Selective Colouring

I am cold, and I am bored of being cold.

The colours are all wrong. Bath is more mint green than golden and the rest of Somerset has squeezed its tubes of paint away into the fog. Autumn leaves skitter over the frozen surface of the canal, and I am constantly late for work because the haw frost needs to be photographed and the icy water poked, over and over again with a long stick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m feeling faded, so I want to look back at a bright moment. It’s late summer on Clapham Common. The sun is shining through the thin walls of the colourspace as we rush from pod to pod. We sit in the icy blue till we shiver, and then run as fast as we can into the red, where we stay until we think we will explode with rage.  All around us so called grown-ups are screaming and bouncing off the walls, ticking off the don’ts they were given at the door like a to-do list.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just when we think we are done, as if by magic a new area appears. Here the colours merge and reflect and we don’t know which mood we are in, then, just as suddenly we are transported into black and white. We run for the yellow spot in the centre and sit in that, feeling warm and optimistic. We are settling in forever, but now it’s all over. Its closing time so we escape back into the maze and claim we are lost. The worker follows us round like a disillusioned primary school teacher, and eventually we spill back out into the real world.

 

It is still sunny.

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