![]() |
credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes |
High Town Writers' Workshop
Friday, 9 May 2025
Hoods and Bots: Part Eleven by Irena Szirtes
Thursday, 8 May 2025
Hoods and Bots: Part Ten by Irena Szirtes
![]() |
credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes |
Our hostess welcomed us with hot coffee and friendly smiles. She lived in an aged terrace in Ann Street, not far from the reconstructed railway station, and a hill where locals believed Catherine Parr’s castle once stood. By the time we settled, it was early evening. Victor and Roland decided to check out the town's drinking places, while I poured my life story out to Carla. She was the sort of person who drew it all from you without really trying. Soon I was in tears over Frank, something I’d declared would never happen again. Carla listened, then put a hand over mine.
Wednesday, 7 May 2025
Hoods and Bots: Part Nine by Irena Szirtes
![]() |
credit: Canva/Irena Szirtes |
Monday, 5 May 2025
All the Signs are There by Ruth Broome
I hear a humming.
Insects swarming.
I see the blossom
petals forming.
I feel a quickening.
Life.
Rushing in.
Nature responding
to the advent of Spring.
I know what she’s telling me.
I hear what she says.
Time to wake up now,
live life a new way.
Step into the light now,
lean into the Sun.
Daylight saving is over.
Winter is done.
@ruthiewrites
First Published in Poetic Reveries Literary Magazine (April 2025)
Saturday, 3 May 2025
I met my younger self for coffee by Michele Ross
![]() |
Looking Back by Astrid Knudsen |
With short hair and deep eyes
Considers me with palpable
negative vibes.
Surely there is no good news
from the future.
Didn’t it all go wrong?
All the same,
there is hope
hiding there.
I know,
because it bubbles up in me,
still,
whatever happens.
I say to her:
Stick at it.
Be confident.
Aim for the best job,
the best house,
the best man.
Make the most of your youth.
Make time for family,
they will always be there.
And when you find a real friend
never let go.
You will stop feeling sad - eventually.
Finding your place in the world
will help,
And having a child of your own to love.
Make sure you do this, whatever happens.
And bad things will happen.
But you will survive them.
Don’t let your trust and love
be squashed.
I love you.
Many others will love you.
I am in you - and you in me.
There is a long life ahead of you,
And I don’t know the ending.
But everything changes.
Nothing - good or bad - lasts.
Live for each moment.
Be free.
Be you.
ANOTHER ME
When we met,
I hesitated.
Should I tell her
what I see?
How could I
withhold my guidance?
She should have
a better life than me.
Could I really let her:
stick with the wrong man,
live in dark for so long,
ignore potential death pain,
pick the wrong man again?
But then,
would she have a beautiful son,
And end up in this
friendly, tumbling town?
As I began to speak,
picking my way
through the minefield
of time travel,
I gradually faded away.
Thursday, 1 May 2025
Conversation With My Younger Self
I crossed the Hall where we once sang hymns or
played with hoops and skipping ropes and came to the old Junior Corridor and the
top year classroom at the end. It hadn’t changed much. Mr Boyes had been my
teacher there and I had loved him. That was the year I took my eleven plus, but
in those days, we called it the Scholarship. Today the whole building housed infants
only, so the grouped tables in shiny melamine, were infant-size, unlike the aged
oak desks I remembered.
I took a coffee from a staff member serving
drinks and sat down at one of the mini tables opposite a girl who looked older
than the little ones trailing round with their parents. I said ‘hello’ and
sipped my coffee then couldn’t help briefly staring. I recognised the shiny
straight fringe, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, and when she opened
her lips to sip her orange squash, I caught sight of her two quite large, front
teeth, so familiar. I knew I was facing my eleven-year-old self who tentatively
smiled at me. I smiled too and asked how she was, and she looked uncertain. Was
she wondering who this stranger was or did she feel a familiarity too? She could
not know I was who she would become.
She was wearing my favourite seersucker
blouse, the one made by Auntie Joan; the white one with a Peter Pan collar and
scattered blue spots. I noticed the little gilt brooch hiding her top button,
the one with the capital ‘J’ in gold lettering on a black jet background; it
dangled from the glossy framework. Should I refer to my younger self as ‘I’ or
‘She’? I wondered.
‘I love your
pretty brooch,’ I said ‘What does the ‘J’ stand for?
‘My name’s Jennifer,
but my mum was going to call me Christine; then she heard the name Jennifer on
a programme on the wireless; you know, ‘Ray’s a Laugh.’
I did, and I
remembered mum telling that tale. ‘I prefer the name Jennifer,’ I said, ‘And what
a funny coincidence, my name’s Jennifer too, but I’m always called Jennie.’
‘That’s nice
but I get called Kitty all the time; you see, my surname is Kitt. We have the
shop down Riverhead called Kitt’s. We sell everything. It’s my mum’s shop.’
‘Is your mum
here today?’ I asked and suddenly felt incredibly nervous; mum had died forty
years ago and the thought of seeing her now was unimaginable.
‘No, mum has to be in the shop. I’m in the Juniors but have
just been helping the infant teachers on the open day; washing up mugs and
glasses, but we’re finished now; most mums and dads and children have had their
drinks.
‘What about
your dad, is he here today?’ I didn’t need to ask but wanted to hear her reply.
‘My dad? He
never comes to anything; he goes to Hull on a Saturday.
‘How is your
dad?’
‘Why, do you
know him?’
‘I’m not
sure, I might.’ I said.
‘Well, he
didn’t like me coming to school today; you see, he thinks I should be helping
mum in the shop, but mum didn’t mind me coming.’
‘Well, if he’s
gone out for the day, why shouldn’t you?’
Jennifer
shrugged her shoulders and looked blank and a little bit puzzled then said,
‘I’ve just got my scholarship and I’m going to Bridlington High School.’
‘You’re a
clever girl then?’
‘Not really;
my dad doesn’t know I’m going yet.’
Jennifer
looked slightly anxious and I knew exactly how she
felt, because she was me, the young me, and I knew her so well.
‘How do you
mean?’ I tried to bring her out.
‘I daren’t tell
him; he thinks school is a waste of time. Mum wants me to go to Brid High
School but the uniform costs loads, and dad never pays for anything.
‘Well,’ I
said, ‘If you go to the high school and pass your exams, you might become a
teacher or a doctor and earn a lot of money; can’t you tell your dad that?’
‘I can’t
tell him much.’
‘Perhaps you
should tell him you don’t want to be a shopgirl.’
‘He’ll go
into one of his black moods and won’t speak for days; it’s awful for mum.’
‘Can he be nice?’
Jennifer scowled and I absolutely knew why.
‘He’s kind
sometimes; he bought one of my paintings once; it was of a tiger. Mostly, I
don’t like him much, my heart sinks when he comes up the path’
Jennifer
looked anxious and I reached out and took her hand.
‘What is it?
‘
She was very
quiet, then she said, ‘He’s always touching me.’
‘Oh, ‘I
said, ‘Can’t you tell mum?’ I knew I never had done.
Jennifer
shook her head and drank her squash. My heart ached for my younger self. I felt
her pain.
‘You must
tell your mum; a dad shouldn’t do things like that.’ I thought of Childline; a life-line
for young people; there was nothing like it when I was eleven.
‘Well, it’s
not just him, it’s Uncle Cyril when he brings Grandma Kitt and comes to stay.’
‘Don’t you
like Uncle Cyril?’
She gave a
definite ‘No! He’s my dad’s brother and he creeps into my room at night and
wakes me up. I hate it but am scared to tell my mum.’
I shuddered
and remembered.
‘Oh my dear Jennifer,
he really shouldn’t do that. Does he hurt you?’
She started
to cry a little. ‘Not really; he touches my feet through the covers and then he
tries to hold me, but …’
Jennifer
didn’t need to finish; I knew it all; the same every time. ’There is so much
ugliness in the world,’ he would say, ’I just want to hold something beautiful.’
Jennifer
looked distressed as she realised she was confiding in a stranger. She would never
understand who I was. She finished her
drink and pushed her chair back. ‘I’ve got to tell Miss Hairsine I’m going; mum
will need me in the shop over teatime.’ She didn’t say goodbye, just spoke to
the teacher and sped from the classroom. It was all over in a moment and there
was so much more I wanted to ask.
And what
more should I have said? Could I have changed the course of my life? Persuaded my
young self to tell mum? Before mum died, I did tell her of my fear of Uncle Cyril,
and she confided she used to dread Cyril coming too. He used to trap her in a corner,
she said, and be indecent. She had never told dad or anyone.
I eventually,
told my husband of dad’s predatory behaviour, and later, one or two close
friends. If I had spoken out, the course of my life might have changed, but in
a strange way, I had loved my dad and could not have born his humiliation, nor
my mother’s.
I read a quotation
by E.F. Benson, a British writer from the late nineteenth century. It reflects
my feelings:
‘The fear
that takes hold in bright sunlight can be the deepest of all.’
Tuesday, 29 April 2025
Advice to My Younger Self by Fiona Carstairs
This advice I find
hard to say
Because my young self
was born into the life of yesterday
Ideas and modes written
From a different text
No distractions like iPhones
Face Book or X
Our parents were our influencers
The friends at school or home
Our family would share and keep
Us safe, we had little chance to roam
There were even then things
To distract and entice
Like getting drunk with friends
Taking drugs!
Such a vice!
But I managed to steer through
These pitfalls that suck
Some by good judgment
But mostly by luck
So what would I say now to this
Dear young friend
Be happy and live
healthy
It pays in the end
Don’t give your heart away too fast
Relationships can break
And leave a lifetime of regret
Strewn forever in it’s wake
Stand up for what you think is right
Don’t be afraid to disagree
Of that which goes against
Your conscience or your liberty
Be true only to yourself,
Others should not hold sway
Thank you for all you’ve
achieved
It made me the woman I am today
Sunday, 27 April 2025
A Toast to Yorkshire by Adam Rutter
![]() |
credit: Adam Rutter/Gencraft |
I walked along a quiet road, treading on the same path that I followed in my youth. The road cut through the Yorkshire Dales National Park, across The Pennines, and through three villages: Hetton, Rylstone and Cracoe. The road started in Gargrave, which is where I used to go on holiday in the 1990s. I returned to 2000, a year before the outbreak of Foot and Mouth Disease. Rolling fields were gridded with drystone walls, lining the roadside. The constant sound of sheep bleating travelled through the air, mixed with the lapwing calling a tearful cry.
The skies were overcast, though the views of the surrounding countryside were still clear enough to see. Cracoe was visible from a distance. I stepped over wooden boards, spanning the level crossing. A film of lime traced alongside the single track after being deposited by a passing freight train. Hetton, the first village I arrived at had a pub standing above the roadside: The Angel Inn. Sat in the beer garden was a young man with light brown cropped hair, wearing a black tee-shirt showing the cast from Star Trek: Voyager. He was definitely in his early twenties. The last time that I was here, I was 22. That earlier part of my memory sent a shiver down my spine, making the skin tingle on my hands and face. The man looked distinctly like me. What gave the game away was his tee-shirt.
I wondered into the beer garden. Slowly, I moved closer to him. There was absolutely no doubt. He was a younger version of myself. He was sitting at a square wooden table. There were many like it outside the pub that were occupied by quite a few patrons. He did not have a pint on the table. Had he already bought a drink at the bar? Was he waiting to be served? I mean, he couldn’t take a drink outside himself, not without spilling it everywhere.
I walked gingerly towards his table. He had his back to me. I stopped a few paces from my younger self. I cleared my throat, and then I began.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said.
He looked round, wondering whether if I was addressing him. Concern and confusion were written on his face.
‘Pardon me for asking,’ he began, ‘but do I know you from somewhere?’
‘Here, there, everywhere,’ I said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Oh. Er, yes, you do know me.’
‘How do I know you?’
‘We were both born in the same place Adam.’
‘Wait a minute. How d’you know my name?’
‘Because that’s who I am.
‘What!’
‘That’s my name.’
‘But that still doesn’t explain how you know my name.’
‘Look! Can’t you see what I’m trying to tell you?’
‘No.’
‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’
Adam’s eyes blinked; the flush in his cheeks drained, turning pale.
‘My god. It can’t be,’ said Adam.
‘It is, Adam.’
‘How’s that possible?’
‘Time travel is possible. I mean, you said so yourself.’
‘Are you saying you’ve time travelled all the way here? In the dales?’
‘Of course.’
‘But, why here?’
‘I love the dales.’
‘When did you come?’
‘Today. May I join you?’
‘Eh. Oh, yes. Of course.’
‘Thank you.’
I sat opposite Adam, overlooking the views of green fields and pasture. A waiter came out with a notebook and pen.
‘Would you like me to get something for you gentlemen,’ the waiter asked.
‘Would you like a coffee Adam?’
‘Nah. Coke will do me.’
‘And what would you like, sir?’
‘Green tea, please.’
‘Green tea,’ asked Adam.
‘Yeah.’
‘What the hells that?’
‘It’s tea that’s not being properly fermented.’
‘Ah, would that be the same as Yorkshire Tea?’
‘Er, not quite.’
‘Would you like t’bite?’
‘You what now!’
‘Would you like a meal?’
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you.’
‘How about a ploughman’s?’
‘Well, we might as well plough our way through our time in the dales, now that we’re here.’
‘I see that my sense of humour doesn’t get any better.’
‘Does it ever?’
‘My humour...or, should it be our humour has always been uphill, down dale.’
‘You know, we should drink a pint of ale in the dale.’
‘I thought you were no good at poetry.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then how come you rhyme words?’
‘I’m not sure if I follow you.’
‘You were doing it.’
‘When?’
‘Just now.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did I say?’
A tractor was chugging along, drowning out Adam’s voice. My nostrils drew in the exhaust fumes, making me cough and splutter.
‘Could you repeat that,’ I asked.
‘Repeat what?’
‘That rhyme.’
‘The rhyme?’
‘Yes.’
Adam’s face was blank, as though files had been deleted from his memory bank. There was silence between us, dragging on from seconds, into minutes. Not another word was spoken. The silence seemed to go on forever. I saw Adam smile in his eyes, like he had a eureka moment.
‘I remember what it was,’ said Adam.
‘So, it’s finally come back to you, has it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What was it?’
The rustic noises of the countryside swallowed up when a supersonic jet screeched overhead, cutting Adam off in mid-sentence. All I could see was his lips moving. It was like a loudspeaker being muted. The jet thundered in the distance, disappearing behind a peak.
‘Could you say that again,’ I asked.
‘Oh, I think it’s gone again.’
‘You’re telling me you’ve forgotten?’
‘Yeah. That’s exactly it.’
‘Your glass of coke would’ve lost it’s fizz by the time you remember.’
‘I think my rhyming has lost it’s fizz ’an all.’
‘Surely, it hasn’t.’
‘It has.’
‘The one way for rhyming to keep its fizz is to write more.’
‘I drink to that,’ said Adam, raising his glass before gulping his drink down him.
‘Hey,’ continued Adam. ‘Why don’t we propose a toast?’
‘To what?’
‘To Yorkshire.’
I lift my cup off the saucer. ‘Here’s to Yorkshire.’
‘To Yorkshire,’ said Adam, holding his glass like an Olympic torch.
The cup and glass clunk together.
Friday, 25 April 2025
I Smiled as I Walked In by Stuart Hough
Owl by Stuart Hough |
I remembered those days. I was always in a hurry, living a busy life at a frenetic pace. Most things were on the spur of the moment. I wouldn’t have a smartphone, a laptop or a PC. I couldn’t send or receive texts or messages from WhatsApp, Outlook or Messenger. I wouldn’t be distracted by Facebook, X, Instagram or TikTok. I didn’t need Google to find anything out or to find my way. Neither did anyone else, which was fortunate, as they didn’t exist for my younger self. If I was out of the house, then I was off the ‘phone. If I was in the car, I had a road atlas.
Most things were on the spur of the moment for my younger self. I missed him and his uncomplicated life. He wouldn’t see it like that. Maybe I’d been delayed by a long queue in my local bank, by writing cheques or trying to find a payphone that worked. Maybe I’d be posting letters or sales orders for work. I may be filing carbon copies into ever thickening foolscap folders. I may be caught in traffic. I may be sitting in my first company car. The Ford Escort that screamed of the build quality expected of a Friday afternoon on the Dagenham assembly line. I may be cursing the cassette player for eating yet another tape. I may be sitting there re-winding the tape with the Bic pen that I kept in that car, precisely for that purpose. I may have been delayed by an under appreciation of time and an over appreciation of my own ability. That was normal then. I may be returning my library books or hired videos, to avoid a fine. I maybe searching for an ATM that had cash and wasn’t “out of order”. I may have been delayed at home on a long conversation with her. I knew her too. She liked to talk. I smiled at the memory of the younger man I knew so well. I still wouldn’t have heard of a fax.
These days I seem to have more time. I don’t achieve any more or less than my younger self, but with age comes organisation. It doesn’t have to be much, but enough to relieve time pressure for my own future self. With age comes the ability to push back, the confidence to do so and the experience to know when. With age comes a certain ability to stretch time by living life on your own terms. An ability to say, “No. Thankyou”. An appreciation of when not to get sucked into the ever-decreasing circles that are some other people’s problem’s, which they wish to be yours.
I’d seen everything he had. He had yet to see so much. He’d yet to develop the patience, or at least the laconic sarcasm of his older self. My younger self would still take challenges personally and allow his already limited time to be stretched even further. It wouldn’t really matter. I was young and wouldn’t know any better for years yet. These days I have thicker skin.
I still wasn’t there. What could he tell me that I didn’t know? I knew it all. At that age he thought he did also. All of the things that I should have said or done? Well, I didn’t. So why should he? We are the same. I’d already thought of the challenges that he had ahead of him. Would I tell him of marriages and divorce? Twice? Should I tell him of the children he doesn’t know yet? Will I tell him of the places around the world that he can only wonder about? Should I prepare him for the loss of his parents? Would I tell him of the unbelievable highs and of the crushing lows yet to come? How would I have coped knowing then what I know now? Probably not very well, knowing me. Did I have any regrets? Would I change anything? Or would I stick to my usual ‘another stitch in life’s rich tapestry’ nonsense rhetoric to whatever it was at the time, good or bad?
I smiled as I walked in. I was so predictable. A Polo Sport shirt and Levi’s 501’s. I’d bought them to impress when I had less sense and less money, to actually do so. The real irony was that I still had them.
“Sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
“I would and let me tell you, it doesn’t get any better. Anyway, this isn’t a good idea.”
“Maybe we’re not known for them?” He grinned.
“You have a good life.” I said, leaving the interpretation of a statement or an imperative hanging in the air. I knew he’d understand. “It’s not without its ups and downs. Enjoy it”.
“I didn’t expect it would be. Good to see you. You too.”
I sensed he detected a quieter “us”. One that had come to terms with what life had to throw at us and still had the conviction to strive to be happy. I opened the door and walked into the street.
Wednesday, 23 April 2025
I Met Myself for Coffee by Louise Lee
![]() |
Flowers by Val Pedrick |
Because he reminds him of himself at that age
And at that age, he was an idiot.
He wants him to grow up.
I met myself for coffee.
Is my myself my daughter?
The one I didn’t have?
Am I her mother?
The one I didn’t have.
She tells me about a course she’s doing
Another course.
She’s happy, she’s interested, she’s hopeful.
It will lead to a different career, respectful of her, worthy of her.
I listen and feel her pain.
I reflect her happiness, not the futility I’m feeling.
She appreciates my reflection and connection.
April 2025 Meeting
![]() |
Minutes, HTW 22/04/25
Attendees: Irena (Chair), Michelle, Liz, John, Sue, Adam.
Apologies: Kath and Andy, Ruth, Louise, Suzie, Jennie, Fiona, Stuart, Ann and Marie.
Thanks to those who were unable to attend, but sent in writing to be shared on the topic ‘I met my younger self for coffee.’
Notices.
Our writing task was “What If?” The idea was to think about avoiding over-used words, phrases, plot devices or characters.
Our task for the month ahead continues this idea. The title is ‘An Unexpected Smile,’ emphasis on the unexpected!
Alternative homework could be developing what was began during the task.
After the task, we listened to each interpretation of ‘I met my younger self for coffee,’ including some of those from members who couldn’t attend. It was a privilege to hear such a wide range of interpretations.
Next meeting: Tuesday 27th May at Peepos.
Liz has volunteered to chair.
Sunday, 20 April 2025
The Rabbit by Fiona Carstairs
Her back leg caught in a trap
Before the walker set her free
Bathed the wound and found a wrap
Laid her down to sleep
Next morning at the break of day
He found his friend had died
But not before delivering
Three kits lying at her side
The sun quivered on the hill
His tears shed upon her fur
Defused her body shape
As she changed the space to fill
A nearby church its bells were rung
As pure light she had become
And with winged energy arose to meet the
Rising Son
Saturday, 19 April 2025
The Cross by Fiona Carstairs
On that avid materialistic stage
His hair was long and softly worn
His eyes held love and reverence
His manner kind benevolence
With every trite unwholesome word
Others tried to put him down
With bent head he just concurred
At last on roughly hewn cross
They nailed him
The young man looked so out of place
Amongst the criminals left and right
But all he uttered at the last was
“God forgive them”
REMINDER - APRIL MEETING on Tuesday 22nd April
in Peepo's Spirit Room
Chair: Irena
Writing task is: “I met my younger self for a coffee”
(it’s a current viral trend, but as usual, please interpret this prompt in whatever way speaks to you!)