The vacuum transporter system made its customary whoosh sound as the ThermaFlask™ arrived.

She lifted the brushed metal container from the receiving cradle, its cool touch protecting her hands and insulating the hot liquid it contained. She held it to her body as she moved slowly towards the food unpackaging counter. Placing it carefully on the opaque countertop, she first looked over her left shoulder, then her right, checking she truly was alone.

Her arthritic hand slid slowly down her robe, her ancient fingers finding the small soft bag of tea deep in her pocket. She looked behind again as she removed the tea bag from her pocket. She knew the penalties for having and consuming non-registered food – even though she would argue tea was not a food – she also knew the authorities wouldn’t tolerate that particular debate.

They sent you food; you ate it. That was the rule.  They controlled your health, your weight, your diet. Old timers like her could remember a time when people had a choice about what they ate, when they ate, where their food came from. But old timers like her were a dying breed – literally. The sheep of the present world let the authorities regulate even their basic human needs.

She reached for a beverage container, placing it onto the countertop and carefully placing the gauze tea bag inside. Unfastening the ThermaFlask™ she gently poured the steaming liquid into the cup. She recalled her Grandfather at that moment, all the times they had shared a cup of tea and conversation when she was much younger. He had often said that no other people in history would see the changes he had seen through the 20th Century. The Great Depression, two world wars,  he’d seen the development of the car, of the aeroplane, of spaceflight. He would have called anyone crazy if they’d suggested potable water would be so rare, so expensive one day that it would have to be requested, paid for and delivered by the cup. She had saved credits for 2 years to afford 250ml of boiling water. She was pleased that her Grandfather lived in his century, and not hers.

The hot water began to discolour as it touched the bag and then the tea. She watched the colour claiming the water, releasing its tannins and aroma, she inhaled slowly, unlocking memories from gentler times. She would savour this, her last cup of tea. There weren’t enough years left in her life to save for another.

A mangle of laundresses.

An harassment of pick pockets; a blossom of horticulturists; a consideration of judges; an aggregate of statisticians; a juggle of clowns; a shuffle of zombies; a tumour of operations directors; a stitch of surgeons, a tumble of farm girls; a wobble of Weight Watchers.

Five colours I like from COLOURlovers

Colour is everywhere – it’s the way our brains figure out the light. It’s how we figure out where stuff stops and starts without touching it. It’s all about proportions, about edges, about tones.

I love that time of a rainy day, when the water stops falling from the sky and the sun is sinking low, diffusing through the saturated cloud layers. That is the time that colours show their true selves. They vibrate and hum along-side each other for those few brief moments.

That is the time for honest colour.

Watch for it.

I invited Winter to lunch

He couldn’t stay long as he

needed his jacket

[pocket makers]