We set about rearranging the furniture in the seminar room into a straggling horseshoe. Our creative writing class has been moved without explanation. It took me a while to find the building, which is barricaded with scaffolding, as if about to be demolished. The room is lined with wooden desks, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in my school, over forty years ago.

I don’t envy Alex the task of organising this group, most of whom are women, ranging in age from twenty something to late seventies. His short black hair and boyish face make him look implausibly young.

Once everyone has found a chair, we start discussing an excerpt from Hilary Mantell's 'Wolf Hall'. Most of us think that the dialogue subtly establishes the tensions between the characters.

“It's really poorly written. It's not at all clear who’s talking,” says Nick, whose bony face and shaved head make him cadaverous.

“That's the danger of the omniscient author approach,” explains Alex.

“But there must be better books they could have chosen for the Booker.”

Suddenly, the door bursts open and Ivy stands framed in the doorway, her red beret slipping down her white hair and her purple coat flapping open.

“I've just been on a f…ing hike three times round the building,” she announces.

“I'm sorry, I’ve complained about the way we were moved,” Alex says.

Ivy looks around for a spare chair but the only one available is barricaded behind the ring of desks. She sits on the desk and swings her legs over, as if she were still sixteen. It takes a while for order to be restored.

Each week, we discuss a couple of pieces written by students. Christine arrives carrying her collection of papers in one hand, while using her flower-covered walking stick with the other. She is short and plump, with white hair and a Liverpool accent. I am intrigued by her description of her novel's structure.

“Each day has a planet and a metal, so the day has the characteristics associated with both of those. The shape of the novel is a horseshoe.”

Nick jabs his papers with his long fingers. “I've read this twice, out of respect for your writing. But I don’t think you've done the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I get the impression that you've not bothered to read more than a page or two of other people's work.”

“That’s not fair! I explained that I had difficulty printing things out because I only have a dial up connection.”

“Do you want me to comment on your piece then?”

“No. You can keep your comments.”

Afterwards, in the cafe, Christine is nearly in tears, while Nick is said to be fuming that the rest of the class didn't back his criticisms.

Alex rearranges the workshop sessions, because it takes too long for everyone to comment. Eva talks for a long time, in an accent no-one can identify, and uses gestures to reinforce her points. Alex says she is Dutch, but some of the students think that she originally came from South America. She has not circulated her piece in advance and it proves difficult to follow.

“I don’t quite get the passage where your character is looking forward to his wedding,” I say, “because next paragraph you say that his wife dies young.”

“You see, I was interested in the house and its history,” Eva explains. It's as if the house knows what’s going to happen in the future. It's an old house, one of the oldest in the area and…”

“Can you listen, please while everyone comments?” says Nick.

I enjoy the course and look forward to following a similar one next year. Then, a compilation of the students' comments arrives on the email. One of our number complains that “a good half of the attendees were beginners and should not have been on an advanced class.” I look at my amateurish efforts and conclude that he doubtless includes me in this description. I have never pretended to be more than a rambler in the foothills of writing but I was trying to make the nearest ridge. Perhaps I should hang up my boots and try a different course next year.