Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

She was extremely cold and could not make her brain work, so instinct took over and made her seek shelter. At the end of the alleyway there were some railway arches so she made herself get there. She crumbled to the floor as soon as she was beneath them. When she partially regained her senses, she realised that she was surrounded by people trying to make her warm by covering her with old clothes and sacks. They were close to and touching her. She screamed and climbed unsteadily to her feet ready to run, instead she fell straight back down. “Ere, there ain’t ennyfin to be scared about, lady. We’re all in it togevver. Wotcha you doing wiv no proper clothes on anyway?” “Help me up if you would be so kind. I am only lost.” “If you would be so kind, that’s a bit la di da,” said a large smelly man. “What’s a posh bird like you hangin’ around ‘ere for. Are you a reporter or summink, nosin’ in our bizniss? Yeh I bet that’s what she is boyz, a sleazy nosy snitch. And you know what we ...

‘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...

On days when love seemed to have hidden, Curled up under the covers in a darkened room, It would peak out from the folds of fresh linen, Run its fingers along dust free window sills, Giggle from behind tins and jars in filled cupboards, Skid across the spotlessly clean floor, and Put on its shoes by the back door. Love took us on a walk up the hill for fresh air, Talked about how the houses we passed, “Weren’t there, when I was a lad,” Looked troubled, perhaps, as it Ran through crunching leaves, and Stopped at the shop for 10p mix bags, And a can of pop. Love held out a strong steady hand, While we hopped across the stepping stones of a babbling brook, It stood for a while, leaving us to refill our heads, With the sounds of the gentle, bubbling water, To push out the dread and the red. It held up the barbed wire, so we could roll under, Onto lush green grass, to tumble freely down the hill. It guided us into bluebell woods and feigned surprise when We came acr...