Lucy Kaufman

1 hour ago

We asked our team for their favourite book recommendations. These are top picks from Write On! regular contributor Nick Burdett:The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde (and the rest of the Thursday Next series)The Long Way To A Small Angry Planet by Becky ChambersMort by Terry PratchettHelp! I'm trapped In The First Day Of School by Todd StrasserThe Seven Deaths Of Evelyn Hardcastle by Stuart TurtonRing Of Fire by Alex Churchill and Nicolai ElberhoustSword Beach by Steven FisherThe Martian by Andy WeirConsider This by Chuck PalahniukA Short History Of Nearly Everything by Bill BrysonAre any of these your favouri#favbooksb#GoAllInallin @go_all_in_2026 ... See MoreSee Less

Photo

View on Facebook

Pen to Print

3 hours ago

Every Tuesday we will be sharing a poem from one of our wonderful Pen to Print and Write On! contributors. We hope you enjoy!**When the Streetlights Blinked to Life by Gillian Davies (winner of the Pen to Print Poetry Competition)Bare feet slapped against the pavement, the summer heat still clinging to the road. Tires spun, spokes hummed a melody, as we chased the wind down streets that knew our names better than we did. The world was ours between sunrise and dusk,a kingdom built from scraped knees and laughter. The rules were simple, unwritten but sacred: be home when the streetlights blinked to life,and until then—run, ride, live.We had no screens to steal our time, no buzzing in our pockets to pull us away. Only the thrill of racing shadows, the secret codes of treehouse meetings, the whispered dares that made us legends.We rode without helmets, without fear, without knowing the weight of the years that would pull us apart one day. We only knew the rush of downhill freedom, the taste of wind, the sting of gravel burns.Backyards stretched like endless fields, hide-and-seek in twilight’s golden breath. Fireflies blinked like forgotten wishes, cupped in small hands, held too tight, set free with silent prayers to the night. We spoke in the language of dirty hands, grass stains on jeans, sunburnt cheeks. No calls, no texts, just voices that carried through screen doors and open windows— a mother’s voice, calling us home. And when the streetlights flickered awake, we knew—time had run out. One last lap around the block, one final jump off the curb, one more laugh before the world quieted.Tomorrow would bring the same freedom, the same endless sky, the same promise that childhood felt like forever. We did not know we were running toward endings, that one day, we would ride apart, that the streetlights would blink on, and we would not be there to see them. But for a while, we were unstoppable, wild and weightless, etched into the pavement like tire marks that the rain could never quite wash away. ... See MoreSee Less

Video

View on Facebook

Pen to Print

3 hours ago

Every Tuesday we will be sharing a poem from one of our wonderful Pen to Print and Write On! contributors. We hope you enjoy!**When the Streetlights Blinked to Life by Gillian Davies (winner of the Pen to Print Poetry Competition)Bare feet slapped against the pavement, the summer heat still clinging to the road. Tires spun, spokes hummed a melody, as we chased the wind down streets that knew our names better than we did. The world was ours between sunrise and dusk, a kingdom built from scraped knees and laughter. The rules were simple, unwritten but sacred: be home when the streetlights blinked to life,and until then—run, ride, live.We had no screens to steal our time, no buzzing in our pockets to pull us away. Only the thrill of racing shadows, the secret codes of treehouse meetings, the whispered dares that made us legends.We rode without helmets, without fear, without knowing the weight of the years that would pull us apart one day. We only knew the rush of downhill freedom, the taste of wind, the sting of gravel burns.Backyards stretched like endless fields, hide-and-seek in twilight’s golden breath. Fireflies blinked like forgotten wishes, cupped in small hands, held too tight, set free with silent prayers to the night. We spoke in the language of dirty hands, grass stains on jeans, sunburnt cheeks. No calls, no texts, just voices that carried through screen doors and open windows— a mother’s voice, calling us home. And when the streetlights flickered awake, we knew—time had run out. One last lap around the block, one final jump off the curb, one more laugh before the world quieted.Tomorrow would bring the same freedom, the same endless sky, the same promise that childhood felt like forever. We did not know we were running toward endings, that one day, we would ride apart, that the streetlights would blink on, and we would not be there to see them. But for a while, we were unstoppable, wild and weightless, etched into the pavement like tire marks that the rain could never quite wash away. ... See MoreSee Less

Video

View on Facebook

Friday Feature: Giving Up The Day Job

Friday Feature: Theatre In Pandemic