Gray, slate and steel, non-bluish shaded and dull gray. When God was dishing out personality to colour, gray was way back at the end of the line. Good gray has a hint of glinty silver like that cloudy lining; Irish gray is not good gray. “Soft day thank God”, is no excuse for the drabness and desolation of our summer turning autumnal gray. That soft overcast gray day helps with an understanding of the constituents of an Irish Psyche, which when adequately enflamed or alcohol fuelled will rail against generations of drab and gray and GAA.
My preference for fuchsia and lavender is born here. I pull back curtains and open up double doors to let truculent light seep into our home. I turn on lights which my wife then turns off, all her family turn off lights in my home which they liken to a beacon. I sit by windows whenever possible, under roof lights and stand in porches; these are the first places I seek out.
Work is a necessary gray, gray conformist engineers and administrators, chameleon marketing traitors grasping gray from a colourful possibility. Top notch good gray managers who inhabit a techno sepia black and white, urging their graylings, motivating them, storming, norming and performing with them in an Ingmar Bergman vignette.
Enough Sniffle, desist with the gray thing, you’re bringing me down.
Our clip clopping free style hip hop artiste is changing school. Hold tight folks, turbulence up ahead and I hate flying anyway. I shouldn’t say, I really shouldn’t cause I’ve always made out like a bandit that this bloggy thing would NEVER be a diary, but come here till I tell you. She morphs with two Bacardi breezers, morphs into her own little manifestation of a government anti drink add. And if that is all that happens for the rest of this year, we will be fortunate gray fuckers.
Like a pitchfork holding back the tide, I’m holding onto summer and will soon start the annual last man to give up his shorts contest, which my pal won last November before he was admitted for pneumonia. So winter beckons, and gray skies sit Buddha stoic and unmoving overhead, and the truculent light seeps through and splits into family primary colours which burst kaleidoscopically into children and sport and wine and beer. Woohoo, woofuckinghoo I say.