Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  I was looking forward to the weekly creative writing group, but as soon as I arrived, I sensed something was wrong. The same people were around the table, but the atmosphere was tense.   What an earth is going on?   Then she walked into the room.   I’d never met her before and introductions were brief.   She was our new President.   How strange, this was usually decided at the AGM, but that was six months away.   I hadn’t received an e mail, so was slightly confused.      Eventually, she opened her laptop with a flourish, and smiled, a twisted unnatural smile, quite unnerving, as she was staring straight at me.   Everyone had their heads down, not looking in my direction.      “Right, let’s cut to the chase.”    She paused, taking her time, enjoying the suspense.       I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, this shouldn’t be happening.      “We have decided that member...

  “ Attention madame, attendez, attendez!”   Jocasta stopped walking and turned to see a man running after her, trying to attract her attention. He was fifty-ish, dressed in a cream polo shirt, blue jeans and a shabby brown jacket. Whoever said the French have a great sense of style had obviously never been to this dull little town. The man reached her, slightly out of breath. She hoped he didn’t want to sell her anything.     “ Excusez-moi, madame, mais vous avez laisse votre sac à main dans la voiture. Il faut etre prudente dans cette ville. Il y a des voleurs.”   “I’m sorry. Can you speak English?”   The man’s face puckered as if he were trying to find something in a very deep pocket. Then he composed himself before speaking.   “Madam. You leaved your sack in the automobile.”   ‘Leaved’ – oh, that was so sweet, especially in that lovely sing-song accent. Jocasta didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about. ...