, not to mention a lot of money, and I will not be rushed.    “The thing is,” he continues through gritted teeth.   “How much room do you have at the bottom of the bed?   You’ll need enough space to open the

(A walk around the south shore of the Upper Lake in the grounds of Bretton Hall, now Yorkshire Sculpture Park, takes in the 18th century shell grotto. Once inhabited by a hermit, this magical place had views of the house, an obelisk and Greek temple on the opposite banks. It was designed to entertain and amuse the guests of the estate’s wealthy owner, Sir Thomas Wentworth Blackett.  Walks in the Park during lockdown prompted this fictional story.) As she stood and waited, she reached out to run her fingers over the walls and ceiling. The movement of her arms seemed to prompt the slipping sun to catch the light from the soft waves on the lake and she spun around to see thousands of shimmering water nymphs dancing across the grotto. Her eyes followed their gliding shapes and the rippling streaks of silver which fell on to the pearlescent treasures above her head. Smiling at their magical ballet, she pointed her toes and stretched out her hands to join the dance. Her feet whirled in time

The vacuum had reached the corner of my bed when I heard a wail give out, immediately followed by a disapproving tut. Glancing down at the brown carpet from which it came, I identified a small green mouth with sharp little teeth. My whole body stiffened but what I felt most was the cool sticky sweat on my forehead.               “I’ll talk!” the voice pleaded before repeating the phrase as a screechy threat.             “Are you meant to?” I asked.             The mouth closed at this, briefly thinking the matter over before stating, “I can do as I feel.”             I didn’t know what to say to that so I answered, “Fair enough.”             This seemed to invite the little green mouth to speak. So many words streamed out of it that I had no hope of understanding what was being said or what parts of it were important. Indeed the whole thing sounded like pure digression to me.             Eventually though the mouth stopped to ask me a question: “When do you next meet with t

A dark, dreary day, Falls Road, Belfast; For the deceased this journey was his last. He was one of the leaders of the Party, Commander-In-Chief of their army. The family were gathered, the Son concierge A Piper took his place at the head of the cortege. He was cold, flexing his fingers, looking at the floor Hoping he wouldn’t be called to do this anymore.   The church, two hundred yards hence, The Piper, a feeling of trouble – he was tense. This time more so for this was the Chief who In the Troubles, made people see sense.. A tap on his shoulder, all was ready, Filling the pipe’s bags he got himself steady, Set a sedate pace so the family could show Even in death he was still the man to know. He walked a slow walk, eyes watching, wary, Piping a tune, in his in head saying Hail Mary, People crowded as they passed houses, then rubble; Telling himself there’d be no more trouble. He noticed a group pointing and shouting The Son came quickly his heart pounding, H

The clash of steel on steel rang out loudly in the cavernous cathedral, echoing off the high-vaulted ceiling and numerous alcoves that ran along both mural-painted walls. Each of the two shimmering blades was clasped in a similarly vice-like grip, yet that was where the similarity of their wielders ended. One was a large man, well over six-feet tall, wide-shouldered, broad-chested, thick of thews. His body was clad in a long coat of mail which fell from neck to knee. The steel helm from which his unruly shoulder-length dark locks protruded, sported a single, wicked-looking spike at its crown. Beneath the rim, his cool blue eyes twinkled with a raw humour that was reflected within the clean, white-toothed grin. He was handsome, perfect of physique, and he knew it. The other was a woman, a clear head shorter than her opponent, yet equally a perfect specimen of her gender. Her full breasts and hips strained at the tight confines of the leather corselet and leggings she wore, as she he