Hues of Blue

'Here we are again, lovely as can be, all good friends and jolly good company...'

I am sure you are all very lovely, and very good friends and wonderfully jolly company; but I fear today I am not. In fact I'm a bit like Alfred—the drunk brother—from Agatha's 4:50 Train from Paddington, although I haven't been drinking...yet.

You see, I'm having one of those days when I'm afraid I could be called neither of those things, as I've been in a sort of blue mood.

I do believe, however, there are different hues of blue. For instance; some can be a little aqua—especially if the previous evening has involved a little too much champagne. I think it has to do with the bubbles, the fermented yellow mixing with the blue, and the faint feeling of nausea.

At other times, they are a reddish kind of blue. The day starts off being red, not tinted with rose, but a dark rouge. You wake up and nothing seems to go right. You stub your toe, or hit your head on the ceiling—I know that sounds impossible but with our pitched roofs, it’s surprisingly easy to do—or you’ve run out of coffee. Disaster. The day starts rather bad and it just continues to spiral down a blue slippery-dip. Then...it becomes purple.

Mauve—now that is another kind of blue. These occur on a rainy day, when the sky is grey and it blends a little with the blue. On these days, there is nothing left to do, but to ride out the storm and allow the rain to wash it all away.

However, a blue day that is just blue, is slightly bothersome. Of course there are varying shades of these too, but today, I have to say is a mid-blue—not quite so bad as navy, but rather darker than sky-blue. On these days, I start thinking what am I doing? What am I going to do? What is the future going to bring? Are things going to get worse before they get any better?

You see...I’m rapidly headed towards indigo, and therapy. But you see, and I hope you don't mind, I've found writing about it can be quite restorative. Somehow, I end up figuring a way out of my current hole—with Agatha's help of course—and emerge ready and raring to give it all another go.

So, Agatha says; 'just to be alive is a grand thing' and of course she is very right. Even while 'sitting in death's anti-chamber' as she called it at the age of seventy-five, she was still enjoying life. Although 'long walks are off, and, alas bathing in the sea; fillet steaks and apples and raw blueberries (teeth difficulties) and reading fine print,' she still found plenty of other things to celebrate. 'Operas and concerts, and reading and the enormous pleasure of dropping into bed and going to sleep, and dreams of every variety...and almost best of all, sitting in the sun—gently drowsing.'

Yes, all of those things are wonderful and I'm very fortunate that I can still do all of them—even the steak and blueberries. Bing Crosby agrees whole-heartedly and suggested a sing-along;

'You've got to accentuate the positive

Eliminate the negative

And latch on to the affirmative

Don't mess with mister in-between.'

The list of things I want to do, that I can do, is pretty long—and much longer than the those I can't. So I've decided to sing (and click) the blues away, even the purples, mauves and aquas. I'll also be saying, in the words of Agatha; 'thank you God for my good life, and for all the love that has been given to me.'

Amen.