Two images from Greece
The contrast of the boat and it’s reflection
And then the dramatic contrast between the colour of the wall and the window.
What greater contrast could there be between the view from our holiday villa on the small Greek island of Halki and our London life left behind …. Just for a week.
Fabulous contrast. Acres of time stretch out before us. Steps right down into the sea , sunshine on the terrace, time to read, snooze, muse and just be.
The last few moments at work drag by. Nearly but not quite. Almost time to switch off the screen, balance the documents on one of the piles that has appeared on my desk of late. Looks more like a field of molehills than the pristine workstation many seem to be able to achieve. Just not me. Ever.
A few more to go.
Another last minute email request pops in. Quickly dealt with, an eye firmly on the clock in the bottom right of the screen.
And now it’s time.
Out of office message switched on, bag packed up, sunglasses on at the ready and it’s out into the sunshine and the sense of being on holiday has started.
There is nothing that beats that feeling. Nothing. A delicious feeling of anticipation and freedom.
And tomorrow the flight, the new faces and places and acres of time that open up before us.
This writing challenge is about comparing/contrasting two different things or people
What was that rhyme about Jack Spratt and his wife? Half remembered like so many things. Perhaps early signs of the dementia that got a hold of her mother and never let go, squeezing out the very essence of who she was, leaving only the outside recognisable. Fading out and then one day no more.
30 years on since the day she walked down an aisle in a dress that had made her look surprisingly doll like. Pink cheeks, red lips and way too much lace. 30 years of mostly unsatisfactory marriage, hopes abandoned early on for the children that never came. And now their working days were numbered. How would that be? To be retired. Entombed more like. Day in and day out together. No escape from the yawning chasm of silence that sat between them broken only by the ritual offers of a cuppa or a decision to be made about what to watch on the T.V that never went off. Then lights out and her relief that another day was done.
Just three months to go and I can’t wait to have time, just Vera and me. No need to rush out of the house any more so we can linger that bit longer over the breakfast table. Another tea perhaps or a second slice of toast. The day will lie before us to do as we please. Perhaps time for some of those day trips Vera used to talk about going on or even the ballroom dancing down at the village hall. She was always on at me to give it a go and now we have the time. I’ll suggest it to her but my guess is though she’ll just want to potter about at home, just her and me. She’s funny that way. Never really needed anyone but me. Just three months to go. I can’t wait.
“Fancy a cuppa ?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. It just happened. I forgot my promise to you made that blustery but sunny autumn day in Edinburgh. Forsaking no other. Forgive me. ”
She folded the letter up and tucked it back into the drawer of the little battered writing desk in the corner of the crammed junk shop.
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