Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

It's a life by algorithm, in case you hadn't seen, for our own good, they said, now everyone is keen. The things you watch, the things you say, all noted in the cloud, we're getting more of what we like, so feeling oh so proud. Give me more, I want it now, we rubbed our hands with glee, I can have whatever I want if I pay the monthly fee. Netflix, YouTube, Amazon, their promise is insane, yet all I do is flick around as everything's the same. Fear not, there's more, for the hungry and the needier,- it's our saviour at long last, in the guise of social media. The personal lives of everyone streaming live and on your phone, make-up tips, pick-pockets, and an irritating drone. Watch it once, or hesitate, and they've got you by the goolies, But keep your scroll, and do not stop, to ponder who the fool is? Stepping out of line may seem divine, but be wary if you stray, there's a world out there of popping boils and treating tooth...

  In the valley below me it is winter. Memories of Christmas fade, the solstice recedes further back still, and Meltham rests silently in a December dress of mist and mud, under a blanket of dolphin-grey cloud. On foot I climb ‘The Catch’; upwards past pine and stile to ascend further still into a world of light and colour; a breathless, sun-kissed world of warmth in which, God-like, I stand above cloud, valley, and all of creation. I have experienced nothing like this before in my life, save when, in my own dark days, that same sullen blanket settles itself about my heart to smother what light it finds within; but now, here on this hilltop, I know, all I ever need do is ascend.