Perceptions of Colour

Four youths waiting for a Victoria line train at Kings Cross are arguing about colours. What colour is this? They start asking for second opinions from other passengers. They light on absolutes as colours to check. Is this brown or yellow? The woman is wearing a fluffy mustard zip up jacket. Yellow! Nah brown. Nah it’s orange. I put in my tuppenies-worth - it’s mustard - otherwise known as dark yellow.  They all have a different opinion. One claims to have perfect vision when accused of his eyes not working right. It’s quite likely someone has some colour blindness. Next is a purple coat. They all went purple. They can’t agree on a pink vs purple shade of deep pink (possibly a bit magenta). 

I read a book recently called The Secret Lives of Colours - fantastic book - delving into the history of colours, individually named, some very similar to each other but historically known differently. Stories about their popularity, rise and fall. Fantastically interesting. I wish I had had it with me. For after this book there is no simple yellow, red, blue, green absolutes. There are only shades, nuances and possibilities. No one-dimensional argument can be won when each eye may perceive each hue differently. 

Longing

She’s young, sitting legs crossed, arms up holding a mirror slightly over eye height colouring in her eyebrows, checking they are evenly full. Fluffs her fringe and is finished. She puts away the trappings of beauty, uncrossing her legs, thick thighs in black tights spread as they lean against the seat. Knee high black leather boots. Short denim skirt has ridden up into her lap and reveals the space between her legs - covered but still a revelation of knickers hiding under tights. The man next to me, is watching TV on his mobile. His eyes flick from the screen up her skirt and back. 

Standing while I sit. He has smiling eyes, silver streaked hair and light beard. Talking to his companion, they mirror one another. Design. I expect, of some sort. I have to hold back from reaching out. My hands have a desire to touch the textures of this man. Well worn-in tan leather satchel. Blue corduroy jacket. Thin wool sweater covering round belly. 

My hands are missing the pleasure of Zephaniah in the night - fur, foot pads, curled up body and body heat. The symbiotic pleasure of stroking a purring cat. 

Zephaniah Trouble Thomas

Zephaniah had to be rehomed today. Two male personality clashes. He couldn’t learn to behave.  I’m bereft. Hope it subsides soon.

Waiting

5 mins for a circle line train. Station staff on the tannoy calling for an urgent attendant to a “human spillage on the edge of platform 3”. Image in my head of a pile of falling people over the edge. Then vomit. Vomit not poop I’m hoping.

Top Secrets from the Underground

I don’t know many real secrets of the underground having never worked for them but I do know that at Manor House they have installed a new escalator (the middle one of three) and when it is running (which isn’t often) if you ride it you can race the other people going up. And you know what? You are going to win, because that escalator is super fast - you will overtake about 20 stationary bods without walking yourself. And strangely nobody else seems to notice this joy!