Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

The old black money maker threaded with cotton Ready to use pink thread from the bobbin Soft fabric pieces all neatly cut Her work today has already begun.   Pads attached on feet, sew up the tum Two cleverly shaped ears already sewn Protruding snout with contrast stitch Bright satin bow round the neck to finish.   Another fluffy bear, a brand new teddy To join the others, there are so many Awaiting their fate to be sold on. To parents for children on Christmas morn.   Now that job is done, time to move on Re-spool and thread a new shade of cotton. Ready to alter, repair garments people have brought A zip to replace, a dress to make short.   A knock on the door brings more work to do Mum says “come in I’ll measure you” A bridesmaid dress is the latest request So busy a life for a home seamstress.

  ‘You caught me napping. Yes, this is my corner. Bin my favourite spot for years. It’s in the sun, see. Wall gets warm and I like that heat on my back. Not as supple as I used to be. Round here, they knows it’s my space, so I gets left alone. Sometimes some young, smart-arsed tom thinks he’ll push me around but they only do it once. Life in the old fella yet! She lives here; Violet. The cat lady they calls her, those neighbours with their tattoos and piercings and walnut whips like remould tyres. Their kids shout out at her. Caught one yesterday throwing bird seed. I spat at the little wretch and it frightened her enough for her to go crying to her ma. I saw them pointing in my direction but I hoofed it before they could do anything else to annoy me. Of course, if Ronnie’d bin here we’d ha sorted ‘em all out. No one f***s with us. But he’s bin gone years. We was like twins. We didn’t start fights, we finished them. Some said we was ugly but Violet never said that. Course, ...