Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

The joke goes something like:   Q) What is so great about Sweden? A) I don’t know but the flag is a big plus.   Gerrit? At first I laughed but then I realised that the same could be applied to the England flag. That’s a big red plus. Doing a modicum of research then revealed that the flags of Denmark, Switzerland, Norway, Finland and Greece all feature a plus mark too. And thereby the novelty of the joke fades. Assessing these flags though, there are a few that wouldn’t technically fit the joke. Switzerland’s flag is a small plus. Greece’s flag is a small plus hemmed in by five blue lines or four white lines depending on which colour you think most dominates the space. They wouldn’t fit as replacements for Sweden in the joke. Denmark, Finland and Norway are all big pluses in the same way as Sweden but, let’s be honest here, are these actually plus signs? I would argue that they are crucifixes that have fallen to the left. The vertical line is not dead centre of...

Climbing the pull-down ladder into the attic again and again, dragging up with me a table top, its legs, a rug, lamps, a chair, and more with each trip.           (How I ’ve longed for such a chance, time and again spaces I’ve had           were overtaken by family demands)   The floor is now swept, Velux wide open, the sounds of an early summer morning deliciously wafting into the space.           (I don ’t even mind the sneezes the sweeping created, each tickle is            worth it)   Dust motes spiral in the faint breeze, highlighted by rays of sunlight.           (I wish I could capture the dust in a painting - it feels like MY dust up         here in the silence)   Artists’ sketchbooks, paints, pencils, ma...

  Time Not On My Side Precious days, months, years erode and nibble time away all too fast, casting memories aside to lie in fragments deep in my brain gradually fading away. Time On My Side Now in my seventh decade those fragments have awoken when I assumed they were gone. the arguments we had, silly jokes I told, me winning at scrabble (every time) well dancing, singing, working; tiny details of our life spewing forth in clear view and I remember us as we were. I still don’t know where the car is, I still can’t find the house keys. I’m sure, if you were here, you would know but time wasn’t on your side. © Christopher Lloyd Memories …… afterwards we didn’t meet again though I still dream of you, remember every inch of you, revel at your energy and zest, the way we were as one the iron bond we shared life partners, no one else mattered now simply one only dreams, memories of our days walking, chasing sticks but mistily, my eyes can see...

A roast beef sandwich with English mustard, Mum’s apple pie with tinned yellow custard. A burger with blue cheese and fries on the side, Bacon and black pudding, crisply fried.   A pot of pork dripping from Sunday’s roast With the brown jelly spread on Monday’s toast. Cold meat and salad for that day’s tea With piccalilli and onions and a mug of strong tea.   Donuts made on the harbour top, Covered in sugar and eaten still hot. Fish and chips on the front with paper and fork Then back to the car on the cliff walk.   Cheese from the market, wrapped in waxed paper, The best pork pies still warm from the baker. French crusty bread deliciously smelly, Salami and Prosciutto from the Italian Deli. Red Summer Pudding packed full of berries, A villa in France and sweet, sun-ripe cherries. Strawberries and Cream and Tarte au Citron, Cold Crème Brûlée and Vacherin aux Marrons.   A beachside restaurant and the catch of the day, ...

   The security lights shine through the blackout curtains.   Strange, this has never happened before.   I climb out of bed, and pulling the curtains aside, peer out into the inky blackness of the night.   I must have been mistaken, yet everything seemed so bright.   My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I shiver.        The wind is whistling through the trees, and a full moon suddenly appears, casting an eerie glow across the garden.   I silently watch and wait.   What is lurking in the dark shadows?   A lonesome fox approaches, staring straight at me, daring me to confront it, eyes bright and piercing, but I remain still, and it swaggers on its way, soon out of sight.   The moon disappears and darkness envelopes the garden once more.        I sigh and close the curtains, longing to return to my welcoming bed.   I gasp at the scene before me.   I am asleep, buried beneath the duvet...

  “There is nothing certain except that nothing is certain, And nothing more wretched than Man Or more arrogant.” Mattie had hated the school motto from the moment she first saw it. Her eyes were drawn to the stern, black letters, each a foot high, painted on the wall of the high-ceilinged dining hall.   She supposed they had been there for years and years. The plastered wall was cracked and patched under its whitewash, but the words were solid – forbidding and black as crows. She thought they must be repainted every year, ready to frighten a new intake of children. The motto was as stern and incomprehensible as the school itself, Mattie thought.   As she hurried up and down the bewildering staircases and along the endless corridors of identical wooden doors, the words whirled around in her mind in a tangle of double negatives. Did the motto mean that everything was certain, or that everything wasn’t? She felt like Alice in Wonderland, spinning as she fell down the rabbit...

      “Monsieur?” A tone of concern. I can hear his voice, but I’m face down on wet grass and can’t see the man. It takes a little time to get my limbs working. I turn and look up at him. He must be about sixty, balding, a small moustache which looks like it’s been painted on.     “Hello,” I say. In English.     “Are you OK? he asks. “Do you need a doctor?” Do I? There’s this feeling that I should stay away from any part of the system … that something has gone wrong … and until I find out what …     “No, thank you. I’m fine. Too much wine you know!” He looks doubtful. Perhaps I look bad but not in a drunk way. “But could you tell me where I am?”     “Sure. You must have had a good night! This is the Rue Maitre Albert. Notre Dame is just at the end of the street,” he says, turning to point the way. “With the rain overnight, it’s lucky you have a good waterproof.” A pity my jeans aren’t also waterp...