Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

   “You can’t put a price on a good night’s sleep.” The salesman smiles flashing a row of gleaming white teeth.   He probably uses the same phrase every time he sells one of these expensive beds, but I suppose it’s true, and I am taking rather a long time to make up my mind.      I know I want a double bed and I’ve chosen the headboard in a neutral shade, in case I change the décor in my bedroom, and I’ve eventually decided on a mattress after testing hundreds, well not that many obviously, but quite a few. My problem at the moment is deciding whether to have drawers at the sides or at the bottom of the bed.    He’s beginning to lose patience.   He’s trying not to but he’s looked at his watch three times and now he’s stifling a yawn.   I don’t care. It’s an important decision, not to mention a lot of money, and I will not be rushed.    “The thing is,” he continues through gritted teeth.   “How much room do you have a...

I like a good brisk walk, especially down by the canal, and nearly every time, I find myself pausing for a few minutes break to perch on the old bench. It's nothing special - just a bench, but it holds a strange attraction to me... Two knobbly, off-white precast concrete supports in the shape of a lowercase 'h', spanned by four rough   weathered grey wooden planks which form the seat itself and the backrest. All fixed together with eight strong, long, round-headed steel bolts. It's been there as long as I can remember, just sitting there, calm and placid throughout the years, squat and sturdy, resisting all that man and nature can throw at it - blistering summers, freezing winters, carved and painted by graffiti artists, and even two arson attempts. Yet still it survives. I'm not the only one who loves it; groups of rambling OAPs seem to prefer the old bench to the newer metal ones further down the uneven, puddle-spattered towpath. Gaily coloured bike-...