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

My Mum by Jennie Hart

My Mum

 Was she meant to go

when winter beckoned her

unexpectedly?

I do not know

I remember she left in haste

like a firework’s flash

I wish I had known she was leaving

Until that day, her bright nature

dazzled

she shone with light

It seemed to me

the whole town loved her

were warmed by her glow

her flame

always burning

She was always busy

mostly resolute and smiling

I saw her once

by the fireside

cleaning grey ashes

from the cold grate

silently crying

Dad was a moody man

unpredictable

fighting his own demons

When young

his father beat his mum

Perhaps he beat his son

Dad banged his bed

to frighten the cockroaches

made doctor’s deliveries barefoot

Mum owned a shop

baked Christmas cakes

and spiced loaves for the town

In December

mum was fraught

Dad slapped white paint

on plastered walls

desecrating the holy space

where new-baked cakes

and spicy loaves lay ready

Cold wet paint splashed

on cake frosting

Odour seeped into icing

Her popular emporium

stored all one could imagine

A cornucopia of thrills

For the mill girls, young lads

the working men

starting shifts or leaving

mum opened early

each day around seven thirty

The girls bought sarsaparilla

Milky Bars and Woodbines

Sought nylon stockings

luxurious

skin-toned

gossamer-fine

The postman, our doctor

the Station Master

smoked Capstan or Park Drive

Older men Saint Bruno

or Old Holborn

rolled their own in tea-breaks

the working-man’s lifeline

All year long

Mum made wedding cakes

for brides on their special day

created in her unique way

Celebrity chefs might want

to emulate her style

pretend it was their own

but all the while

it was my mum’s

Youngsters came for lemonade

in bottles not in cans

bought Mars Bars

pork pies, crusty rolls

with luncheon meat

cheese or spam

Mum made a corner

for the children

at kids’ eye-level

no need to stretch

tantalising treats

Swizzle lollies, wine gums

Sherbet dips and sugary sweets

At the weekend

Northern Dairies ice-cream

and ice lollies

Sometimes by Christmas

mum was too tired

to wrap presents

one year I wrapped my own

the surprise a pretence

I was young

I liked the thrill of opening

I pinned up silver garlands

wove tinsel round the tree

I was so excited

She was exhausted

Sometimes on Christmas Day

a knock at the back door

a tardy customer

for a packet of Paxo

a tin of peas

a packet of fags please

Mum was the essence

of our north-east town

a summer breeze blown in

from heaven knows where

to give her time

to all those housewives

mothers with babies

worn-out men and old ladies

who stopped to shop

To bicycle riders

not called cyclists in those days

who paid tuppence to my mum

to leave their bikes

propped up by the shed

not sheltered but safe

in her hands

Mum and her shop are long gone

from that shabby terrace

on River Head

along from the old Blue Bell

where men played darts

or dominoes

and sad women

laughed and sang

stayed drinking late

It was exhaustion the doctor said

He got it wrong

It was a stroke

She did not get the proper care

I wish I had known

Jennie, Mum, Grandma, Baby Cousin

Death of an Idealist by John Ayres-Smith

His semi-clothed body was still, lifeless and curled around in a foetal position on the dishevelled bed. He was not breathing, although his eyes stared as though fixated on a shocking scene misleading one into thinking he was still alive but he was undoubtedly deceased.

Most family members had an idea that one day he would do what he had referred to so often – suicide, so although Julia was shocked, she was not surprised.

She thought, no point in doing CPR, no rush to call anyone, let alone 999 – her medical background meant that she knew this was a corpse and had been for a day or more.

She carefully, with a sense of finality, gently closed his eyelids and he, indeed, now appeared at peace.

As she arose from her kneeling beside the bed, she observed a handwritten A4 sheet of paper and she recognised Mark’s signature at the bottom of the page. – A suicide note?

She half wanted to leave it there, undisturbed, along with his mortal remains but she thought … someone will read it and cry and she even considered screwing up the note, destroying it but that would be her anger taking over.

She walked to the window, gazed in a trance not seeing what was before her but gradually descending into a reminiscence of two weeks earlier when she and Mark were hugging tightly, both in tears, squeezing as tight as their muscles could achieve. She recalled him sobbing out the words …

“I can’t do this anymore. I have nothing. I am no one.”

No longer could she recall her own words – she just remembered her pleadings, her attempts to tell him he had a life and that he could and should live it.

As she daydreamed, her brother’s dead body a few feet away, she re-ran his life over the last few years…

Julia never liked Mark’s latest wife. She was manipulative – very good at it – so much so that Mark was an easy target and she worked at keeping the identifiers well away, so she, Julia, was kept at arm’s length. In the last few months after the couple split-up, Mark dossed at his sister’s on and off – generally off when he had met someone that was prepared to listen to his woes over what were probably one-to-three-night stands when he was in receipt of sex and solace from kind women that wanted to hear why such an intelligent, seemingly good and certainly good-looking, kind man was homeless and kept breaking down so uncontrollably.

When he returned to his sister, he would have stories of a new love … but then another … and another. Trouble was he still loved her – the mother of his three children and the controller of his life and their lives. Suzanne was “the thin controller”.

These kids were still little, and since the split, Suzanne had brainwashed them so superbly that never again would they respect their father, preferring to stay engulfed in the sea of lies and negativity where Mark was concerned and over the years Suzanne masterfully engineered a ‘brick wall’ separating him from his children whom for some time he had not seen.

Mark’s siblings knew it was destroying him but they had their lives. It was only Julia, his elder sister that cared enough to try to support him however she could.

Her own relationship with her husband was suffering in that he, Peter, had had enough of these “pointless support vigils” as he termed them – every time Mark came to stay.

All Peter could say is “you are wasting your time – he’s a dead loss”.

That thought shook her, as she turned at looked over at Mark’s dead body.

She sobbed and fumbled around for a tissue, walking out into the bathroom.

Suddenly a loud thud emitted from behind her. She ran into the other room and found Mark’s body sprawled on the floor: she gasped.

 

To be continued …

Back to the Future by Adam Rutter

Tuesday 11^th November 2025

 It has been forty years since the sci-fi adventure, Back to the Future was released at cinemas. To celebrate the fortieth anniversary of the timeless classic I went to the ‘Majestic’, the local cinema, to watch the rerun on the big screen. The movie was on Screen 3 because today happened to be the last day of viewing.

Forty years!!

I can’t believe it!

It only seems like five minutes ago since I celebrated its thirtieth anniversary.

How time flies. 

Speaking of time, I was sent back in time to 1985 – my era. Then I was propelled back to 1955, my dad’s timeline.

 ***

The numbers flicking over at 9am on Marty McFly’s analogue radio alarm clock is a stark contrast compared to how people tell the time nowadays. I look at the time on my mobile devices, especially whenever I am out somewhere where there is no clock in sight. That goes to show how much technology has changed since the film was released all that time ago.

The video camera is another piece of antiquated technology that Marty used in the movie when he was recording Doc Brown’s presentation about his new invention; the time machine. The camera is also on my device. Everything is compact these days.

The motor car has certainly evolved over the course of a century, except for the one in the movie, the De Lorean. This was the time machine that sent Marty back to 1955, thirty years before his time. What I loved about the De Lorean was its streamlined design and silver coating. The doors were really cool because they lifted open. The futuristic vehicle did return Marty to his own time, though I am not revealing how. Anyone who is reading this will have to watch the movie.

What I had noticed about the movie was that the picture was slightly narrower than the screen, which marked the period before high definition came into existence.  I could not watch Back to the Future when it first came out because I was only seven years old at the time. But I felt very privileged to see it on the big screen forty years later.

Flashback by Ann Reader

DC Kate Chalmers waited behind the uniformed officers as they broke the door into the flat . It was a standard dawn raid, acting on information received concerning an amount of drugs on the premises.  Sufficient to base a charge of possession with intent to supply. 

From the start Kate had had a bad feeling about this bust although she could not have said why. As she waited while the officers hammered on the door then eventually,  getting no reply, burst  the door open, she felt an almost overwhelming desire to turn and run away. 

The door gave way and as she followed the others into the narrow hall way a sickly smell pervaded the air. Suddenly she was transported to her brother’s flat, similarly on the 3rd floor.  A narrow entrance corridor with a bedroom and bathroom on one side and a kitchen and living room on the other.  Evidence of the kind of poverty and destitution that serious drug addiction brings throughout.  No carpet on the floor no pictures on the walls, a couple of packing cases doubling as furniture, the bed would turn out to be a mattress on the  floor  she was certain .  Anything that could be sold having been  sold to feed the addiction. 

Kate had asked the police to break in to her brother's flat as she had not been able to get any response from him for several days. Her beloved brother Pete was a heroin addict and because of his addiction had managed to alienate himself from all the rest of the family.  Kate was the only one who did not give up on him. She was realistic enough to know that he had probably sold the mobile phone she had bought him . She had called round several times and left notes suggesting times he might like to meet her at their favourite cafe but he had not turned up.  Usually the chance of a free meal was incentive enough.  She had argued with herself long and hard about involving the authorities but eventually her anxiety for his welfare had outweighed concern for his privacy. 

She followed the officers into her brother's flat, she was embarrassed that they should see the squalor he lived in. No wonder he had always insisted on meeting her at the cafe! The smell struck her first, sickly, dirty and almost sweet. One of the officers felt for a light switch but there was no electricity. There were no windows in the hall just doors into the other rooms.  A torch was called for and produced.  

Kate didn’t know why she hung back , she had as much right as the police to enter her brother's rooms,  she found she was frightened of what she might find. They opened the bedroom door and the smell was overpowering,  one of the officers wretched and another older officer gently took her by the arm and led her back out of the flat. She heard phone calls being made and an  ambulance being called.  She rushed back in and in the half light of the torch, the curtains in the bedroom  being drawn, she saw her brother's body, emaciated and beginning to decompose lying on the bed. It was a nightmare scene but at the same time totally tragic. His needle and other heroin paraphernalia were on the floor beside him.  It was clear he had taken an overdose. The tears she shed were as much anger and frustration as sorrow. All her care for him, standing by him when the rest of the family had washed their hands of him had come to nothing.  She had not been able to save him from this terrible drug.

The kindly older officer took her arm again and led her out of the flat then held her on the landing as violent sobs racked her body. At that moment Kate formed a clear plan for her future she would become a police officer and do everything she could to fight those who supplied heroin. Her brother's death had given her a purpose. 

“DC CHALMERS “ DC Chapman was holding her and then more gently calling her name “ Kate , Kate what is it you’re shaking and you’ve gone quite blank “ 

“ Sorry Rob it’s a bit of deja vu I can’t explain right now but I think we’re going to find a body in there." 

At that moment she heard the shout for the ambulance and the forensic medical examiner. This was not going to be an arrest of a dealer as she had hoped, just the tragic end of another addict.

November 2025 Meeting

High Town outlook over Low Town - Bridgnorth

Minutes of meeting, 7pm, Tuesday 25^th November

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

Chair: Jennie

Present: Jennie, Liz, John A S, Suzi, Sue, Fiona, Adam, Ruth, Irena, Stuart

Apologies: Kath, Andy, Anne, Jo

News

Everyone updated the group on any writing-related news for the last month

Ruth told us of the Wolverhampton Literary Festival, from 11 am each day, 6-8 February 2026 at the Wolverhampton Art Gallery

On 8^th February at approximately 12.15, Ruth will read some of her work

A 2^nd monthly meeting?

Liz consulted the group on the idea of holding a 2^nd monthly meeting at Peepos on a night other than Tuesday, maybe with a specific theme eg poetry. There was some interest for possibly Monday or Wednesday but no definite decision. Anyone who would like to organise a 2nd meeting can do so. The time, date and theme (information that can be decided by consultation), may be posted on the blog

Liz brought raffle tickets which she sold to support the Bridgnorth Library

HTW’s pre- Christmas meal is to be held at Peepos on Tuesday 16^th December at 7pm

 

Subject : Autofiction

Jennie explained to the group that Autofiction blends autobiography with fiction, blurring the line between fact and fiction. It is autobiographical but the author may use his/her own name or choose another similar one. Non-fictional characters can be given different names and fictious characters events, etc are introduced.

Task for next month : To write a short story, prose or poem in the form of Autofiction

Subject: A Birthday. Every living being has a birthday so it can be the author’s birthday, a friend’s, that of a family member, a celebrity, a criminal, a non-human, in fact any living creature!

 

Task for the 10 minute workshop

Jennie gave everyone a photo of a pair of Roman feet sculpted in marble (500BCE – 500 CE) currently exhibited in the Walsall Art Gallery. They were a possession of the Sculptor Jacob Epstein.

The task was to answer the following: Who did they belong to? Where were they going? Where had they been? Or any thoughts about the feet.

The variety of writing in such a short time was commendable, ranging from taking off shoes and socks on a flight, walking the length of the British isles in the Bronze age, a refugee fleeing having had his boots taken, a child standing in surf, and imagining who the young model was who had to stay very still while having  his/her feet sculpted

 

Subject for last month: Flashback; writing  prose/short story, poem beginning in the present, continuing as a flashback bringing the reader back to the present

The group read their interesting and varied interpretations of the subject.

 Liz read her memories of Murtala Muhammed Nigerian airport over the years, Suzi, of a troubling childbirth, Irena, her memories of Tilley her much-loved horse, Sue, her latest addition to the history of her Congregational Church, Fiona remembered Luther Van dross and dancing while resting on her father’s feet as a little girl. Stuart wrote of a dark experience to be added to his developing Iron Age novel and Ruth wrote of walking in gusty winds and finding a dead seal. Jennie had added to her poem about her mum and John wrote a tragic piece about a suicide- or was it? To be continued! Adam read an excerpt from his story, ‘The Boy in my Dream’ and Anne, unable to attend, sent another episode in her DC Kate Chalmers crime adventures

It's impossible to do justice to the pieces in a few words but some can soon be read on our blog: hightownwriters.blogspot,com

 

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.

Going Down by Elizabeth Obadina

I stood at the head of the stairs and looked down. Empty halls stretched behind me lit in ominous green from corrugated roofs. A flickering neon tube spluttered light over the heads of the weary shuffling down the steps to join the processing queues below.  There was silence, and darkness wrapped around tired men, women and children who had arrived in the still hours before dawn. It wasn’t hot, somewhere an air conditioner hummed its faltering tune, but then it was never really hot in the early morning and almost never really hot in August when it rained. I faltered on the top step and the sergeant in military fatigues took my bags and said, “Follow me Ma’am.” Here I was again and a wave of memories washed over me and, not for the first time, I took a deep breath and went down.

 July 1979

I had said my farewells to my parents, to my friends to my old life that morning and that evening I paused for a few moments at the top of a flight of stairs wondering at the newly opened building, so different to those I’d been through previously, so modern, so European, so full of promise. I trotted down the steps following cheerful yellow reception signs to join long queues of weary people who were slowly processed and passed on to the outside.

Outside a wall of intense heat and humidity hit me and I searched for a known face in the crowds but only saw pleading faces and felt hands grasping for my bags. I hung on to them grimly, desperately seeking salvation, which came with a familiar voice, then a face and from his companion the instruction, “Follow me Ma’am,” as the unknown companion took my bags and all together, we set off into the suffocating dark.

 June 1980

Those steps … those steps presented me with a problem. My bags this time included hand luggage, a carry cot, a pushchair and a six-week-old baby who would not lie down. It had been bad enough at Gatwick, but at least there had been a trolley to balance my bags, baby and baby paraphernalia on. Then the British Caledonian air crew had been singularly unhelpful during the eight-hour flight, and they had all left the plane in a cloud of laughter and anticipation of the pleasures awaiting them in their five-star stop-over hotel. My baby and I were alone. The plane’s air-conditioning was switched off, and the lights had dimmed and the heat from outside began to seep in.

Then saviours in green overalls arrived – the cleaning crew. “Ah Madam, wetin! See as di pikin fine. Why dem leave am alone? Make we help you. Follow me.” Scooping up my bags, the folded pushchair, my baby, the carrycot and me in a wave of smiles and concern they swept me through the vast, green, echoing arrivals halls. It was a long walk. The new travellators had stopped and not just because I was the last off the plane. According to my rescuers, ‘These things no dey work again,’ and it had been like that a while.

At the top of the steps, they could go no further. Airport Rules. And I honestly can’t remember how I got through immigration, luggage collection and out into hot night. There would have been a trolley, operated by a porter and a handsome tip would have changed hands. But all I remember from that trip was being abandoned by British Caledonian and the green angels who saved me. 

 1980 – 2003

I have lost count of the times I have stopped at the top of those steps, with babies, toddlers, then young children staggering under the weight of huge backpacks filled with books and toys for those were the days of travelling before wheelie bags made life easier. I would stop at the top of those stairs to do a head count, a bag count, to gather my energy before going down to the arrivals halls. A blur of memories fused together under the 30-degree heat of malfunctioning air conditioning and the weight of lifting 30kg suitcases from broken luggage roulettes whilst trying not to lose my children in the crowds. We were once the last people to leave the arrivals hall as one son had purchased a fishing rod in Bridgnorth and insisted on taking it with him to fish in Lagos. The fishing rod never made it through from Birmingham via Amsterdam to Lagos. Enquiries were made in Birmingham, Amsterdam and Lagos but the rod had vanished, and the boy was very sad and the father waiting outside Arrivals was very worried thinking that his family had vanished enroute. Those were the days before mobile phones.

 August 2023

This was last time I stood at the head of the stairs and looked down. Nothing much had changed but everything seemed smaller. Over six million passengers each year passed down those steps and now, just as in 1979 when I had been one of the first, I was now going to be one of the last, for Terminal One of Murtala Muhammed International Airport would be closing in a few weeks’ time for refurbishment. A new Terminal Two had opened bringing the airport into the twenty-first century. It's a badge of progress and hope for the twenty million residents of Lagos and beyond  – but then so too was Terminal One in 1979 – a colossal improvement then on the dusty, fan whirring colonial airports I’d been through in the early 1970s. I have yet to pass through Terminal Two and as I stood at the top of those steps wondering at the millions of feet who had gone before me, I silenced my irritation at arriving at this terminal and not the brand spanking new one down the road. It seemed right somehow. Closure. The sergeant sent to steer us through Arrivals was a Godsend I would have welcomed in years gone by. We started down the stairs passing under the yellow sign sending a cheerful light into the gloom.

It read, ‘Welcome to Nigeria.’

Murtala Muhammed International Airport, Terminal One, August 2023