Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  Sorry about the rent. I can’t stay here. John Star sits in his Vanguard, thinking about Archie the tenant at number 11 who’d left that very brief note and disappeared. And the man claiming to be Archie’s son had just done a runner. He should phone the police, except he knows they’ll just ask a load of pointless questions and then tell him there’s nothing they can do until Archie’s been missing for a while longer. So, if anything is to happen, he’ll need to do it himself. Mrs Coles walks slowly down the street towards number 1. Back from the doctors. Star watches as she slowly fiddles with the key to get it just right to open the door. He gives her a few minutes to settle in, gets out of the car, crosses the road and rings the bell. She’s pleased but surprised to see him.     “Everything alright John? Is there a problem with the rent?”     “No, no, Mrs Coles. Everything’s tickety-boo. It’s your famous local knowledge I’m after. Have you got ...

  The Coffee Machine. Hear it scream! Hear it wail! Every rasp an ennui gasp to finally be heard.   It curdles its milk to be unkind, to interrupt poetic verse with its outbursts of blistering steam.   But this is release for pent-up machines, bothered and hot, spilling froth, choked by cloth, voice muffled by The Man.   So let it squeal, trill and feel, spout its spiel, find its words grounded and heard. Rhapsodic Caffeine!