Lucky Dip

Last week's Writers Connect meeting was at The Moon Under The Water pub on Deansgate, Manchester. We changed from Costa Coffee in the Arndle's Waterstones after the manager kicked up a fuss about us moving the tables. We're quite a burgeoning group now, with around 15 attendees turning up each session, so we looked at other places to accommodate us. I suggested the Wetherspoons pub as it was once the largest in Britain, and we'd be sure to find an area we could all work in.

Unfortunately, because of the venue's high roof, and because the pub is basically one rarge room on 2 levels, it wasn't the best place for a reading group. Too much background noise, too much echo and too much leaning forward to be able to hear people reading their pieces made this hard work.

Never mind- we'll keep our eyes peeled for a better venue for a group of aspiring writers. Any suggestions? I was thinking perhaps Brew Dog on Peter Street...?

Anyway. For the writing exercise, organiser Oz brought in an opaque bag filled with random objects. We each “lucky dipped” and pulled out one of these items. We then had 15 minutes to write a vignette based on that object. Here's mine:

Of course, when you're touring a new city in the heat of summer and you're glancing upwards at the glassy, reflective metropolis, you don't wear Wayfarers. The lenses might be protective enough to block out the rays, but when you're turning from street to street, checking out one landmark or some other street drama troupe, you're still going to be dazzled, and not necessarily by the talent.

That's why I'm wearing wraparounds, much to my wife's bemusement. They're for teens, she says, in hopefully mock self pity.

It could be the next tiny blow to our marriage, and this trip to the city is a vain attempt to glue us back together as a couple. It isn't working, though. I'm no longer looking at the buildings. These wraparounds are turning me into a total perv.

She'd always say she couldn't see things from my perspective- fitting, now that my eyes are totally covered and I can glance whichever way that I want.

The next building is covered in scaffolding, which is surprising as it doesn't look that old.

“Look at that,” I say. “They didn't plan that well, did they? It's crumbling already.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Well, some things are just badly planned from the start, aren't they?” She says.

We've been playing this charade all holiday. That's when I notice the loose scaffold pole drop from the next floor up. I hesitate.