When I was 6... my mum used to let me to walk to the end of the road, on my own, to meet my dad returning home from work. He would smile and then he used to boost me up on to the wall and I would point my toe and pretend to be a tight rope walker. My arms held out straight either side of my body to balance me and if required, I could always reach his shoulder if I teetered and of course I never fell off the wall.
Yesterday, I felt 6 again!
My mum allowed me to walk to the end of the road, all on my own... after being in a convalescing bubble for almost a week I had a quick thrill of freedom.
The sun shone and warmed my skin and a breath of a breeze wrapped itself around me. It felt wonderful to be outside again.
Now I can hardly claim that this was a walk, it was more of a casual saunter... nothing too strenuous with time to be a bit nosey and view the neighbours gardens.
As I rounded the corner I was rewarded by a crew of labourers, stripped to the waist, running laden wheelbarrows up a plank. My heart was all of a flutter... it would have been rude to stand and stare but I was sorely tempted.
I kept strolling to the end of the street and admired a newly finished house extension and then headed back home.
A second longer glimpse of tanned taut torso’s and I was a happy girl! But as mum’s house came into view parts of my body, that I never knew existed, introduced themselves to me with a spate of twinges and tweaks that took me quite by surprise.
So this is the new reality - the extent of my revised limits - I can’t quite walk as far as I think I can, not yet!
This recovery malarkey is a whole new arena for me and I’m going to have to do it properly... if I want to make a full recovery. Which, I do! So tomorrow I shall go out for another stroll but perhaps I should make it slightly shorter this time.
Goodwood
Monday 17 October 2011
Tuesday 4 October 2011
*Sort of sabbatical*
I’m going to be absent from here & Twitter & FB for a bit. *Sort of sabbatical* I’m going to miss you. 'Try not to forget me' Back soon!
Sunday 2 October 2011
Do you ever have a love hate relationship with a colour?
My love/hate colour is: Grey
I love that an Rx 8 comes in gunmetal grey, it clearly defines the shape and angles of this beautiful car but I hate the fact that as I age my hair thinks it should turn gunmetal grey, instead of a glorious light pale shade of silver.
I love a light dove grey jumper that is soft cashmere wool it feels so good against my skin and soothes my soul. But I’m not keen on waking up to find heavy grey clouds piling in, reducing the light level and making the sky feel as if its sitting on my shoulders.
I love the ocean when it’s fierce and angry and throws its cement grey waves at the shore line but I hate the fact that many industries refer to the 'grey brigade' (the over 50’s) as if all that is needed is internet classes.
I love Greys anatomy for its background music and introducing me to artists I’ve not heard of before but I hate the idea that a loved one can be ill and have a grey tinge to their skin, a sure sign that something is wrong.
I love shabby chic furniture that’s painted in muted delicate shades of soft grey but I can’t stand to read grey print, I find it so hard to read.
It’s odd that this colour, grey can bring out such a strong reaction in me as it is made up of black and white which are not colours in their own right, they are simply either end of the spectrum, the absence of light and light itself.
Maybe my love hate relationship with grey is because sometimes the colour can feel cool but some shades of grey can actually feel warm. It’s an odd perspective if you think about it. But then maybe it’s just me…
So how important is colour to you?
And does colour matter to your characters in your novel. Do we need to know that they have grey eyes? Are in a grey mood, or having a grey day…?
I love that an Rx 8 comes in gunmetal grey, it clearly defines the shape and angles of this beautiful car but I hate the fact that as I age my hair thinks it should turn gunmetal grey, instead of a glorious light pale shade of silver.
I love a light dove grey jumper that is soft cashmere wool it feels so good against my skin and soothes my soul. But I’m not keen on waking up to find heavy grey clouds piling in, reducing the light level and making the sky feel as if its sitting on my shoulders.
I love the ocean when it’s fierce and angry and throws its cement grey waves at the shore line but I hate the fact that many industries refer to the 'grey brigade' (the over 50’s) as if all that is needed is internet classes.
I love Greys anatomy for its background music and introducing me to artists I’ve not heard of before but I hate the idea that a loved one can be ill and have a grey tinge to their skin, a sure sign that something is wrong.
I love shabby chic furniture that’s painted in muted delicate shades of soft grey but I can’t stand to read grey print, I find it so hard to read.
It’s odd that this colour, grey can bring out such a strong reaction in me as it is made up of black and white which are not colours in their own right, they are simply either end of the spectrum, the absence of light and light itself.
Maybe my love hate relationship with grey is because sometimes the colour can feel cool but some shades of grey can actually feel warm. It’s an odd perspective if you think about it. But then maybe it’s just me…
So how important is colour to you?
And does colour matter to your characters in your novel. Do we need to know that they have grey eyes? Are in a grey mood, or having a grey day…?
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