A Spot of Colour

The day of judgement must be nigh. The gods are angry, punishing us here in the capital with gloom and soaking mist.

The whole land is shrouded almost to ground level in wet cloud, buildings disappeared and church spires ascending into invisibility, with trees dripping on to unwary pedestrians as they skip between puddles, umbrellas held aloft.

The fallen leaves are thick and wet underfoot, forming a carpet of decaying bronze and russet on paths and grass. The seagulls have migrated landward and are holding court beside new pools of water on the Meadows.

Just in case we live to see another day, his Lordship and I went food shopping and managed the whole excursion without any disharmony.

The secret is to allow him to be in sole charge at the counter. He insists on uploading the shopping himself to the conveyor belt and then bagging it himself. Woe betide anyone who interferes in this process, be it a wife or helpful assistant.

My degree in assembling and packing, gained over very many years in the University of Home Making, is for nought.
He knows better, and to avoid any wifely input at the till, I am dispatched to the car to await the hunter gatherer returning with the goods.

There are no angry words and recriminations and goodwill is extended; but there will be witnesses who feel sorry for a man of a certain age having to do it all by himself. Little do they know!