Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Remember, Remember She used to love Bonfire Night, it was the highlight of Autumn for her, she was never a huge fan of Halloween and the grotesque costumes that the other kids found hilarious. She’d shiver in the damp, windy nights, trying to keep up with the older kids on her street who squealed in delight, knocking on neighbours’ doors and running into the distance, before she lost sight of them in the darkness. No, Bonfire Night was different; warm, magical and filled with ‘Ooos’ and ‘Ahhs’. Bonfire Night meant getting wrapped up in layer upon layer of woollen tights, jeans, fat socks and purple wellies, vests and polo necks, a big duffle coat and knitted scarf, thick mittens and an itchy bobble hat that covered her eyes. By the time she tramped across the fields, holding her Mum and Dad’s hands, she’d walk stiffly like a robot, snug as a bug in a rug. Once the fire was lit, she’d edge closer, the heat warming her eyeballs and spreading like warm water acros...

            Linda needed help getting the guy out the back of her Landrover.             "Grab the head," she told me, "I've got the feet."             The Guy Fawkes effigy was still wrapped up in an old bed sheet except for the black papier-mâché hat. It fell off and I caught a glimpse inside the sheet. I turned back to Linda.             "I thought you were joking!"             Linda ran the local chippy. It was a small place in an especially dull corner of the village. The most excitement that had happened recently was the massive order of wooden forks that had come through in early October.             Linda set the delivery men straight...

“Never look into the fire,” my grandfather used to say, “you’ll see witches in there.”  And I did, as my eyes were drawn into the orange core, on Saturday night.  I had to avert my gaze, as I thought of what at one time might lie at the middle of such a pyre, and my back and shoulders prickled with that familiar pang of guilt and confusion, and I thought, as I always do, “Why are we all here?” Remember, remember, the fifth of November, Gunpowder treason and plot, I see no reason, why gunpowder treason, Should ever be forgot. It is the same moral dilemma, each year.   Do we embrace this odd, macabre tradition, join in and make the best of it, or stay away completely?   Are we denying our children something special by not joining the crowds who have been drawn to this event for over four hundred years?   We have avoided it for many years.   Our daughter is almost 8, our son almost 6.   They’ve seen fireworks through the window at home, at ...