Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  There's a little red mark on the cooker, days old                                     dried-on, I can tell that it's yours - a scourge of ill-made rouge.   There's a sticky puddle running by the sink             fair tint                                     foul scent, It’s the dampest of enigmas untouched by tidy manners.   There's a shard of crockery on the carpet sharp blue                             ...

He sat down at the carved antique desk and looked out of the window at the long drive ahead.  On the desk before him lay smooth vellum writing paper, coloured inks and an array of beautiful writing implements.  A familiar sight and one which normally centred him and made him feel calm.  But not this time.  He looked out at the carefully manicured lawns and the rows of poplar trees standing to attention in the warm sun.  What would it be like to lose all of this? His hands shook as he lifted his favourite fountain pen and began to fill it with purple ink.  He gripped the chunky barrel of the pen and held it, poised over the paper, as he considered how to start what might be the most important letter of his life. Suddenly, the door opened so violently that it made him jump and a tiny blob of purple ink escaped from the pen and fell onto the paper. 'Damn,' he uttered as the ink slowly spread outwards, as if it were acid, eroding the paper. 'How can you...

New York 1971. Alex Cameron, a New York Times Best Selling author and top feature writer, was pacing the floor of her writing room in a state of agitation, her face looked stressed which spoilt her good looks. Another magazine assignment stared at her from under a large paperweight that sat on the desk, as if daring her to write it. She lit a cigarette and drew deeply, feeling the initial dizziness of the first nicotine hit of the day, poured a drink from the hot coffee jug and took a draught, straight down in one.   Outside it was getting lighter with every second; she took a look at her watch, twice, not believing what she saw the first time. “My god, four hours?” Her 5’10” frame sagged, feeling the pressure. She ran her hand through her long auburn hair, lips pursed.   She couldn’t afford not to deliver on this one; there was a new guy at the top and she got the impression he didn’t like her. Reluctantly she walked out of her room to the landing and shouted down the ...

    Tomorrow, I shall paint my room red. At the moment, my bedroom is a drab beige colour. It wasn’t my original choice, it was my husband’s. He always preferred colours to be discrete and bland. I always preferred a sense of the dramatic in my decor. But now, he wasn’t here, he had left me all alone, so I could make these decisions for myself. The prospect excited me, I finally felt free.     I walked around the DIY store this afternoon unsure of what I was looking for. I found a paint chart and decided on the most vivid shade of crimson red with a hint of burgundy.     “Wow, that colour is quite something!” the shop assistant said. “Are you painting a chimney breast or something? It seems a bit strong for a feature wall!”     “I’m painting my bedroom in it,” I replied, sniffily.     “Wow! Ok, you must really like strong colours then! My husband would throw a fit if I decorated a room in that colour!”  ...