Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  I never thought I’d go back to school, certainly not at my age (thirty-one and three-quarters as Adrian Mole might have said). That was before I saw the advert, in the airport of all places. “Heathrow Flight School. New term, new start. Apply …” Returning to my hotel, I thought hard. Flying is something I’ve done a lot of, but somehow, never really felt, well, comfortable with. Oh, I’m competent enough, don’t get me wrong, but there’s always room for improvement and I felt I needed that little extra something. I’ve known a few people who always seem more confident, more skilful than me. Now it was my turn. Off went my application form and, to my surprise, back came the offer of an interview. Did that mean, I wondered, that I have all the right qualifications to be a top flyer or that I was so hopeless they thought any improvement would make them look good? There was only one way to find out. But for a start, what should I wear? Should I go for ‘man-about-town, jet-s

A riverside seat. Flask emptied, sandwiches finished, Eyes closed for an early afternoon snooze, Lulled by a Sibelius stream, Delivered by ear pods, Transporting me to Finnish lakes and forests. The sun warms my face, A breeze ruffles my hair, Total relaxation until … a sudden splash. Eyes open, the symphony stops. A dog paddles slowly down river, Its head just above the water, Tail rudder-like, Someone calling from a bridge in the distance, “That’s far enough Archie!” A natural symphony takes over, A blackbird in the blackthorn, Wind in the beech tops, Water rushing over smooth pebbles, swirling in eddies. A dipper doing what it says on the tin, The heron statuesque on the far bank. Eyelids start to droop again until, The sound of a tinkling bell. The line is taut! A catch? I grab the rod from its stand. Too late! Whatever was there … isn’t now. A whistling walker appears, all boots, rucksack and bonhomie. “How much have you got

Harriet rummaged through the spice jars, frowning impatiently when her fingers didn’t land immediately on the one she wanted. “Rosie, next time you cook, put these jars back properly!” She exclaimed crossly.   “You know I have to have them in order so I can find stuff!” “Mum, they’re better stored alphabetically, much more logical,” sighed Rosie.   “Basil doesn’t go next to oregano or marjoram.” “It makes sense to me , and it’s luckier to group them according to recipe,” Harriet mumbled absentmindedly, as she painstakingly re-organised the cupboard.   She sent a silent prayer to the Goddess she believed in, apologising for her daughter’s ignorance. Rosie studied her mum, trying to conceal her concern and - let’s face it - growing impatience and unease at her mother’s erratic behaviour, becoming more so with each anniversary. “Mum, let me make it this year, and I promise to put all the jars back as you like them - won’t spill anything either,” Rosie gently offered, taking her

Some people might not have opened their doors to me were I not rich and famous.  But I was.  And they did.  I was welcomed everywhere I went.  People had seen me in films, at glamorous award ceremonies.   They had read about my failed relationships in gossip columns, they had seen the inside of my penthouse apartment in celebrity magazines, knew what perfume I wore and what I ate from the products I endorsed.  The wealthy and powerful invited me into their homes, to their parties, to their yachts.  They adored me with that air-kissing, over exaggerated, gushing sort of exuberance they called love.   And my fans worshipped me with that obsessive, grasping, over inquisitive attachment which they called love. All of that was before I came across the diary.   That yellowing, miniature scrap of a book which had lain hidden for so long in my uncle’s attic and which he had left to me in his will.   My uncle was a multi-millionaire businessman, unmarried and with no living relatives other th