Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

A roast beef sandwich with English mustard, Mum’s apple pie with tinned yellow custard. A burger with blue cheese and fries on the side, Bacon and black pudding, crisply fried.   A pot of pork dripping from Sunday’s roast With the brown jelly spread on Monday’s toast. Cold meat and salad for that day’s tea With piccalilli and onions and a mug of strong tea.   Donuts made on the harbour top, Covered in sugar and eaten still hot. Fish and chips on the front with paper and fork Then back to the car on the cliff walk.   Cheese from the market, wrapped in waxed paper, The best pork pies still warm from the baker. French crusty bread deliciously smelly, Salami and Prosciutto from the Italian Deli. Red Summer Pudding packed full of berries, A villa in France and sweet, sun-ripe cherries. Strawberries and Cream and Tarte au Citron, Cold Crème Brûlée and Vacherin aux Marrons.   A beachside restaurant and the catch of the day, Fish cooked with

   The security lights shine through the blackout curtains.   Strange, this has never happened before.   I climb out of bed, and pulling the curtains aside, peer out into the inky blackness of the night.   I must have been mistaken, yet everything seemed so bright.   My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I shiver.        The wind is whistling through the trees, and a full moon suddenly appears, casting an eerie glow across the garden.   I silently watch and wait.   What is lurking in the dark shadows?   A lonesome fox approaches, staring straight at me, daring me to confront it, eyes bright and piercing, but I remain still, and it swaggers on its way, soon out of sight.   The moon disappears and darkness envelopes the garden once more.        I sigh and close the curtains, longing to return to my welcoming bed.   I gasp at the scene before me.   I am asleep, buried beneath the duvet, dead to the world.   I’m looking down at myself.   How can this be?   I cannot explain.   Is this