Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

  There is a tunnel beneath Birkby Hall Road connecting Norman Park to a place that locals know as ‘The Rec’ but I call ‘The Wreck’. Technically it is an extension of Norman Park, that was the original intention, but one side is considerably more neglected than the other and has been since the Millennium.             I must have been about eight when my sister and I spent a sunny afternoon crawling through that tunnel. We leapt off the Norman Park swings onto the wood chip path, turned a sharp left and got down on our hands and knees. The stone structure was solid enough but I didn’t want to linger and admire it. Even so I could hear my sister close behind, quietly encouraging me to slow down and run my hands across the smooth curved texture. Ahead of us, the circle of hazy light was steadily widening, flecks of barely visible grass boosting my resolve. My palms slapped cold stone faster, hoisting me the final couple of fee...

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...

Note: This is what I call a patchwork of anecdotes.  All occurrences described did happen but certainly not all on the same day...  A woman lays a copy of An Orphan's Courage by Cathy Sharp on the counter. She opens it.             "I was halfway through when I noticed this."             The left hand page is marked 186, the right 201. Fourteen pages are missing. No obvious tearing: a probable misprint. Still, very odd.             The red-headed woman laughs. "I get the feeling that might have been the best bit."             A reservation is made for a copy that is actually complete.             There is commotion to the right, at the table where the newspapers are kept. A male septu...

This was first written in 2014 whilst working out in Yangon, Myanmar. I had never shared a house with a stranger before nor a dog.   John was originally from Hertfordshire but had been working for the British Council in Myanmar for 10 years. His dog Li slept with him and was a fine example of man’s best friend. So here I was house sharing with a dog lover. The property had a huge gate and wire fencing all around. We had been relocated here due to a flood in the previous accommodation.  I am standing behind as we look at the muddy water Li and I are heading downstairs I had noticed that Li was well fed by the domestic help and was not taken for walks. John left early for work and returned in the evening.   At this new house the big gate had a gap and the dog had tried repeatedly to squeeze himself under it. One Saturday I observed him really excited as he communicated through the bars, with a dog who was on the other side of the gate, Li tried to wrigg...

Most of us have heard of National Novel Writing Month, but how many have actually tried it? The first time I did it, I was writing on my own – didn’t belong to any groups – so I just got my head down and went for it. I had the sense to try a fantasy, which wasn’t really my ‘thing’ but I’ve found it’s certainly the easiest way to reach that target of 50,000 words in 30 days. This year I’ve done a second novel to follow on from my first ‘turn-of-the-century (nineteenth) detective novel. Lots of encouragement to put it all together, but difficult to sustain over 30 days because of the minor detail of historical accuracy and the need for continual research. In one chapter, my heroine went into town on half-day closing. Except that as soon as I typed it, I realised that half-day closing didn’t become general until the 1912 law was passed – my book is set in 1899. Think again! This time round I do belong to writing groups and others in those groups are also tackling NaNoWriMo. We sup...

I am about to tell you a story. It is the kind of story which, if I entered for a competition, I feel that people would think that this would never happen in real life, because it sounds so far-fetched. They would likely feel that this story is too unrealistic. The irony is, that they would be wrong, because every word of this story is true…          It was one of those blisteringly hot, long days of summer. The days that melted tarmac in the road to the consistency of cookie dough. The air was thick with humidity. Humidity, that seeped into your bones and weighed you down. These were the facts of my childhood summers. Hosepipe bans, dried out, scratchy, sickly yellow-coloured grass that looked as if it had never once been lush and green. Clay baked earth that dried rock-hard and became covered in fissures like mini earthquakes. On days like these, there was nothing to be done but to try to cool off, any way you could. No one had air conditioning in their hou...