Grey old Day..

Her hands showed the wear and tear of a country life, wrinkled and worn, callouses and hard skin adorned liver spot hard worked fingers. The curtains were ironed and yet displayed the repetitive placement of hands, always just there she griped them, pulled them gently apart and stared out......what kind of day was it?

She would take a step forward, look out left and then right, leaning in the same place every day. Although everything had an inch of polish on it, the window sill was softly dented and not quite so shiny where her elbows rested. Her head would tilt up and she would look at the sky.....and then judgement would be passed. My Dads Mum was a real character.

I was young....but her gentle ways and little peculiarities fascinated me.

I thought of her today as I opened the curtains...."mmm grey old day!" She would say. Grey was right.

Underneath the weir bridge I watched the gulls ducking and diving, grey upon grey.

Work....the weekly shop after work.....Yep! Grey old day Nan...grey old day indeed!