Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Opposite the old church and at the top of High Street, was the park, its land generously purchased and developed by a local benefactor whose name it had borne for more than twenty years. It was a place livelier in summer when nurses with their large prams pushed well bundled babies under its leafy canopies and where families strolled along its serpentine paths, their feet unintentionally falling into step with the distant sound of a brass band playing on the solid, iron bandstand. Later, before returning to their villas on the main routes out of the town, these families would pause to admire the tinkling waters of the fountains and acknowledge those they knew with a tip of their gleaming hats or the slightest smile and incline of their pretty heads. When the first frosts crisped the paths, the park gates were locked to keep out those they thought might seek shelter in its pavilions and so, until spring, only two gardeners were allowed entry. Only they saw the beauty of the snowdrops ...

  Home is where the heart is , a phrase that is constantly proving to be true, and since we moved, this old house from the 1850s, has many stories to tell within its thick stone walls. From the sturdy servant bells in the kitchen, and grand focal-point fireplaces to the vast array of different period windows, there’ a tale unfolding in every corner. This house has been a tug of war, since we fell in love with it this time last year, it took eight of the longest months to finally call it our own and cross the threshold in August. Our emotions raged from excitement to hope, frustration to panic, before finally our veins were flooded with sheer relief. We’d invested our hearts at an early stage, myself especially and I simply couldn’t imagine losing it after all these months of back-and-forth negotiations and being stuck in a chain, but it came dangerously close! But wow was it worth it, when we originally viewed it, it was Winter, and dark. The trees in the garden were stripped a...

I’d like to get hold of the person who decreed that a Census was needed. Why? We know who we are and it’s not like we are trying to hide where we come from. To top it all, we have to go back to where we were born in order to be declared “citizens” of that place. It’s a three-day journey for me and the wife and she’s a bit peaky at the moment; not sure what’s wrong with her. Nightmare it is. Still, we’re all in the same boat so I suppose we’ll have to grin and bear it so we can get on with our lives. Why don’t they do these things when the weather is less cold of a night? There’s nothing wrong with Bethlehem, (that’s where we are originally from), but we moved for a better life and so that I could be a proper carpenter, you know making nice furniture instead of house bashing all the time; anybody can do that, well not anybody per se but the reality is that they don’t have to have the skills I have. On the other hand, the shekels are good. Anyway, we set off with our donkey and a few...

‘It was about 3 o’clock when he knocked on my door. Decked out in clothes I had never seen him in before and I would not have known him if I had passed him in the street. Believe me Sir, he was all smiles and nods and made such loud exclamations of the season’s good wishes that my wife and I were quite lost for words. He insisted on joining in all our games and when they were over, he bade us start again and there was no denying him. Each winner of our parlour games was rewarded with coins and his generosity became almost embarrassing. When someone suggested singing carols around the hearth, he joined in with such gusto. His tapping feet, tripping around the piano, and his fingers drumming on its lid, meant that our attempts at singing in harmony at which, even if I do say so myself, we have become quite accomplished, were quite drowned out by his excessive enthusiasm. I have given him the same chance each year, Mr Cratchit. Every year I have tried to persuade him to join us on Christm...

- This year I'm making my own Christmas cards. - Good for you! Not fully making them though? - Yes, fully making. I do have the materials, Angela. I'm going to give it a whirl. - Don't take this the wrong way, Harold, but I think you might just be a little mad. - Pish-posh! I know what I'm doing. I'm a craftsman. - You make jewellery and sell it at market. - Well then. Cards should be a doddle by comparison. - All right, maybe. What sort of card will you use? - Green. Thick. Possibly red. - But not so thick that you can't cut it? - Of course not. Dozy mare. - What designs will you cut? - Intricate. Christmas tree. Maybe mistletoe or holly. - Really? That'll be a very prickly card. You won't get much more than 'Merry Xmas' on it. - So? The name of the recipient will be on the envelope. - That envelope should probably be made of some sturdy paper or else the card will cut it to ribbons. - Oh, shush. - And what abou...

  My name is Holly and I have a secret, don’t tell anyone, but I don’t LOVE Christmas.  I realise I am in a very small minority, but it started out with my parents being very inconsiderate, and choosing to have their first child around December. I popped out 12 days late, on Christmas Eve. And who the hell cares about a birthday on the Eve of the most anticipated day of the year? I particularly don’t like it this year, my 50 th birthday. I know that celebrating my 50th will be at the very end of my family and friend’s Christmas list, if on there at all. But it’s not just that, it’s the fact that Christmas was getting earlier each year anyway, and then in 2020, whilst looking for any kind of cheer in the middle of a pandemic, many people in their wisdom decided to start decorating trees and homes as soon as possible, like that would make it all better? This year, Christmas trees have been outside the Co-op for weeks, along with carefully constructed towers of mince p...

At market there was a sign: ‘HAND WARMER’. I have bad circulation this time of year, so I followed the glowing arrows.   They stopped at this stall with a bloke behind. He looked creepy in his corduroy cardigan. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘come for a hand-warming?’   I couldn’t see any packets or boxes so I asked, ‘How though?’ He held out his own hands. I pulled back. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘That’s not decent.’ ‘Tis hand-warming though.’ He got me there. ‘I prefer packets.’ ‘Packets?’ He scoffed. ‘Bah! I can guarantee true heat!’ True heat? That sounded even less decent. ‘Come on,’ he said, eyebrows waggling. ‘Tis electric.’ ‘Electric how?’ He paused. ‘I have a pacemaker.’ I finally had enough and left. ‘Please,’ he called after me. ‘I’m your fellow man.’ But I kept on walking. A handshake’s all well and good but not one long enough to keep off cold.

Christmas Christmas time should be such a pleasure, With precious memories for us to treasure. So why do we always shop, shop, shop, Spend, spend, spend, till we’re fit to drop. And as it draws near, that day in December, The true meaning of Christmas we must remember. Loved ones who have left us, but not forever, Still in our thoughts as we gather together. Think of others sitting alone, Those on the street without a home. Spare a thought for their pitiful plight, As we eat and drink into the night. It’s not about money, but giving and sharing, Christmas time is for loving and caring. So as we rejoice in endless chatter, Remember the things that really matter. A Special Christmas Frosty fingers on my window pane Children sledging down an icy lane A lonesome robin hopping by Snowflakes fluttering from a darkening sky A solitary snowman stands alone As carol singers wend their way home to hot mince pies and festive sherry Over indulge - it’s a...

When I was a child, my dad worked away from home and probably missed half of my childhood Christmases (he was in the Merchant Navy and spent his Christmases in many far-flung places).   Money was always very tight, but especially at this time of year, and my mum was used to making it stretch - dad used to joke that mum could make the Family Allowance (now Child Benefit) stretch indefinitely! One year, things were even tighter than usual, but we children were never aware just how poor we were, thanks to mum’s fantastic creativity with everything she touched.   This particular year, mum not only cooked everything from scratch as usual, but made every single part of our Christmas - no mean feat when you have three little girls! She sewed dressing up clothes for us from old sheets and fabric she already had, even making a scaled-down version for our favourite dolls. Mum created a peg doll for each of us, drilling holes to poke pipe cleaners through for arms, and raiding her sc...

It wasn't so late but it was late for Christmas Eve.             He had to go. There were festive chores to finalise, a car to de-ice before trundling home.             He rose from the sofa. She did too.             "It was lovely seeing you," he said.             Her green eyes gleamed in the twinkly Christmas tree lights. "You too."             "Thanks again. For the jumper."             A simple design: red with holly decoration at the collar, cuffs and hem and two large bells on the chest.             He raised his hands trying not to draw attention to the length of the sleeves. She ...

We had a rare night out this week – a pre-Christmas meal with friends.    There is not much I could do nowadays that would cause our boys to raise their heads from their latest gaming obsessions.    But there was a time when Mummy putting on clothes that were not covered in baked beans was a source of great curiosity. Oliver would watch me applying make-up with great interest. “Mummy, why are you decorating your face?” he once asked. How to explain to a three year old? To try to look less exhausted? To hide my desire to forget the whole “going out thing” and just put my pyjamas on? I can’t remember what explanation I gave, but I doubt he was satisfied with it. Sometimes their questions would be more disconcerting. Children are painfully honest.   As I was straightening my hair, William watched with a fascinated expression.  “Mummy, are you trying to make your hair REALLY flat?” he asked. I have to confess, “flat” was...