Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  We’re sitting around a couple of tables that have been pushed together in a dimly lit corner of The Spark. A sea of empty glasses covers most of the table tops. Gerry the Collector is off duty. Visiting a friend in hospital, somebody says. His red plastic glass carrier is in full view on the right-hand end of the bar, next to the jar of pickled eggs. But nobody else can be bothered to use it. Tan decides it’s time to get another round in and takes a token empty with him to the bar. With an obligatory stop at the smoking shelter, it’ll be a while before he’s back. We’ve been mainly talking rubbish, but now and then there’s a gem in the dross. Roke’s story about his shoes being nicked in a restaurant and Fletch’s account of cycling home one night on a bike fitted with stabilisers. Tan eventually returns carrying three pints with shaky hands. Packets of tomato sauce crisps tumble from the many pockets of his parka. Someone clears a space for the new arrivals.   ...

I'd been driving all night on Highway 67. The sun was coming up and the heat haze was turning the horizon to water. Seeing a neon diner sign, I decided to stop. The parking lot was deserted save for a rusty old Buick and a green Mustang. I stepped out of the car into the searing desert heat then wiped the sweat off my neck. I entered the cool air-conditioned diner. My shirt stuck to my back and I shivered. The jukebox was blaring out the strident tones of some goddam awful doowop song. The fake cheerfulness of the song contrasted deeply with the eeriness of the deserted diner. I ignored the sign that said ‘Wait to be seated,’ at the front and sat down in a booth. I figured that it being this deserted, there would be no need for such decorum, but I was wrong. "Hey Mister," a bored bubble-gum chewing waitress came over to berate me. I looked up at her. "Can't you read?" she said, arms crossed with a severe expression on her cheerleader perfect face. Blon...

Sheila pulled her light jacket closer, and folded her arms, as she waited. She had donned contact lens and deep dark shades in the blazing sunlight much earlier that day.  Good thing that she had her hat though, her gran always said that the most important thing, is to keep your head warm.  The wind was now cutting through her like a sharp blade, and seemed to have a spurious relationship with her bladder too. A white van joined the line of cars, some with headlights on, and she remembered the text alert regarding the IKEA delivery this evening. She had another 15 minutes to be home before the designated delivery time. The green man flashed, and she walked briskly, then swerved suddenly as she reached the opposite side, almost tripping over a pushchair, the mother smirked. Sheila steadied herself and headed for the cobbled stone alleyway. This way was shorter than going around the block.  Not one for using parks and alleys after dark, she walked quickly ...

He knew that he must keep very still while he waited. He was crouched into an uncomfortable position to say the least of the matter and tried to maintain a good viewpoint of the illicit activities that were sure to unfold. He was ice cold from head to toe. In moments like this he tried to recall the scorching heat of India to warm his bones. Now he was back, returned to London and his curious profession of Private Detective which he found to be both intriguing and frustrating. He loathed and secretly admired Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the character of Sherlock Holmes. He was teased mercilessly by the delinquent youths outside his rooms who shouted, “Oi Sherlock!” at him on a daily basis, but admired Sherlock’s powers of deduction and his scientific techniques which he sometimes adopted to help with his cases. Of course, he also did not have the benefit of having a Dr Watson to assist him.  He was a man who was sorely alone both in his professional and private life....