Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  The back door burst open and the bitter East wind blew in Uncle Harry, wrapped in umpteen layers, with only his twinkly brown eyes visible over the huge pile of books he carried. He kicked the door shut with one foot, Mum wincing at the careless treatment, and let the books tumble onto the kitchen table. “Golly, these are heavy, in more ways than one!” Uncle Harry laughed. “I’m so glad to be shut of them!” My cousin, Thomas, was a year behind me at uni and I’d lent him some of my text books for his dissertation project, with the proviso that I needed them back for my Masters - hence Uncle Harry’s visit today.   He and Mum sat at the table with coffee and slices of freshly baked cake, whilst I staggered upstairs under the weight of the art history books.   Took me two trips to take them to my room - Uncle Harry was stronger than he looked! I peeled off Thomas’ sticky notes that he’d used as bookmarks and replaced the books on my bookcase. As I picked up the last few, one seemed

I’d like to get hold of the person who decreed that a Census was needed. Why? We know who we are and it’s not like we are trying to hide where we come from. To top it all, we have to go back to where we were born in order to be declared “citizens” of that place. It’s a three-day journey for me and the wife and she’s a bit peaky at the moment; not sure what’s wrong with her. Nightmare it is. Still, we’re all in the same boat so I suppose we’ll have to grin and bear it so we can get on with our lives. Why don’t they do these things when the weather is less cold of a night? There’s nothing wrong with Bethlehem, (that’s where we are originally from), but we moved for a better life and so that I could be a proper carpenter, you know making nice furniture instead of house bashing all the time; anybody can do that, well not anybody per se but the reality is that they don’t have to have the skills I have. On the other hand, the shekels are good. Anyway, we set off with our donkey and a few

‘It was about 3 o’clock when he knocked on my door. Decked out in clothes I had never seen him in before and I would not have known him if I had passed him in the street. Believe me Sir, he was all smiles and nods and made such loud exclamations of the season’s good wishes that my wife and I were quite lost for words. He insisted on joining in all our games and when they were over, he bade us start again and there was no denying him. Each winner of our parlour games was rewarded with coins and his generosity became almost embarrassing. When someone suggested singing carols around the hearth, he joined in with such gusto. His tapping feet, tripping around the piano, and his fingers drumming on its lid, meant that our attempts at singing in harmony at which, even if I do say so myself, we have become quite accomplished, were quite drowned out by his excessive enthusiasm. I have given him the same chance each year, Mr Cratchit. Every year I have tried to persuade him to join us on Christm

- This year I'm making my own Christmas cards. - Good for you! Not fully making them though? - Yes, fully making. I do have the materials, Angela. I'm going to give it a whirl. - Don't take this the wrong way, Harold, but I think you might just be a little mad. - Pish-posh! I know what I'm doing. I'm a craftsman. - You make jewellery and sell it at market. - Well then. Cards should be a doddle by comparison. - All right, maybe. What sort of card will you use? - Green. Thick. Possibly red. - But not so thick that you can't cut it? - Of course not. Dozy mare. - What designs will you cut? - Intricate. Christmas tree. Maybe mistletoe or holly. - Really? That'll be a very prickly card. You won't get much more than 'Merry Xmas' on it. - So? The name of the recipient will be on the envelope. - That envelope should probably be made of some sturdy paper or else the card will cut it to ribbons. - Oh, shush. - And what abou

  At school, they’d give you a blue monthly report if you had credits and no debits. In other words – good behaviour and good work. If you had any of those pesky debits, it was a white report! But they’d sneak in the debits. Neglect of instructions was the sneakiest – and for me, the commonest. At the age of twelve I wasn’t really sure what the phrase meant, but it kept recurring. You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson. The satnav just told me to turn right. I didn’t. Ignore satnav, engage brain. Haven’t been in this town for years, but I still know best. The road is completely unfamiliar. It feels like one of those dreams where you start off knowing where you are. Then the familiarity dissolves and you’re in a strange land. I contemplate a U-turn, but as that would be admitting defeat, I press on. The rain starts again, wipers follow suit, street lights come on, twilight. The edge of town already? How can that be? Fields and trees begin to push their way forward. Thin tru