Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  ‘Bonjour,’ says Beret, to a passing stranger, As he flaneurs along the Seine embankment, Happy to have no itinerary Just to follow his nose And see what turns up. A bright orange beret, nothing dull, for him, Worn at such a jaunty angle You’d swear it would slip off. But even as the breeze blows off Pont Neuf, Beret stays in position, defying gravity, cocking a snook. *** Baseball Cap, worn backwards, the essence of cool, Or maybe not! On her way to a gig, She stares through the tube window into the darkness of the tunnel, The brightness of the stations, Counting down the stops, Her barely moving fingers running through the keyboard riffs Of their new number. Jazz funk the music world calls it, But she dislikes genres and refuses to be pigeonholed. At Covent Garden, she rises to the surface, Tall, erect, composed, shades on, Baseball Cap minutely adjusted, And glides towards the venue, Knowing her trusty roadies will have everything...

  The station clock says ten to three. Harold stands on his plinth, Looking energetic. Two lads kick a football across the square. Accurate passes, a touch of ball juggling, The sort of skill this solid full back never had. The wind blows the spray from the fountains Towards my bench, a light rain In the sunshine. Two ice cream cones melting faster than Their owners can consume them, Dripping. Another five minutes and it’s Time for the train. Mask on, Ticket through the barrier machine. In my mind I’m dribbling that football through the subway to the platform.   A day later, along the canal, waterproofs dripping, the bench is welcome. The downpour has stopped, the sun peeks through the grey. A delve into the rucksack for flask and sausage roll, Gazing out across the water, to abandoned buildings beyond. Pipes, no longer carrying liquid or gas, trail ahead. A duck swooshes down onto the canal, a perfect landing, Making a racket as...

We go out on the streets see who we meet mostly it’s sweet and kinda neat a proper treat seein’ our peeps We might have a beer chat if we c’n hear chill with no fear have another beer we don’t do gear keep our brains clear We go to a gig venue ain’t big have another swig have a bit of a jig to tunes we dig see a guy with a wig On to the next place gotta nice bit of bass coming at your face sounds really ace much more space yeah picking up the pace. A guy with a Fender gets up and plays like a GOD with loads of delays it’s like he’s in a wond’rous daze he’s good but we ain’t fazed and we listen totally amazed A girl with a cello is next on the stage opens her music at a random page starts playin' like she’s in a rage her music ain’t from no stone age she stands up like Boudica in a cage The place goes insane we want more of the same but she struts off stage like a theatre dame Then it’s a poet who gets us clappin' struttin' arou...

Bedroom curtains breathe in and out, in and out, in perfect rhythm with the cool, early morning breeze. Bathroom fan clatters discordantly in the same gusts of air. Enough hazy light to make out the shape of the sleeping man next to me, gently snoring. Magpies argue their way into the morning, and the kinder sound of blackbirds heartily greet the day, early spring heralds in their shiny black cloaks. A half-asleep child in the next room sneezes several times, and then settles. Cat leaps daintily onto my bed, picks her way through the hills and valleys of our limbs underneath the quilt; delicately and urgently pushes her cool nose under my hand, demanding attention. Child two out of bed, in the bathroom, water running and radio playing quietly - for him.  Pokes his head around my door, mumbles something that faintly resembles ‘morning’, and thumps downstairs in that half-awake, teenage-boy way. Early-rising neighbour over the road drives off to his postie job, and next door piles hi...

As we turn away from the old year and look to a new one in the hope that our lives will be happier, I thought that it might be timely to give this week’s blog over to the Dalai Lama and his Instructions for Life.  I wish you all a very safe, healthy and happy 2021. INSTRUCTIONS FOR LIFE by the Dalai Lama 1.         Take into account that great love and great achievement involve great risk 2.         Follow the three R’s.   Respect for self; Respect for others; Responsibility for your actions 3.         Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck 4.         Don’t let a little dispute injure a great friendship 5.         When you realise you’ve made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it 6.         Spend some time alone every day 7.         Open your arms to change but don’t let go o...

  I listened to Poetry Please on Radio 4 on Sunday. One poem that struck a chord was One Art by Elizabeth Bishop, about losing or forgetting things. This has become a known aspect of the Covid lockdown – people really are finding their memory is getting worse. We have lost the routines, the conversations, the interactions that force our brains to focus, concentrate on what is happening, who we are talking to and why. We slop around the house – many people have said they no longer bother to wash their hair as much or put fresh clothes on every day or wear make-up. It’s not worth it, we don’t have customers to worry about when we send emails out. Zoom meetings can be ‘any time, any place, anywhere’ (for those of you are old enough to remember the Martini ad!) Of course, we forget things from the past, too. We remember things we want to remember and filter out other things, such as that train fare we ‘forgot’ to pay or that time we tripped over our own feet and felt a comp...

Jigsaw Puzzle Your world is cut in a hundred pieces panorama shattered, jumbled shapes with no guide to reassembly. ‘I can never be happy again,’ you say, binning paper plates of platitudes. ‘You are changed forever,’ I say, but quietly add (not expecting you to hear) ‘there can be a day, some years away, when you will see a path to cross from dark to light, if you permit the passage to occur.’ You are right to deny it. Everything you feel is right. Rightly angry, you ask me straight. I pause. ‘Yes… That surprising moment came to me like a seagull in flight or a rolling headland against blue sea as I watched gentle junior fingers triumphantly position the final wonky piece of sky into a bright new landscape.’

A job to be done. Two thousand days, two thousand nights of curfews, blackouts, bombings. Conflicting feelings. Lonely bereavements, sacrifice and struggle. A world at war. But you took the fight to the beaches and won. Then lights reflected midnight tears and triumph. You told us of the hugging, masks discarded, carillons and clapping, sweets and dancing, parades, cheers and street parties. An end of tribulation, the task complete. That brief period of rejoicing! While in some quiet corner of your mind you held your fears, remembered griefs as fate allotted joy or cost, and pondered what was gained and what was lost.

Fields of flowers, fields of corn,  A drop in the ocean before you were born.  Fields of barley, fields of wheat,  The chirping of crickets before we first meet.  Islands of paradise, islands of sand,  The whisper of warmth that I find in your hand.  Mountains of wonder, mountains we yearn,  The stone that we place on the top of the kern.  Forests of whispers, forests of want,  The wood that we stroke as we lie on the yacht.  Seas of beauty, seas of pain,  The boat that we sail through the plastic again.  Storms of fury, storms of rage,  The sadness we feel as we sit in our cage.  Fires that ravage, fires that wreck,  The anger we feel as we watch from the deck.  The graveyards of nature, the charred acorn,  We wonder and wish that we'd never been born.

Four and a half weeks of no school, four weeks into lockdown, mostly living in scruffs or pyjamas, yet I find myself more content and calmer than I’ve been in such a long time, even when I’m doing the routine stuff like laundry or food shopping.   Queuing to go into the supermarket is mindful in an odd way: those few minutes of slowly walking and then stopping are moments of being aware of the weather around you, sounds of nature, and the quiet voices of fellow shoppers. Combined with fewer people inside the shop, I don’t dread food shopping as I did before. There is more peace in our home with the absence of the stresses of clock-watching, rushing here and there, and doing “stuff”. My children are relaxed, even though Fortnite or Roblox tend to dominate their waking hours! We’re getting to know each other all over again, we’re baking and cooking properly again, and doing more walking. This absence of “stuff” isn’t as distressing as I expected, or maybe I’ve got used ...

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-...

In his youth he whirled by, a passing blur, always on to the next thing, ‘No time’ his favourite phrase. Always first in the 100 yards. First in the dinner queue, first to finish eating, first for seconds. First out of the exam room door, though never first in exam results. First to spend all his pocket money, first to ask Dad for more, Not that he got any more. But in old age William has slowed down. He stands by the pond for ages, counting the ducks, Refusing to feed them because, you know, bread’s not good for them. He walks slowly down to the shop to buy his Mirror, Drinks his coffee standing up at the tea bar, slow sip by slow sip. Ambles his way round the park, Retired greyhound, Frank, longing for a bit of youthful speed. Takes an age on the crossword, Cryptically questioning his answer to every teasing clue, Before finally filling each square with the appropriate pencilled letter. Plays his thirty three and a third records, through the long win...

Another one is calling you, calling upon you. You describe it as an urge. It creeps underneath your skin. It gestates there. You can see it in your mind’s eye. You imagine holding it, placing it in your room, at the end of your bed, on a shelf. You think about the right way to make it real, what size it is, what colours to use. You can hardly wait to meet it.    Then one day, you find the right stuff; vintage burlap with a fine weave, a fat quarter of ivory wedding dress silk or a square of peach coloured velvet. Sometimes they demand a deviant touch. Thighs or biceps in Victorian flowered cotton or striped mattress ticking, a secret feature for you to enjoy. You collect the ingredients, scour shops and tins for the buttons, a crocheted doily, a strip of ribbon.    You draw the features in lightly, choosing the best angle for the eyes, the tilt of a brow and a rosebud mouth. But none of your cutesey faces. This is a proper character who fills your head. You cat...

Note : The previous part of this story was posted on Monday 3rd December Lizzie has that glint in her eye after I’ve picked at my Christmas dinner, the disapproving one that thinks I’m just an old fool, she’s right, but not in the way she’s surmised. I know it’s hurting her, and for that I am sorry, I should have told her years ago of course but it’s too late now. Her red-lipped smile had grasped my heart before I’d even dared to ask her out. She was a woman encapsulating joy, just what I’d needed, flirtatious, fun, bursting with energy.   She wore a yellow dress, a bouncy ray of sunshine, linking arms with her sister when I’d first seen her walking on Blackpool prom. We exchanged a brief hello, but her smile over her shoulder told me she was interested as her sister pulled her away, laughing. She stamped out my shame with her carefree antics, daring me to drive her to the seaside in my Dad’s car or help her scale the huge wall to watch the race-horses parade, she t...

Last Wednesday via WhatsApp I asked my friend Rowena how she was, and she replied in a low tone “above ground”, we giggled. She runs a travel business in Kingston, Jamaica and travels the world extensively. She had been complaining of feeling tired and needing to offload some of her work to her staff. I think she is struggling with 'letting go', as she built her business from scratch.  “Hhmm not heard that before" I said, "but it’s now mine too, so when someone asks how I am, I shall say ‘above ground and feeling grateful’”. I found this quote, cut it out and stuck it in my journal last year.‘I write quicker now because of the panic of death’ Playwright David Hare told The Times that age is a great cure for writers’ block [January 2018]. Well considering that in June 2018 my over zealous GP gave me a prognosis of imminent death due to advanced cancer based on a lung X-ray, a diagnosis that wasn’t based on sufficient medical examination or tests. However, f...