No Plain Sailing by Adam Rutter

credit: Adam Rutter

I was sitting on a bench next to an estuary overlooking the view of the toll bridge in the foreground, and mountains towering on the other side. Blue skies reflected in calm waters, yachts were anchored and ropes clanged against the masts in the wind. I felt the heat from the sun burning my shoulder blades, warming the thin fabric of my T-shirt. I spoke to my friend, Thomas, on my tablet. He called me all the way from New Zealand. The blazing sun made it almost impossible to see his face on the screen. Me and Thomas had known each other since we were at uni. He emigrated to the other side of the world in 2023. This was the first time that we got in touch after two years since he left the UK.

 ‘Hey Josh’, said Thomas, gleefully.

‘Thomas! Where are you speaking from?’

‘Auckland’.

‘Yeah, but where are you’.

‘In the same place where I’ve been for the last couple of years.’.

‘Wherever you are Thomas, it somehow looks different’.

‘I’m not sure if I follow you’.

‘Thomas, your head seems to be moving up and down’.

‘Oh? I’m on a boat’.

‘Ah’.

‘I sail round the harbour in it, now and then’.

‘D’you mean – you own the boat?’

‘I bought it five months ago’.

‘Cool!’

‘I’m getting closer to the shore now’.

‘That explains why I hear sea gulls’.

‘There’s sea gulls at your end as well Josh. Have you gone to sunnier climes?’

‘I’m on staycation’.

‘You know, I’m sure you’ve gone to sunny Greece again. You always go there for your holidays’.

‘Not this time’.

‘I don’t believe you’.

‘I’m somewhere hot, but I assure you Thomas, it’s not in warmer climes’.

‘So, where have you gone to this time?’

‘I’ve gone to sunny Wales’.

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

‘Nope’.

‘You’ve decided to go somewhere cooler, have you, Josh?’

‘Thomas! It’s thirty degrees here’.

‘Wow!’

‘And it’s gonna stay this hot for another three weeks’.

‘Another three weeks?’

‘Yep’.

‘Whereabouts are you? Are you at that place where you normally go?’

‘What place?’

‘Er. Ah! Tenby’.

‘No’.

‘So, where are you then?’

‘Penmaenpool’.

‘Where?’

‘That place outside of Dolgellau’.

‘I don’t know it’.

‘But you used to live in Dolgellau, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah’.

A car rattled on the boards, crossing the toll bridge before turning off at the top of the driveway. When the car came into view, it turned out to be a blue Ka going over a row of ramps as it glided past the George, the Third Hotel. The driver was a woman in her early to mid-20s. She waved at me, smiling. I put my hand up to her, returning a weak smile.

‘Josh’, continued Thomas. ‘Who are you waving to?’

‘I don’t know Thomas’.

‘Well, it’s obviously someone you know’.

‘Whoever’s waving seems to know me’.

‘An old flame maybe?’

‘No. I don’t think so’.

‘Are you sure Josh?’

The Ka pulled up at the car park. The engine cut off. The brake lights went out. The car door opened. I watched as the woman stepped out. Dressed in a bright blue top and a pair of shorts, she opened the boot, waving her hand at me second time round.

‘Hi Josh’, said the woman.

It can’t be, I wondered.

‘Josh’, began Thomas. ‘Has your computer gone frozen?’

‘Er, no’.

‘I heard someone say “hi” to you just now’.

‘Erm. Did you?’

‘I’m sure it was a woman Josh’.

‘It’s Annika’, I whispered.

‘Ooooh!’

‘Thomas!’

Annika walked over to me, carrying a suitcase, with a rucksack on her back.

‘What are you doing here?’ asked Annika.

‘I’m taking some time off’.

‘Taking time out, eh Josh?’ said Thomas.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Annika.

‘Who’s what?’

‘Who’s that talking on your tablet?’

‘It’s me Annika’.

She stepped closer towards my tablet, looking at the faded image.

‘Is it...is it Thomas?’

‘I’m the same Thomas’.

‘Gosh! I haven’t seen you for ages’.

‘It’s been about eight years’.

‘No way’.

‘So, what are you up to these days, Annika?’

‘I’m working as a GP’.

‘Wow!’

‘I work at a hospital in London’.

‘What are you doing in Penmaenpool, Annika?’

‘I’m here to sail in my yacht. Josh is joining me’.

‘It looks like you’ve got your holiday fixed up Josh’.

‘I’ll just check-in at the hotel, and we’ll set sail’.

Annika hurried into the hotel, still smiling. George the Third Hotel had the appearance of a house: a long white building with gable windows and a veranda offering a vista of the landscape. Two cyclists rode past me, grating along a dusty path. A group of ducks were waddling close to the shore, flanking near the stone steps leading to the jetty.

 

Annika dashed back out, running towards the steps.

‘C’mon Josh. Let’s go’, she cried, summoning me to go with her.

 ‘You’ve got a trip of a lifetime, Josh’, said Thomas.

‘I’ll tell you what, Thomas’.

‘What?’

‘This yacht trip is not going to be plain sailing’.

Playing Cards by Jason

Entering the kitchen was difficult. It had been ten years

since I had been in my parents’ house. Now it was empty. I

felt like an intruder, invading their space. I leaned over the

sink and opened the window to let in some air. The drawer

stuck, just as I remembered it, needing a tug to open it. I

saw them then, my Dads’ playing cards. The cause of all

our problems. The reason I left. His gambling addiction

that ruined our family.

I hesitated but picked them up. The wax-coated box,

stained yellow in the corners, smelt of his Marlboro's. I

opened the pack with a flick of the tab and slowly pulled

out the pack.

My fingers tingled. It was like breaking a family code.

‘Never touch your Dads cards’ my Mom said, ‘He doesn't

like you messing them up.’

I lit the gas hob and turned over the ace of spades in my

fingers, gazing at its shiny surface and the sixties

psychedelic motifs. I put the corner to the flames and

smelt the waxy paper burn.

Burn baby, burn I thought to myself. You are never coming

back now. Your cards were dealt and you lost this hand.

February 2026 Meeting

Minutes of High Town Writers' Workshop

Tuesday 24th February 2026

Chair: Ruth Broome

In attendance; Adam, Suzie, Irene, Jason, Marie, Fiona, Anne, Stuart, Michele and John.

Apologies from: Liz, Sue, Kath and Andy.

Notices and Updates; 

- Ruth has had her first poem published in print (and online) in a Literary Journal called 'Audience Askew'. 

- Suzie is attending an online poetry circle with people from around the world who give and receive critiques on their poems submitted weekly.

- Adam is attending a speaking word workshop in Broseley Library on the 6th March.

- Liz, Sue and Jenny attended Emma Woodhouse's reading at the Wolverhampton Literary Festival and Suzie and Michele also attended to hear Ruth's poetry performance in the Writers Hub. 

Writing Task;

- writers were asked to write for 10 minutes on an item brought for them from Ruth's kitchen, focussing particularly on their five senses and any feelings/memories that the item evoked for them. Such items included but were not limited to; a bag of cheese and onion crisps, a bodger, an egg cup and a pack of cards.

Homework;

- several writers had completed the task of writing about a 'memorable holiday' set at the previous meeting - John, Jenny, Adam, Stuart, Suzie, Ruth, Jason and Anne all had a maximum of 5 minutes to read their pieces aloud to the group.

Any Other Business;

- Marie invited volunteers from the group to become admins for the Facebook group and approved all members attending to be able to add content to the Facebook page. She felt the page needed more content and more activity to attract new members to the group and to keep people informed of the group's activity.

- a question was raised in regards to the actual start time of the meeting - is it;

          A. arrive at 6.45 in order for the meeting to start promptly at 7pm or 

          B. arrive at 7pm in order for the meeting to start promptly at 7.15pm. 

It was agreed that this needed clarification for all members and particularly for people chairing the group.  

Next Meeting

Tuesday 24th April

The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club, Low Town

Start time? (see above AOB)

Chair - Fiona

Homework - write a piece of prose or poetry prompted/inspired by an item from your kitchen.

REMINDER - February Meeting next Tuesday

Next Meeting: 

Tuesday, 24th February 2026, 

7pm in The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club

Chair: Ruth

Any one who is writing or would like to write, is welcome.

Current Task: To write a short story, prose or poem on the subject of 

'A Memorable Holiday.'

One Night - a pantoum- by Fiona Carstairs

All Well? I stand ready at the door 

The sound of gaiety and laughter come in from the street

The dog softly growls and the cat is in 

The moon is full and the stars shine against the darkening sky 

The sound of gaiety and laughter come in from the street

My home is in darkness and the animals are quiet

The moon is full and the stars shine against the darkening sky 

I step into the street and join the throng

My home is in darkness and the animals are quiet

Coats and scarves thrown on keep us warm

I step into the street and join the throng

The night reaches out to encompass me as we walk 

 

Coats and scarves thrown on keep us warm

I need to return to my home -time stands still

The night reaches out to encompass me as we walk

I feel panic rising in my chest

I need to return to my home - time stands still

The dog softly growls and the cat is in 

I feel panic rising in my chest

All’s well! - I stand ready at the door

Birthday by Ann Reader

It was my 74th birthday and I started the day by giving myself a stern talking to. There was nothing to be gained by feeling sorry for myself. I had refused her sister’s invitation to stay for a couple of days, I had not contacted friends to arrange drinks,  I just hated the idea of anyone feeling sorry for me. So now I faced the day quite alone. I reflected that I had become increasingly isolated since I retired from my post at the University.  I still published the occasional paper and used the University library for research but increasingly that could be done at home on the computer.  I was no longer a member of the faculty and all my work colleagues had retired and moved out of London to enjoy retirement in the countryside.

I sometimes wondered if I should have done that, but I loved my flat and garden even if this morning they did feel a little empty.  I had always been too busy and too absorbed in my to work feel lonely. With a familiar stab of pain, I thought of my beautiful longhaired grey and white cat ‘Whiffle ‘ .He had been 19 years old when he died a month ago and I missed him more than I thought possible.  

That was not going to help! I disciplined myself to think of positives. I would plan a full day; I lived in London for goodness’s sake; all forms of culture and entertainment were available. I decided on a trip to the Victoria and Albert and lunch in the cafe would be a treat.

The doorbell rang and I answered it expecting to the postman. 

“Auntie Helen,” a tall smiling youth stood in the doorway, with some difficulty I recognised my great nephew William, “these are for you.”  He thrust a huge bouquet of flowers into my arms.

“Dad’s just trying to park the car, I don’t suppose you have such a thing as a visitor parking permit.

I handed it to him and went to put the flowers in water. When I returned to the front room complete with flowers my nephew Martin and his wife Alicia were there with William and his sister Annette and the cutest little white terrier I had ever seen. 

“What are your plans for today Aunty” Martin began as soon as the hugs, kisses and birthday wishes were done. 

“Oh, nothing much “I lied. Well, the V & A would still be there tomorrow. 

“Can we take you out to lunch?” I looked pointedly at the clock it was only 9.30 in the morning! “Ah yes, well we need to ask a big favour first. This is Callie, she is Alicia’s mum’s dog, but May’s had to go into hospital, so we are looking after her until we know what’s happening. To be honest it’s likely May will have to go from hospital into a nursing home.  Anyway, part of the reason for our trip to London is that William has been offered a place at your old University and a place in the hall of residence.  We just wanted to go and see what the hall was like before accepting that. Obviously, we can’t take Callie in with us so rather than leave her in the car, after a longish journey we wondered if we could leave her with you. Please?”

Of course, I agreed and they all went out leaving the little dog, who looked disconcerted at first.  I got onto the floor and sat with her until she came and sniffed my outstretched hand and then allowed me to pet her. I noticed how different the fur felt to Whiffles, but not unpleasant.   I was not really sure what dogs liked, having always had cats. Probably much the same. I still had a tin of ‘Dreamies’ in the cupboard so I offered one to Callie who accepted it eagerly then followed me into the garden where she sat up on her hind legs to beg for another. I was entranced. It would seem that the little dog knew a number of tricks. I found myself simply enjoying the sunshine and playing with the little creature.  

Before I knew it the family were back. We all piled into Martin’s car and I must admit I was delighted when Callie climbed onto my knee in the back. She appeared a little intimidated by the loud playfulness of the two teenagers. I fancied she found my presence a comfort. They had chosen a pub on the Thames with a lovely riverside walk.  It was quite a long drive and certainly not somewhere I would have taken myself, it was delightful. A perfect way to spend a lovely sunny day.  Much more fun than a museum I realised I did not spend enough time in the fresh air.

After a delicious lunch, accompanied by much laughter and friendly debate, we all decided to walk by the river. Without thinking I took charge of Callie.  Martin hung back with me as the dog stopped to savour various smells.

“You’re getting on very well with her, she seems to have taken to you.” Martin stopped and took my arm, “she hasn’t settled well with us.  I think she finds the fuss of a family too much and then we have to leave her alone all day which isn’t good.  She’s used to being with just one person.  Realistically May is not coming home. I don’t suppose you would ...”

“Yes.”  I hadn’t realised until I said that how much I had hoped Martin would ask this of me but somehow I knew that this was exactly what we both needed.  She was a totally unexpected present at the end of one of the best birthdays I could remember. 

What Birthday Party? by Fiona Carstairs

I didn’t want a Birthday Party

Are you sure said my sister?

Are you sure asked my sons?

You may change your mind

Said my friend Jon

This birthday is not one I wish to remember

It would not bring my youth back

It would not give my health back

Nor the excitement of a unlived future

I didn’t wish  for ‘Well at our age’ by some well wisher

I did not want to celebrate as friends no longer there

 Would be conspicous by their absence

I could see the  slippery slope to the grave 

Coming at me

Time was galloping towards me with death in its stead

I thought acknowleging my birthday

Would awaken the horseman

I awoke the next morning the earth hadn’t changed course

I did not feel older I did not feel worse

I did not feel my  age was a sudden curse

The sun was out the day was warm

I jumped out of bed washed put clothes on

Downstairs the post lay on the mat

A deluge of cards on which  sat the cat 

Each one a  blessing each one confessing 

A friendship built over the years

 I  then realised I had turned my back 

On these loving people I must give back

With a party to remember our days 

Of being together before it all fades 

Then the doors to the sitting room opened

And with a big ‘Surprise surprise’ there they all stood

Overcome with joy I had not been allowed to let

My birthday party slip on by.

The Birthday That Never Was by Adam Rutter

Arley Station                                                                                             credit Adam Rutter

Wednesday, August 6th, 2025

It was a beautiful day. The weather was hot and sunny. So I went out for a drive in a new white open top car, which was given to me on my birthday. To feel the air blowing through my flowing hair in the sweltering heat was so refreshing. I smelt the whiff of tar in the warm breeze as I was going along a twisty road in the countryside. The air felt cooler when the road cut through a deciduous forest. I turned off at the junction in a tiny village, and went down a country lane, winding its way towards the bottom of a valley. I ended up in Arley, the Worcestershire village that lies on the edge of the forest. I pulled up on a grassy car park near the banks of the River Severn. Arley has managed to hold onto its peace and tranquillity, considering the rural location being popular among tourists. It is a typical English village that has kept its charm.

I stepped out of the car, and walked to the Severn Valley Railway, just up the road from where I parked. Mum and Dad arranged to meet me at the railway station. I sat on a bench, waiting for the 11.46 train. The station was a recreation of the Great Western Railway-era. There were posters of advertisements from yesteryear dotted around the station premises, promoting products that were no longer commercially available. Both station platforms were lined with gas lamps: a feature that would not be seen on the modern railways. I looked up and down the platform. It was empty. A slight drop in ambient temperature gave me goose bumps. Was there a change in the weather? Nothing was mentioned in the forecast. The sky was cloudless. Yet the temperature felt unusually cooler for the time of year.

A motor car chugged over the arched railway bridge, going down the same lane that I drove on. From the corner of my eye, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark green grille bonnet through the gap between the bridge and a hedgerow. I looked at the vintage car without a second thought. There was not a motor rally in the area; at least, not that I was aware of. I had no recollection of such an event taking place on this particular day. The riverside was very quiet, which was also strange, because lots of day visitors flock there in the summer. I never heard a murmur. Not even laughter. All I heard were birds singing and a crow’s relentless caw. What did catch my attention was the church bells chiming two o’clock. This was not right. I left the house at 10.50. According to my watch, the time was 11.46 precisely. The time that Mum and Dad were due to arrive. I looked at the down platform towards the bridge. There was no sign of the train. Twenty minutes later, it still had not come. Towards the lower end of platform 1, a door opened on the station building. A man wearing a black cap and dark suit stepped out. I removed myself from the bench, and ran down the platform, my high heels clattering on the concrete. As he was about to walk out through the gate, I called him.

‘Excuse me’, I said.

He took no notice.

The second time that I said it, he stopped before shutting the gate behind him. The man turned. I stopped running. He stared back at me, stern.

‘Is there a train due?’ I asked.

‘No miss. There’s not a train for another hour.’

‘What happened to the 11.46?’

‘There wasn’t an 11.46.’

‘I’ve waited nearly half an hour for the 11.46 from Kidderminster.’

‘Kidderminster?’

‘Yes.’

‘There ain’t no train due from there.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘I’m not joking miss.’

‘So when is the next train?’

‘Three o’clock.’

‘Three o’clock!’

‘Yea. From Worcester’.

‘Worcester?’

‘That’s right miss.’

‘But isn’t there gonna be another train from Kidderminster?’

‘Yes.’

‘When.’

‘Five o’clock.’

‘You mean I’ll have to wait for three hours?’

‘Yes miss. Where are you going, by the way?’

‘Nowhere.’

‘What d’you mean, nowhere?’

‘I’m here to meet my family.’

‘Huh! You’re a bit late for that miss.’

‘Why?’

‘The train passed through this station four hours ago.’

‘Four hours ago?’

‘You heard what I said. You should look at the timetable.’

The man pointed at the times written in chalk on the notice board.

‘It’s all on there,’ he highlighted. Then the man said, ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me miss. I have work to do.’ He closed the gate.

My chest rose up to my throat. I stared blankly at the gate. Everything that the man said was like being punched in the face. It hit me so hard, I felt as though I had been knocked out. My struggle to make sense of it all was just as hard. I never shared this bizarre event with anyone. Not even with my closest friends or immediate family. I decided to remain silent over the awful and most strangest affair.  

As I write my account of the uncanny and terrifying experience, I am still struggling to process on exactly what had occurred. 

What really happened, I do not know. All I know is that Mum and Dad were going to meet me for a belated birthday. A birthday I shall never forget. A birthday that never was.

Lawrence's 21st by Michele Ross

 Lawrence’s 21st

(Meaning: ‘bright one’; ‘shining one’ ‘laurelled’)

One New Year’s Eve

we travelled many miles,

To the distant edge of time.

An ancient cottage stranded

on the bone cold Norfolk coast,

Warmed by memories of

summer boating on the lake,

and families

entwined around the hearth.

A magical trip,

With stormy cliff top walk

And music-making,

too much beer,

And football on the beach.

Peppered with poignancy

And grace,

Moments of heartache

And hope,

weighted with the grand

significance of youth.

And you, the birthday boy

A shadow of the former self

I loved in Edinburgh - 

The vibrant trumpet player

Fizzing with energy and life,

good humour pulsing

through your veins.

 

Reduced to pale beauty

reclining by the open fire,

In fitful waking moments,

Smiling weakly to reassure

Your patient mother.

She placed cake

and lit candles,

A ritual to stir

Your suddenly

aged bones,

Watching helpless

As your grieving brother,

Lay in phantom misery beside,

Watching, waiting

For sleeping beauty

to arise

and blow out the candles.

Each New Year’s Day

I wonder what

became of you,

the path I never crossed again.

Were you one of those

who shone brightly, then

burned out and

fell away.

Too delicate

in body

or mind

To stay

Or did you mark your 50th today

January 2026 Meeting

Minutes of meeting, 7pm, Tuesday 27th January 2026

Venue: The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club, Bridge Street, Low Town

Chair:  Adam

Present: Jason, Liz, John A S, Fiona, Adam, Ruth, Michele

Apologies: Kath, Andy, Ann, Jennie, Sue, Suzie, Stuart, Irena, Louise

We welcomed Jason to our group and hope he enjoys the gentle challenges that make our writing workshop special.

Adam began the meeting with a building inspired warm-up exercise. We wrote of our homes, of power stations turned art galleries, of alien structures in snowy landscapes, of Cold War echoes through bunkers and bungalows, and of the people locked into engaging with each other within buildings.

It seemed a long time since our November 'Birthday' autofiction theme was set. We had all enjoyed reading Jennie's Birthday autofiction on line and some of us had tried our own prose and poetry. Michele's achingly lovely poem about her friend Lawrence's 21st birthday will be posted (uncut) on the blog on Sunday. Michele had shortened it but we all agreed that her original uncut version was better. Fiona's poem about trying to ignore a birthday as one gets older was very relatable. Ann's shared her story of a single lady unexpectedly finding a perfect companion on her birthday and Adam's time-slip story set on the SVR was one we were all able to envisage and suggest new details.

Michele's New Year pantoum challenge was much appreciated by us all. Michelle, Ruth, Liz and Fiona had all experimented with the form and enjoyed the sounds of lines and words threading through poems creating a dream like stream of consciousness. Ruth commented on how every time you repeat a line it seemed to carry a slightly different meaning. Our poems shuffled gently forward and all seemed to arrive miraculously with satisfying closure - a most thought provoking form. Ruth pointed us to the more conventional structuring of a pantoum: Pantoum - Wikipedia We all said we would continue trying out this new verse form.

News

Reminder of the Wolverhampton Literature Festival holding from the 6th-8th February. On Saturday at 5pm Emma will be joining a panel discussion about literature arising from Victorian serial killers. On Sunday Ruth will be reading some of her poetry around midday.

Ruth told us about The Gratitude Cafe in Wellington The Gratitude Café – A Heart and Soul Experience in Wellington - The Gratitude Cafe which will be hosting a poetry open mic evening on Thursday 26th February.

Liz said that she'd been given a little diary for Christmas which had just enough space to write a haiku a day. Ruth remembered that Bridgnorth writer David Bingham would be leading a Haiku workshop on Thursday 19th February at The Poetry Pharmacy, Bishops Castle should anyone be interested in going. Haiku Moments with David Bingham Tickets, Thu, Feb 19, 2026 at 11:00 AM | Eventbrite

We talked about how we enjoyed our own Saturday workshops in 2025 and at the February meeting should discuss holding more in 2026.

We also want to organise some more social events in 2026 - and Michele offered to host a barbecue in her new house as soon as the weather turns warmer! Date to be decided. Any other ideas for social events should be brought to the February meeting.

Writing Theme for the month: A Memorable Holiday (poetry, song, drama or prose - but limit prose to extracts of writing under 1,000 words for reading aloud in the meeting. Longer pieces of writing can be shared on line on the blog.)

NEXT MEETING - 7pm TUESDAY 24th FEBRUARY - Ruth to chair

March Meeting 7pm Tuesday 24th March - Fiona to chair.

Capturing the First Snow of '26 by Adam Rutter

Adam will chair HTW workshop on Tuesday 27th January 

Diary Entry

Friday January 9th 2026

Storm Goretti did come, spreading the white stuff across the country. I used my phone camera to photograph the ground buried under a blanket of snow. I knew it was not going to last. so I decided to capture the brief scene of winter to savour every moment as much as I could. 

The camera was set to night mode, which was ideal because I had the perfect opportunity to photograph the snow in low light conditions. The advantage of filming the snow in the dark was its colour; white is bright even at night, the whiteness of the snow combined with artificial lighting outdoors made the photographs look almost as clear as daylight. 

Big snow flakes drifted across the street lights dragged by the gale. What I enjoyed shooting the most were the snow covered washing lines. They looked like cables encrusted in stalagmites. 

The snow started to thaw a bit bit this morning. But there was still plenty to photograph.

A Night to Remember - an Autofiction by Jennie Hart

 Roger was a fairly ordinary person, quiet, friendly, musical. His life could be described as mundane. He was a small man, small in stature, but not, at this moment, in aspiration.

October the eighth was his sixtieth birthday, and next week, he was to have the celebration of a lifetime, a grand, life affirming party. He had decided to push the boat out and entertain and delight his musical family so had hired the St Paul’s Orchestra. Roger’s plan was to be the lead instrument in the performance of Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number Nineteen and for that reason, he had been practising daily for months

Roger was a piano teacher and his pupils were his musical family. He had few living relatives, only a male cousin and an old auntie. He also had Yurec, a Polish friend with whom he would sometimes go to a concert at the Royal Festival Hall, or St John’s Smith Square. Roger’s pupils, especially the adults, brought further interest and occasional excitement into his otherwise rather un-sensational life. His pupil’s had met a few times before; he liked to bring them together for a glass of wine, a Christmas lunch or a summer barbecue, but this sixtieth affair was on a grander scale, more high class than most had ever known.

The day arrived, the final rehearsal with the orchestra was to take place before the guests arrived. An expensive quality grand piano had been hired and was about to be delivered at any moment, and the musicians were due to arrive for a four o’clock rehearsal. Jane and Belinda, members of the musical family had come to the banqueting hall beforehand to arrange flowers for the tables, delicate blooms in blue and mauve with abundant sprays of lush green foliage. They became aware that although the duty manager had said an hour ago, the piano removal company was just parking, there was still no sign of the piano.

Belinda had already had a near disaster with the cake, a Grand piano-shaped gateau, exquisitely and professionally iced, a gift from the musical family. It was vital the cake arrived at the Hall in perfect condition, so she had carried it herself from the bakery with utmost care, never taking her eyes off it. She was so intent on holding the cake securely, that she failed to see the grating. Her heel caught and she went flying, her elbows take the impact while she hung on to the cake. Belinda showed Jane her bruises. It had not been funny at the time, in fact it had been very painful, but both women laughed out loud now as Belinda related the story. ‘Let’s hope the piano deliverers have not found a very large manhole and decided to dump the instrument down there!’. 

The duty manager was irate. ‘There’s a big marquee in the grounds,’ he had told the men, ’So look out for the ramp alongside. You can take the piano into the main building that way. Those bleedin’ idiots heard the word marquee and that’s where they’ve gone an’ put it, and now there’s a kids party going on with bleedin’ chocolate and crisps and sticky fingers!’  

The delivery men had left an hour ago and only professionally trained carriers can lift and place a Grand piano. The piano was stuck in the marquee. The tuner arrived and members of the orchestra drifted in for rehearsal, but there was no piano to tune or to play. The situation was serious, Roger had been preparing for this evening for a year and a half and the highlight of the evening was to be his musical party piece. The tuner phoned the removal company and a perplexed woman in the office said she had no idea where the men would be, ‘Gone home, I shouldn’t wonder; it’s Saturday afternoon and they’ll be looking forward to a night out.’ She said she’d have a go at finding them.

Roger arrived for his final rehearsal and knew nothing of the afternoon’s events. It was soon very clear what a tragedy it would be if the piano could not be relocated. He and the orchestra were stricken with inaction, none of them could safely move the piano, but the Mozart Piano Concerto could not be performed without it.

Roger had confessed his anxiety to his pupils; his great fear of losing his nerve or his place in the music, but never once had it occurred to him that he might lose his piano. If it couldn’t be moved in time, there would be no performance The enormous amount of money Roger had spent was out of all proportion to his monthly income. It would be money down the drain if there was no piano. Yesterday the gateau had almost gone down the drain, today he feared it was going to be his party.

It was five pm and Roger was panicking and then his phone rang. It was the piano remover boss, ’We’re on our way mate! Sorry to cause you bovver.‘ They arrived and with speed and expertise and profuse apologies, the piano was brought in. Alas, there was no time for rehearsal. 

The flowers were on the tables, Belinda displayed the cake to her satisfaction, and Roger lifted his coat tails and sat down to play the magnificent instrument. His fingers touched the keys, but his usual lightness of touch was hampered by stickiness. His notes did not flow. Nor did his sustain pedal, work to satisfaction, it would not rise and fall. Roger’s embarrassment was clear; his page turner rushed to his assistance. She lifted the lid to see Hoola Hoops and Jammy Dodgers regaled along the strings, and breadcrumbs squeezed between the keys. Guests crowded round and helpful hands removed the party snacks, whilst kitchen spray was found to clean the ivories.

At last, Mozart’s tones and harmonies filled the air. It was to be a day to forget but without doubt, a night to remember!

A poem out in the wild!

 Thought I'd share a recently published poem with you all

This one is called The Shed and was written after a weekend spent helping my Dad clear out his shed and garage.

Hope you enjoy - there's loads of other great words in the Issue as well

Click here to read: The Hoolet's Nook

Nigerian Nighttime - a pantoum by Elizabeth Obadina

Locked indoors, safely drowsing, yet listening, listening

For the heavy screech of the iron gate opening

Listening past fans turning and air-cons purring

Looking out over paw-paw trees and plantain leaves, shadows blowing

For the heavy screech of the iron gate opening

Whilst the mayguards are grumbling, and gambling and watching

Looking out over paw-paw trees and plantain leaves, shadows blowing

And my time stands still

Whilst the mayguards are grumbling, and gambling and watching

And I feel soothed for this is how things have been

And my time stands still

And I am alone

And I feel soothed for this is how things have been

Listening past fans turning and air-cons purring

And I am alone

Locked indoors, safely drowsing, yet listening … listening.

New Year Blessing - Our Town by Michele Ross

The Garden Wall of The Bridgnorth Club

 A market town spilling down sandstone cliffs to the river

The steam train whistle echoes

The soft hiss of my steam machine glowing in the dark

And lights strung up the bypass

The echo of the last steam train whistle

As the dunnocks huddle in hedges

And lights strung up the bypass

Moving slow and old as sand

The dunnocks huddle cold in hedges

My dry mouth is seeking water

Moving slow and old as sand

How pleasant to have slept and not to have to stir just yet

My dry mouth parched as sand, despite

the soft hiss of the steam machine

To have slept well and not to stir

The market town spilling like water down to sand - how pleasant.

Write a Pantoum (thanks to Michele)

Here’s a nice new year poem idea I found on substack: "Poetry Unbound"

Here's the substack reference:  https://open.substack.com/pub/poetryunbound

There’s a podcast link too: Poetry Unbound - sounds good.

A Pantoum (Malaysian form) about new year's eve night (or any nighttime)

Write eight lines and number them:

Where are you?

What's a night sound from outside you hear regularly?

What's a night sound from inside you hear regularly?

What can you see in the dark?

Who is nearby?

What's time doing?

What physical sensations can you feel when you wake at night?

What's one thing on your mind when you wake?

Arrange the lines in this order ( you can change them as you do this, when you see what emerges):

1 - 2- 3 -4

2 - 5- 4 -6

5 - 7 - 6 -8

7 - 3- 8- 1

Michele's ended up like this: ... READ IT TOMORROW!!!!!

Footsteps in the Snow by Ann Reader

I can’t resist it, I must go - And jump into the virgin snow!

See those Footsteps in the snow 

Some they come and some they go.

Those heavy treads, I know those 

The postman comes and then he goes.

Pretty puss with perfect paws 

I think I know which ones are yours.

The bigger ones cannot be you

Was that a fox, just passing through? 

Then there’s bird prints on the ground

That’s where pigeons maybe found. 

Perhaps the magpie or the Jay

All came hopping down this way. 

And I confess those prints are mine

For when it lies so white and fine

I can’t resist it, I must go

And jump into the virgin snow!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

BELATED HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!

It's hard to believe that we're already a week into 2026 - and if you're like me you've probably not spent  much time writing between our last meeting and the next one: our first this year.

So to remind you all:

Next Meeting: Tuesday, 27 January 2026, 7pm in The Garden Bar, Bridgnorth Club

Chair: Adam

Any one who is writing or would like to write, is welcome.

There's still time to tackle the current writing challenge set by Jennie last November:

Task: To write a short story, prose or poem in the form of Autofiction on the subject of 

'A Birthday'. 

A special thank-you to Michelle, Ruth and Ann for kick-starting HTW into 2026

Look out tomorrow for Ann's poem

At the weekend if you're still stuck getting your writing going look out for Michelle's suggestion to try writing a Pantoum (Malaysian form) about new year's eve night (or any nighttime), and on Sunday read her New Year appreciation - pantoum style - of Bridgnorth.

And, thank you Ruth for reminding us all of the upcoming Wolves Literature Festival.

Wolverhampton Literature Festival

I went last year and it was well worth the visit.

And finally, not to forget John's 2025 reminder to update the blog - I've eventually changed the 'About Us' to reflect our moved meeting place from Peepo's to The Bridgnorth Club.

Once again:

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE - ENJOY A GREAT YEAR OF WRITING IN 2026

Liz