Harrow Writers' Circle

Harrow Writers’ Circle - serving writers in North West London

A Writers Group, based in Harrow, to help with your Writing Skills

Our Aims

Programme

"This is what we do"

This book is an anthology of work to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the Harrow Writers' Circle. 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 Cynthis Harrod-Eagles who has mastered not one but two genres - Crime and Historical Fiction.

You can go see it at: www.lulu.com/product/paperback/this-is-what-we-do/14601175

* 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 Oscar on 07905 507585, Indra on 07952 569097 or John on 07847 225644

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

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 Indra Sikdar as we sometimes meet at Barbara's house. My number is 07952 569097)

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

(Unless stated otherwise)
---
2nd February
Barbara's House
Read Your Own Work
Optional theme - Dreams

16th February
Harrow Arts Centre
Grammar and Punctuation Workshop + Deadline for President’s Prize
Julia Underwood

1st March
Read Your Own Work
Optional theme - Headaches

15th March
Harrow Arts Centre
Cynthia Harrod – Eagles - Final

5th April
Read Your Own Work
Optional theme – The Last Fortune

19th April
Harrow Arts Centre
HWC – Writing – Getting It Right First Time
Oscar Monteiro

3rd May
Read Your Own Work
Optional theme – Person who changed my life

17th May
Harrow Arts Centre
Poetry

31st May
Read Your Own Work
+ Magic Box Giving Out The Title

14th June
Harrow Arts Centre
Read Your Own Work
Optional theme – Men are From Mars

28th June
Magic Box Final

12th July
Harrow Arts Centre
Read Your Own Work
JM to e-mail Watford Writers

26th July
Summer Party
Reminder of posts + What the post involve + theme for Watford Competition.

6th September
Read Your Own Work
Optional theme – Children’s Story / Story with moral

20th September

Sheila Gumpright and will talk about 40-45 minutes on the techniques of character building in novels/stories and the participants will be able to practise the techniques on imaginary characters. The individual participants
will be able to share his/her piece with the rest of the group and we will hopefully learn from each other. She is a teacher on Creative Writing techniques in Harrow.

+ Nominations for Committee

4th October
Read Your Own Work
Deadline for entries for Watford Competition

18th October
AGM

1st November
Read Your Own Work
Optional theme – something historical

15th November
Watford Competition

29th November
Read Your Own Work
Optional theme – something futuristic

6th December
Read Your Own Work
Optional theme – something seasonal

20th December

Christmas Party

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

Sunday At Two by Frank Gill

Every Sunday, just after two o clock, he would skulk into the pub. Glaring at the ground with an almost studious expression, his slow determined steps would carry him to the stool at the farthest end of the bar. He would perch two old Sainsbury’s bags with worn handles on the counter in front of him, his gaze still fixed on the ground. He would then slowly remove his moth eaten tweed coat, carefully placing it on the empty stool beside his own. Before sitting, he would dig his scabbed hand into his trouser pocket, producing a fistful of miscellaneous change. Counting in his palm, he would remove £3.30 and leave it on the counter, returning the remaining copper and silver to his pocket.

By the time he took his seat I would have poured him a pint of Fosters, placing it between his shopping bags and small pile of change.

“£2.20 please boss”, I would casually request, facing away from him to avoid the strong musky smell that clung to his unwashed body and cloths. He would fix his gaze on me for a moment, studying me with his watery eyes.

“I remember when that was a days wages, long time ago now my boy”, he would pronounce in his scratchy tone as he counted £2.20 from his small pile. As he pressed the coins into my outstretched hand I would grimace as his gravalley, unclean fingers caressed my palm. He was a disgusting old creature, soiling everything he contacted. As soon as I invested his greasy coins in the till, I would was my hands meticulously.

Usually he would take my newspaper, which I would leave open at the end of the bar and read periodically as trade allowed. There had been a time I hid it in anticipation of his arrival, hoping it would shorten his intrusion. However, I soon realised that without the paper he became more conversational, trying to engage me and other customers with greater vigour. Allowing him the paper was a small reprieve and I resolved to leave it within his reach. So he would sit there, drinking his pint at a snails pace, pawing through the weighty Sunday tabloid.

I made a conscious effort to avoid the far end of the bar while he was in residence. However entering his sphere was unavoidable, as was the torrent of verbal waste that crawled in waves from his raspy throat.

“This friend of mine said to me the other day”, was how many of his torturous tales began. He spewed pointless, inane drivel that was boring beyond comprehension, to the point that the mind refused to interpret or draw meaning from his incessant words. I would just let him talked while I busied myself with some small task, saying “it’s a b*tch” or “what can you do” when a lull in his noise indicated that he desired response.

He was in his mid to late sixties, slightly hunched as if to mimic the toll of a life lived without dignity, poncing drinks of anyone he could. On one occasion a young bloke had been sitting at the bar when he came in, and for ten minutes the old pest mithered him till he said, “Listen, I will buy you a drink if you don’t say a single word until I leave”. Sure enough, twenty five minutes of glorious silence ensued. The old man sat there patiently, starring at his pale reflection in the glass behind the spirits. Just before the young man left he brought him a pint, which he guzzled like an orphan who had been given a second helping.

Most of the time there was no free drink. After he took the last thirsty gulp from his single pint, he would beckon me with a snide nod of the head. “Just a half, meeting a lady friend of mine and don’t want to keep her waiting”. We both knew there was no lady; I was never sure if it was an attempt at humour, or whether he enjoyed the pretence. He would surrender the £1.10 and I would give him a half.

With savouring sips through his dark scattered teeth, the half slowly disappeared. I would always wash the pint glass he had used in the sink before putting it in the dishwasher, as if to delouse it before returning it to the general community.

There was a sense of desperation as he ran out of drink, as if he had been waiting for something or someone that never arrived. He would gaze longingly around the room before he slowly began the ritual of departure. He would always go to the bathroom. When he returned he would carefully put on his worn coat and inspect the contents of his grubby plastic bags before lifting them. Without good byes he would leave. It was strange how a man so desperate for friendship would ignore the basic courtesies.

I always felt relief when he left, as if I had been set free. I would wash the half glass in the same fashion as the pint glass. I would bin the paper he had been reading, picking it up by the corner, touching as little of it as possible. I would then forget he existed until next Sunday morning.

When he stopped coming into the bar for his Sunday drinks, it didn’t really register. He was like a stomach cramp, only on your mind when you were suffering him. Five months passed till one day a regular, David Spratt, informed me of his fate.

“Never guess what I had to face yesterday”, said David after he had taken a long gulp from his pint. David was a police man and a natural story teller, so I always enjoyed it when he told me about his work. “Responded to complaints about a strong smell coming from a flat out Bleckers way. There was no answer when we knocked. Neighbours confirmed they had not seen the occupant in months, which gave us reasonable grounds to enter without a warrant. The caretaker got it open; well you wouldn’t believe the smell that wafted out. Most toxic odour I ever encountered”. David grimaced as he recalled the moment.

“Covering my mouth and nose I went in with this social worker, young bird who looked ready to vomit. Was a dingy little flat, barley a piece of furniture but loads of junk stacked round the place. What I found in the living room confirmed what I suspected. Neighbours had said the occupant was an old boy, bit of a loner who never really talked to anyone. The smell told me he was dead in there, but when I seen him it was still a shock”. David paused for dramatic effect, looking me in the eye with a wounded air in his expression.

“Not gonna describe what a decomposing body looks like, but I can tell you that it’s grim. He was sat upright in an armchair, head gauping up, maggots all over him. Poor old sob was clutching a photo in his hand. The smell was so bad you could nearly see it…”

“Mate that’s rotten, that kinda sh*t shouldn’t happen in this day and age”, was my indignant response. I could tell from David’s expression there was more to come.

“Remember that old bloke that used to come in here of a weekend. Smelly bast*rd with a hunch”. I stared back at him from across the bar in stunned silence. Suddenly the distant drama had entered my world; I had become a character in this tragedy. An uneasy silence passed between us as David awaited my response but I could not form the words in my frantic mind.

“By the look of you I would say you remember him, he was kinda hard to forget. I didn’t recognise the corpse of course, to far gone. Knew him the second I seen his bus pass though. Samuel Jones was his name. What did he go by, Sam?” Questioned David as he raised his glass to his lips. I realised then that Samuel had been coming in for two years and I had never asked him his name. I felt agonising shame as I recalled my treatment of Samuel. I never tried to talk to him, always just ignored and placated him. I recalled all the parables I had learned in school so many years ago, hoping in that moment the ground would swallow me whole.

David was bemused by my silence, but I did not speak or move, I was paralysed with regret. He finished his pint in two gulps.

“Heading home for the dinner Sean, see you tomorrow”, said David as he stood from his barstool and turned to leave.

“The photograph Samuel was clutching, what was it of”, I managed to ask as he approached the door.

“His family I think. Seen on his file that his wife and two kids were killed in a car accident thirty years back. Drunk driver ploughed them, Samuel was the only survivor”. With a slight wave of the hand, a half salute, David left the bar. I stood there staring at the door, as if I was waiting for something or someone to take away the grief I felt.

(c) Frank Gill

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

Beyond The Call Of Duty - By Brian Bold

The wind whipped the dry snow into drifts around their car, the wipers struggling to keep the road ahead in view. Not that anyone was likely to come down this narrow country lane on a night like this. If only he had stayed on the main roads they would be at the hospital by now.

Jack had been careful all his life, avoided the gaps between paving stones, checked tyre pressures daily and always backed up his files. So why had he screwed up on the most important night of their lives? Controlled and competent in normal life, he felt utterly useless at dealing with the unexpected, at responding intuitively. The car vibrated with Sally’s sobs as she braced herself against the dashboard, compounding his torment.

He glanced across at her face; deadly white, flooded by moonlight reflected in the snow, her anguish etched in her brow. It shouldn’t be like this. She said nothing. No blame, no self-pity, but he saw her desperate disappointment in the situation, and he was sure, in him. They had waited years for this baby, suffered the trauma of two other IVF treatments and now he had destroyed their final chance of a family by a stupid decision on their route.

“I’m so sorry.” He wanted to say but choked on the futile words. For once in your life take control and do something said the voice in his head. Sally’s contractions were coming fast. Maybe the emergency services could still have reached them in time, but he’d left the mobile on the hall table. He shook with the terror of responsibility. Get a grip came the voice again, you know what you’ve got to do.

“I won’t be long, love. I’ll get some help, I promise.” He lent across the seat kissing Sally gently on her wet cheek, before pushing hard on his door to force back the drift. “Sound the horn if you need me urgently.”

Outside, the cold and fury of the blizzard almost froze his resolve before he’d taken a single step. A world of white offered no clue to orientation, only the direction of the car told him which way was ahead. But beyond it how would he know where he was going, circling in confusion. He tried to make each step in line with the last.

The road was icy, the snow deep on the verges and the blizzard unrelenting. Every passing second of his slow progress felt like the countdown to disaster. He’d never prayed before but now he heard himself crying out. “Oh God, please help me save Sally and our baby.”

He wanted to go back to her now. He’d made the wrong decision again; she was afraid, he should be with her. But which way was back? His footprints had already vanished. If only he’d told Sally to use the horn every minute he could have been guided back by the sound.

To his amazement the snow stopped abruptly and he saw red lights flashing ahead, shining like homing beacons. There must be someone there. Even if they couldn’t help perhaps they knew of nearby houses or had a mobile. He hurried forward, hope rising only to be dashed when he reached the car. The engine was still running but the car had skidded and was resting against a large oak tree.

With renewed panic, he frantically scraped the snow off the driver’s window. He shouldn’t, he mustn’t stay but he could see a woman inside, slumped against the steering wheel. She needed help too.
He pulled the door open.

“Are you all right?”

To his relief, the woman stirred and turned towards him, her nurse’s uniform visible.

“Just a bump really. I’d dozed off” She said,.“I was supposed to be attending a birth in the next village. I’m not going to make it now.”

“Oh my God, you're a midwife.” Gasped Jack “I so desperately need your help. My wife’s having a baby in our car down the hill. Are you OK to come back with me?”

“I’ve hurt my hands but I can tell you what to do,” said the woman, “Use my phone first to ring for an ambulance.”

“Thank you so much.”

The woman eased herself out of her car while Jack rang the emergency services.

Sally was panting rapidly when they reached her.

“It’s going to be all right love. I’ve got help.”

“Push the front seat forward and help your wife into the back of the car.” Said the midwife. “You’ll need water. Find something to hold the snow then melt it on your car bonnet.”

Jack felt the tension escape from his body; someone else was in control though he gave himself credit for finding them. Maybe, just maybe, things would work out. He promised himself he would change, be more practical in the future.

He found a lunch box in the car boot and prepared the warm water,

“Now get into the car with your wife and do exactly what I say.”

Sally attempted a smile. He saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes before the strength and frequency of the contractions overwhelmed her.

For the next twenty minutes Jack gave control of his mind and body to the midwife. She paced the road outside the car, brushing the clinging snow from her coat, speaking instructions to him with precision and calm encouragement.

Then came that moment of incomparable joy. They had a son and Sally exhausted but comfortable cradled this new life.

“Wind up the window and keep you family warm.” Said the midwife, with a serene smile. “You’ll be OK now, I’m off to my car”

“How can I thank you? You answered my prayers.” Shouted Jack after the retreating figure as it disappeared, cloaked in white.

“Who were you talking to?” Mumbled Sally.

“The midwife, of course.” Said Jack. “I couldn’t have delivered our baby without her.”

An hour or so later an ambulance edged its way towards them down the hill.

“You’ve been really lucky by the look of it.” Said one of the paramedics, seeing the mother and child. “ Not like the poor woman in the car ahead. We’re quite upset. She was one of our midwives, on the way to a birth, she hit a tree and was killed.”

(c) Brian Bold

To contact Brian please e-mail him on Brian Bold

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