Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  Behind the fans, the makeup and the courteous demeanour, envious sisters plot eternal revenge. The stage that gives the Emerald Circle Theatre its name reverberates with the sounds of actors taking their spots behind the curtain.   Musicians shuffle and cough in the orchestra pit, chocolate wrappers rustles audible only to keen ears. Theirs are shadowy figures for now, their moment in the spotlight yet to be revealed. The Misses Forrest-Manne, poured into blood-red silk dresses slashed from calf to thigh, stride through the aisles towards their seats. Front row seats to catch every second of the performance. As great-granddaughters of the first theatre owner they occupy a special place in the theatre’s history as writers of the new play, but owners of the theatre no longer. The sisters’ entrance raises eyebrows: they are never seen in colours other than the trademark emerald green of the theatre.   Each woman wears identical ruby earrings, blood-red stones drippin...

I adored Chrissy Banks but not as much as pattern-forming puzzles. Many an evening during my first year at uni, I kept my mind active with a cheeky game of Glow Down. It was essentially a social media clone of Bejeweled or Candy Crush, but I was addicted.             In fact the only thing that drew me out of my tiny blue room was the breathy laughter of Chrissy who lived across the hall. When I opened the door, she was always playing with her peacock feather earrings or tucking her skinny jeans into thigh-length boots.             She would smile and say, “Hiya, Will. Heading out?”             “Not tonight,” I replied most nights.             And yet she never looked disappointed to hear this like the others. She merely winked at me and headed out herself. ...

  My bundle of fur Relaxed and softly purring Warm and so content.   Logs burn and crackle She savours every moment Basking in the warmth.   Stretching lazily Without a care in the world A life to envy.

  The past couple of years have changed so much in our world: the way we readily don masks in crowded places, keep our distance or use hand wipes and gel. Many work from home and families are often doing more activities together than before. People moan about not being able to do this or that, about price rises that mean no more Netflix or days out in the car. It made me think of how life used to be, particularly for women.      Back in the days when marriage meant the immediate loss of a job and the expectation that a wife would stay at home to became the ‘homemaker’ or simply a housewife, they always had a plan. Not a plan to escape or paint the town red some day (though I expect many did just that) but a practical, no-nonsense Yorkshire woman’s plan for the week.      Come rain or shine, Monday was washing day. Shine was no problem. Just get it done, outside and blowing in the wind; in the yard if possible, but often across the street, j...

A wisp of smoke from the barge chimney, soon lost in the mist above. Frost-scarred windows. The boat’s name partly obscured by the rime. On the roof, a bike that’s seen better days, a stack of roughly-chopped logs, two solar panels, dead plants in red pots, coils of rope. The young man’s fleece is far too thin for the cold early morning. He shivers. But if you’d asked him, he’d have told you it wasn’t the temperature that was giving him the shakes. The sight had affected him much more than he could have imagined. After all, wasn’t he supposed to be a hard nut? And with his record, going to the police wasn’t an option. Hands deep in pockets, he crosses the old stone bridge and walks briskly away from the waterway. Every winter Harrison wonders why he stays on the barge. Even with the blackened stove roaring, it’s difficult to keep warm. But he knows perfectly well there are no other options. And the life has two great advantages. It’s cheap and … as long as speed is not a requirement … ...