Harrow Writers' Circle

Harrow Writers’ Circle - serving writers in North West London

The writing group is one of the oldest in the country and has had a series of illustrious presidents which includes Claire Rayner. Our current president is Cynthia Harrod-Eagles who has mastered not one but two genres - Crime and Historical Fiction.

* OPPORTUNITY TO ATTEND AND PARTICIPATE IN MEETINGS AND WORKSHOPS

* SUITABLE FOR WRITERS AND THOSE WHO LIKE TO LISTEN TO GOOD WRITING

* WE OFFER FREE MENTORING TO NEW MEMBERS AND WEB PRESENCE

Founded in 1948, the Harrow Writers' Circle is a group of 30 or so amateur and professional writers of fiction and non-fiction.

Our President is Cynthia Harrod-Eagles, the well known novelist.

Please visit us whatever your level of experience.

You are sure to improve your writing skills and to meet a friendly and supportive group.

** Why not join this Writers' Club to improve your Writing Skills? **

Ring John on 07847 225644

OUR AIMS

Calling all poets, journalists, short story writers, novelists and other scribblers.

Writing need not be lonely!

Harrow Writers' Circle welcomes new members. Founded over sixty years ago we're still going strong. The membership ranges from published authors to absolute beginners with every degree of experience in between, and all age groups.

At our friendly meetings members read out their work for constructive criticism and marketing suggestions. Our aim is to encourage and support each other.

In addition to General Manuscript evenings we have (informal) competitions and the occasional speaker.

Visit Harrow Writers'Circle and see and hear for yourself.

To get a copy of Ten Tips On How To Be A Better Writer and to join our mailing list please register at: Mailing List

PROGRAMME

Meetings are held on alternate Thursdays at 7.45 p.m.

(Please contact John Monaghan as we sometimes meet at Barbara's house. My number is 07847 225644)

Stanmore Room
Harrow Arts Centre
Uxbridge Road
Hatch End
Middlesex
HA5 4EA

(Unless stated otherwise)
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9/5 Barbara's house - Poetry Competition

23/5 Caroline Fakhri - Reza Shah's policy on unveiling women in Iran

I am married to an Iranian man and we have two grown up boys. We lived in Iran from 1987 until 1998 when I very reluctantly returned to the U.K. Whilst in Iran I taught English to many interesting individuals including the Columbian Ambassador of the time and his Third Secretary.

On returning to the U.K. I embarked on numerous study course,s to improve my chances of getting a good job, culminating in a degree from the School of Oriental and African Studies in Russell Square, where I spent three years studying the History of the Middle East.

I travel back to Iran from time to time and I am at present documenting my experiences with a view to turning it into a memoir.

Careful What You Wish For - President's Prize Winner 2013

It was supposed to be a holiday. Queen Mab, my Boss, told me to enjoy myself.

‘You deserve a change of scenery after the King Midas debacle,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know your new assignment later.’

Well, I wasn’t to know he would kill all his children. Now, this event may seem a long time ago to you, about 600 years I would hazard, but we’re not living in the same time continuum so you’ll have to bear with me.

So, I found myself wandering the dreamily meandering lanes of the English countryside. Branches arched cathedral-like overhead and birds chattered in the leaves. I relished days of peaceful walks and continuous sunshine. The lanes had transformed; the surface was black and durable, a welcome change from the muddy, rutted byways I remembered. More unnervingly, an occasional motorised vehicle hurtled past; it gave me a terrific fright the first time. I sensed a distant rumble behind the screen of trees where a fast-moving cavalcade constantly navigated what seemed to be a river. I ambled in quiet backwaters from village to village, enjoying the hospitality of country inns.

These establishments had improved. Last time I was here the beds were flea and louse ridden and often shared with other strangers. The previously coarse innkeepers were welcoming and the menus offered food of a quality I had never seen outside Mab’s palace.

I had been enjoying my sojourn for about three weeks when an elf visited me in my hotel bedroom. The usual annoying type; all pointy ears, runny nose and insolence, totally without respect.

‘Mab’s given me your new assignment,’ he chortled. ‘Routine stuff, four wishes. Find someone deserving and change their life. No slip-ups, mind.’

I sent him off with a flea in his ear. You will notice he said four wishes, not three; that’s inflation for you. Also, and this is a secret, there’s now a back-up wish for emergencies, to reverse an ill-chosen wish that’s likely to cause death and mayhem – like the Midas problem.

After another good night’s sleep, I set off. There was no point in lingering over my choice of recipient. Previously I spent days choosing a likely person, but mistakes were made. Remember that boy Jack who got the magic beans? He seemed a generous, simple soul, but turned out to be greedy and destructive. No, I said; let it be the first person I meet.

Gentle rain had fallen and the surface of the road was slick. No-one seemed to be out. It was almost noon when a figure approached me; a harassed middle-aged woman accompanied by an unruly dog. This animal, spotting me, bounded up, placed its paws on my chest and licked my face.

‘Down, Bruce!’ yelled the woman vainly.

As she approached I noticed that her face was unperturbed.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘has he made you wet?’

‘No, madam,’ I replied, ‘I’m fine.’ I pushed the creature to the ground, masking the fact that I dislike dogs intensely. However, I had the woman’s sympathy; this seemed a good moment for my proposition.

‘This may seem odd,’ I said, ‘but I am in a position to grant you four wishes.’

The woman looked at me in blank astonishment and laughed.

‘Four wishes? What are you? Some sort of fairy godmother?’ She wasn’t taking this seriously.

‘Yes, I suppose that’s what you might call me.’

‘How wonderful! Are you sure this isn’t some kind of a joke?’ She glanced around warily, as if expecting one of those pesky elves to emerge.

‘No, it’s not a joke.’ I was beginning to weary of this; it usually went so smoothly. ‘Well, do you want them or not?’

‘Yes, of course. You can’t turn down an offer like that. What should I wish for?’

‘I’m afraid you have to choose your own wishes, madam.’

‘Oh, please call me Angela.’

‘Very well, Angela.’

‘Do I have to choose them all at once?’

‘Not necessarily. I recommend you have a period of reflection before you wish anything. Perhaps we could stroll along whilst you think about it.’

Angela giggled as she fell in beside me. Then she did it.

‘I wish I had a fairy godmother to look after me all the time.’

‘No! Wait! Now you’ve done it. That’s your first wish, you’ve used it. Now I’ve got to stay with you – all the time; like you said.’

‘Oh, no! I didn’t mean... I was just saying.’ She appeared crestfallen.

‘You can’t do that. You must think before you say the double-you word.’

‘I’ll try to be more careful,’ she said and fell silent. We walked for several hundred yards before she spoke again. ‘Are you coming home with me then?’

‘Yes, I have to, it’s what you wished.’

Angela and her family lived in a cottage on the edge of a village. A weed-filled garden surrounded the house, and the interior, though not luxurious, was comfortable and warmly welcoming, but chaotically cluttered. It was Saturday and Angela’s husband, Bill, was reading a newspaper in the lounge. He glanced up.

‘I met, er, Ruth, in the lane. She’s coming to stay for a bit,’ said Angela.

Bill grunted complacently and returned to his paper, uninterested. The sound of quarrelling teenagers echoed from upstairs and was followed by the tumble of feet down the steps.

‘Mum, tell him he can’t have my laptop,’ said one youth.

‘You said he should share,’ squawked the other.

They stopped yelling when they saw me. The presence of a stranger seemed to have a calming effect.

‘Ruth’s come to stay,’ said Angela, ‘be polite, and stop arguing.’

I was there to look after Angela and took a lot of work off her shoulders. Between us we tidied up the house and garden, sorted the laundry and cooked the meals.

‘I wish I was a better cook,’ Angela said one day. She clapped her hands over her mouth. ‘Oh, no! I’ve done it again.’

I didn’t admonish her as this was a pretty good wish; there was certainly room for improvement. From then on gourmet meals appeared on the table every evening. Bill and the boys ate them with enthusiasm.

Two wishes were gone and I cautioned Angela to be careful about her remaining choices.

‘I know of women who wished that their husbands were handsome young princes, but when they transformed, they were still useless pillocks.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Angela, looking wistfully at her recumbent spouse, ‘I love Bill as he is; he’s no trouble.’

‘One person wished they lived in a beautiful mansion. This illustrates how important the wording is, because they got their mansion, but it involved ten of the neighbouring houses being demolished.’

Angela agonised over what to do. ‘It’s so difficult,’ she said, ‘I have everything I want, especially now you’re living here, Ruth. Do I have to make the other two wishes?’

‘I think you should, soon. Or one day you’ll make a mistake and get something you don’t really want.’

Angela’s face brigthened. ‘I know! I can ask for a hundred wishes that will come true. Then there’ll be room for mistakes.’

‘That’s just greedy, Angela. No, it’s not allowed. Someone tried it years ago and got into a right muddle.’

‘What about world peace? Or everybody to be immortal?’

‘Very public spirited of you, Angela, but it must be something personal. Anyway, immortality is over-rated, all that overcrowding, and peace never lasts long, it’s been tried.’

Angela despaired. ‘I can’t think of anything; I’ve got everything I want. I could do with more money, but since you’ve been here there’s not much work to do. Please help me, Ruth.’

I gave in and made one suggestion. ‘Perhaps more money would be useful. Not a huge amount. Then you wouldn’t have to worry and could have holidays and buy whatever the boys want and send them to university.’

Angela pondered. ‘You may be right. I’ll work on the wording and get back to you.’

A week later Angela made her wish. A medium sized lottery win fitted the bill. I made her buy a ticket; as the joke says, “meet me halfway”. On Saturday evening we watched the draw and tried to appear surprised when Angela’s numbers emerged.

She wasn’t the only winner. Her payout of £500,000 was enough to pay off the mortgage and leave a fund for a few luxuries; a good life. She deserved it.

Generous creature that she is, Angela sensed my unhappiness.

‘You want to go home don’t you, Ruth?’

‘It would be nice. I’m sorry, Angela, I miss my friends.’

She kissed me warmly. ‘Thank you for everything. I know what to do,’ she said and used her fourth wish, ‘I wish that Ruth could go home to her own people, but that she could visit us sometimes.’

Whoosh! I was back, happy to be here; but I will miss the television.

(c) Julia Underwood 29/3/13

People Poem - By Amanda Benbelaid

There are many things I like to do
Such as meeting new people who

Have quirky views and are slightly mad
They innovate - not ‘follow the fad’

They like to laugh or even guffaw!
Each day more open than before

As their thirst for new information
Parallels their journey of transformation

Not satisfied with simply accepting
The bluff from people that ‘we’ are electing

But seeking out a higher truth
Even if there is not yet proof

That there is so much more out there
Their quest for knowledge is without Fear

When I meet these members of my tribe
(Many of them too, like to scribe)

I feel as if I’ve returned to a place
Where I can be myself not trying to ‘save face’

We exchange ideas without holding back
And debate and challenge with respect - not attack

My mind and soul gel with congruence
As I allow my psyche to drop all defence

Oh yes, I love to evolve my brain
And with people like this one can only gain

There are so many things I like to do
But the anticipation of wondering who

I will meet next and what I can learn
Or share with them, Oh for that I yearn

There is an unacknowledged yet wonderful race
The people out there whose frontiers reach beyond space ...

© Amanda Benbelaid 2012

Contact me via my website www.thepositivemirror.com

Well I can dream ……Can’t I?

I can dream that I’m a writer
and pretend that I’m not shy.
Bare all my soul before you;
Well I can dream can’t I?

My words can pour a waterfall
or a slowly trickling stream.
And when the latter happens
well I can, I can still dream.

I can relish words like lovers:
Hold them to me tight.
Put them down on paper
and show them to the light.

Sometimes they sound brilliant
or sometimes very mean.
But they always, always clamour
that they must at least be seen.

I can fashion words to flatter
or cut you to the quick.
Whatever way I write them
I hope that some will stick.

Some create a mystery
and some can tell a tale.
Whichever way I use them
They always leave a trail.

Either in my foggy memory
or stuck on a dusty shelf.
But wherever I retire them
they display my inner self.

When I put them out there
to meet the critics eye
I want them all admired.
Well I can dream can’t I?

©John Monaghan

A hundred word story called - A Moment Of Love & The Sun Don't Shine

A MOMENT OF LOVE

I was sitting in Green Park as Dusk was just flinging her cloak over the area.

The crunch of ~.travel made me look over my shoulder. I could just dissern the
hunched figure of an old woman silting herself on the bench next to mine. I sensed a tired figure, a figure that the world had forgotten.

Suddenly there was a sound of rushing feet and in the gloom a tousled—hair boy appeared.

“I’m here. Gran-ma, I’m here!!” he cried out, as he wrapped himself over the hunched figure.

In that instant the sun shone for me.

97 words

THE SUN DON’T SHINE

Walking past an East End café, I happened to glance inside. I stopped short.

‘My giddy Aunt, Charlie Fletcher!” He looked up.

“Eer, let me see; Robert, Robert Hodges, right?”

“Yep; how’s tricks?”

Lousy mate: made redundant, no job for six months and living in a hovel. Forme. the sun don’t shine none.”

Can’t be that bad. Oldman there; I bet his bed is a big cardboard box under an archway.

Sit tight.”

I walked to the counter, muttered something to the proprietor and slipped him a £5 note.

“Come on, Charlie. I’m buying you a drink” half dragging him up.

As we walked out I noticed the proprietor placing a pie and chips plus a hot cup of coffee by the old man. Over a pint, I gave Charlie my card and a scribbled note.

"Take it tomorrow moring, Charlie, to the address. Job in the kitchen. Mr.Morgan is a fair-minded manager."

After all, I was lucky enough to own two up-market thriving restaurants in the better part of the city. And what are friends for, remembering what I had once read in a book; I shall pass this way but once. Any good I can do or any kindness I can show let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it for I shall not pass this way again.”

We parted company outside. I gave Charlie a pat on the back. Don’t let me down, (Charlie, and don’t say The sun don’t shine’.”

Both the above by (c) Robin Robinson

ELISE HARVEY

Elise was born in the extremities of the West Country where she spent most of her formative years sweeping the floor for her father (he was a hairdresser).

This Cinderella complex restricted her creative soul, which became greatly pained at producing neat little perms for the predominantly elderly population.

It was probably the day when she asked a client ‘shall I give ‘ee sumfin differnt’ (translated into contemporary speak ‘May I suggest something a little more artistic for madam?), that her life changed. The client, with the resultant pink 1960s bouffant hairstyle, walked out into a West Country Force 8 gale blowing off the Atlantic and was last seen heading due West over Cape Cornwall.

Elise realised that perhaps this career would not take off, (and certainly not at the speed that the client did). She decided that perhaps London would hold the key to her future fortunes and enrolled at a hairdressing college in Warren Street where, on paper at least, she appeared much older than she really was.

She has led a strange, yet fulfilled life. She has packed biscuits in a factory – and yes, she can still lift l6 biscuits at one time and slot them into a conveyor belt if necessary – and how many of you can do that? Her life experience was greatly enhanced by waitressing. Employed as a kitchen maid at a house party in Yorkshire where she worked a frantic 16 hour day for 8 days she thought of writing a book entitled, ‘How to Eat and Lose Weight Simultaneously’. There was also a period as an addressograph operator (that piece of machinery came after Alexander Graham Bell’s invention) followed by every possible type of office work including corporate entertainment. To put this varied experience to good use she took a degree in Human Resource Management. Well, she had had a multiplicity of careers herself so why not talk to others about theirs?

She joined a creative writing class for two years and when listening to her life story some of the class members cried. They really did. She has had a few poems published along with a couple of erudite pallions in The Grauniad. She thought that joining Harrow Writers’ Circle might help her add sophistication to her otherwise unimpressive prose but she has realised that storytelling is for the bards and will probably spend the rest of her life writing poetry – or as they say in the West Country – ‘telling yarns me ‘ansome’.
One hopes that one’s readers really enjoy one’s poetry.

Namaste

(c) Elise Harvey

Come To Harrow on The Hill

Come 1900 - Fields wrapped round a Hill with
A School known worldwide and
St. Mary’s Spire as landmark,
Looking north to Oxford.
Harrow, long before Metroland

Come 1930 - Housing expands into semi detached suburbia
Red brick, green gates, neat lawns.
Mother waves Father Goodbye at the door,
Before returning to guaranteed domesticity
In Betjeman’s haven called Metroland

Come 1970 - Onward to the monolithic shopping centre where
St. Ann’s replaces uniqueness and antiquity.
Gone, the architectural joy of the Art College
Replaced by anonymous glass and steel in
Our polytechnic Metroland

Come 2000 - Now BMWs, Audis and Mercs
Hug the pavements over the Hill and
Mosques and Temples taper heavenward
Reshaping traditional landscapes
In our multicultural Metroland.

(c) Elise Harvey

The Dream Maker

Lo, there in the distance we see opportunities gathering. Opportunities are shy creatures normally hiding in bushes or under stones hoping and praying that someone will notice them and welcome them into their world.

One day the dream maker came into their lives playing his flute, walking and dancing his way into the horizon. The opportunities come close to the dream maker eyeing him curiously; they liked his pleasant face and they noticed his carefree manner. The dream maker was so engrossed in his devotional music that he hardly noticed that an audience of admiring opportunities surrounded him. The opportunities wanted nothing more than to observe this unusual spectacle that had come into their midst.

The more the dream maker played his flute and danced - the normally elusive opportunities became passive and compliant to him – swaying with his rhythm. The dream maker danced, flute in hand, lifting one foot and then another in a cosmic dance. The dream maker had been performing for sometime when he eventually opened his eyes he was suitably pleased by what he saw - a gathering of opportunities, each one wishing and hoping that the dream maker would pick them up and take them close to him.

What we were witnessing was a celestial celebration of all that is good in the world. The dream maker’s dance is a dance for world peace and his wish is that all people will join him in this celebration of life. Opportunities are usually shy creatures that observe all who pass the rocky road. They wonder whether they are welcome to join the traveller in their journey.

Some travellers ignore opportunities; others don’t believe that they exist. And yet others are out to woe opportunities, singing, dancing, smiling and making the effort to tempt the hidden opportunities into the open where they can all sing, dance and make merry.

The dream maker is such a traveller.

(c) Indra Sikdar